#ancient oil lamp

[blueiscoool]

'Exquisite' 1,700-Year-Old Lamp Bearing Temple Symbols Discovered in Jerusalem

"The exquisite artistic workmanship of the lamp, which was found complete, makes it outstanding and extremely rare."

A rare ceramic oil lamp dated to the late Roman period that bears images of items used in the Second Temple was discovered in Jerusalem, the Israel Antiquities Authority announced on Thursday.

"After the Roman emperor Hadrian suppressed the Bar Kochba rebellion in 135 CE, Jews were expelled from the city. The Mount of Olives lamp is one of the few material traces of a Jewish presence around Jerusalem in the 3rd-5th centuries CE," said Michael Chernin, excavation director on behalf of the Antiquities Authority.

The Antiquities Authority explained that the lamp was a "unique find" and that, judging by the soot marks on its nozzle, it was used about 1,700 years ago.

The Temple symbols that decorate the lamp include a depiction of the menorah used in the Second Temple, an incense shovel, and lulav (date palm branch used in Jewish ritual).

"The exquisite artistic workmanship of the lamp, which was found complete, makes it outstanding and extremely rare,” said Chernin.

Chernin also explained that the symbols on the lamp, which connected them to the Temple, were "particularly surprising" because there has been "very little evidence of the existence of a Jewish settlement in and around Jerusalem from this period."

Israel Antiquities Authority research archaeologist Benjamin Storchan said the lamp belongs to "the 'Beit Nattif' type, named after a production workshop identified in the 1930s near Bet Shemesh."

'Exceedingly rare' find

He explained that "oil lamps with menorah decorations are exceedingly rare, and only a few similar Beit Nattif-type lamps can be found in the National Treasures archive. The choice of symbols on the lamp is not accidental. This is a fascinating testimony connecting everyday objects and faiths among ancient Jerusalem’s inhabitants. It seems that the lamp belonged to a Jew, who purchased it because of its religious affiliation and memorial to the Temple.”

"It is evident that the lamp maker dedicated a great deal of time and effort to its decoration," Storchan added.

He then continued to elaborate on how the lamp was made, saying the maker "delicately and intricately carved limestone molds using drills and chisels."

"The molds were made in two parts (upper and lower). To create the lamp, the potter pressed the clay into the molds and then pressed them together. Finally, the vessel was fired, and it could be used. This method of producing lamps in molds allowed for refined designs, as well as the addition of delicate and intricate decorations," Storchan continued.

Heritage Minister Rabbi Amichai Eliyahu remarked on the correlation between the time of the finding and the Jewish holiday of Hanukkah.

"This unique oil lamp, which in an exciting manner bears the symbols of the Temple, connects the lights of the past with the Hannukah holiday of today and expresses the deep and long-standing connection of the nation of Israel to its heritage and to the Temple’s memory.”

Rabbi Eliyahu also stated that the lamp would be revealed to the public for the first time during Hannukah "alongside stone molds used to make ceramic lamps."

[thesilicontribesman]

Roman Boat Shaped Lamp, Made In Italy, 70 to 120 CE, The British Museum, London

[illustratus]

The Torture of the Vestal Virgin by Jean-Frédéric Schall

[covenofvenus]

The History of Candle Magic in Hoodoo, American Folk Magic & Across the Globe.

Hey there, Venusian Dudes and Dolls! 🌟

Lately I've been obsessing over candle magic and how it's so important to a multitude of cultural practices. In modern magic many practitioners use candle rituals to hone our intent and hopefully manifest the energies we desire. Maybe it's the ADHD hyperfocus but this has always fascinated me. So today I'm taking you on a journey through the bright history of candle magic—a practice steeped in mysticism, transformation, and a universal yearning to connect with the divine.

Our story begins in the ancient world, where the first candles were more like rushlights—bundles of reeds soaked in animal fat, used in ancient Africa in Egypt around 3000 BCE. These early lights weren’t just practical; they carried symbolic weight, often illuminating temples and rituals that called on divine favor. The use of reed bundles soaked in animal fat began as a practical solution to meet the need for light after sunset. Reeds, abundant along the Nile River, were a natural and accessible resource, and animal fat was a byproduct of cooking or butchery. While reeds and animal fat were early components of lighting practices in ancient Egypt, they were not the sole origin of oil lamps.

The evolution of oil lamps was influenced by a combination of available materials, cultural ingenuity, and practical needs, leading to more sophisticated designs over time.

As Egypt was a hub of trade and culture, particularly during the height of the Pharaonic and later Ptolemaic eras, these lighting methods spread along trade routes. Merchants, travelers, and nomadic communities carried this technology to other parts of North and Sub-Saharan Africa and to other lands outside of Africa.

These Egyptian oil lamps, crafted from pottery, stone, or metal, featured a reservoir for oil—commonly castor oil, sesame oil, or animal fat—and a spout to hold a plant-fiber or papyrus wick. Oil lamps were integral to daily life, lighting homes, workplaces, and public spaces. Beyond their practical use, they held significant ritual importance, often used in temples and religious ceremonies to honor deities and ensure divine favor. The soft glow of these lamps was also believed to guide souls in the afterlife, with many placed in tombs as part of funerary rites. This duality of function—practical and spiritual—reflected the Egyptian emphasis on the interconnection between earthly existence and the divine.

In ancient Rome, oil lamps evolved further, becoming more ornate and widely used. Romans preferred terracotta and bronze lamps, often featuring intricate designs or depictions of gods and myths. Olive oil was the most common fuel, symbolizing prosperity and abundance. Roman oil lamps illuminated homes, streets, and public baths, while their use in temples and during festivals underscored their religious significance. They also served as symbols of status, with wealthier individuals commissioning elaborate designs.

The Romans later perfected the art of candle-making with wax, creating the first dipped candles and creating objects of both daily use and sacred purpose. To these ancient peoples, the flame wasn’t merely light; it was life, a tiny sun held in the palm, connecting the earthly with the celestial.

As time flowed into the medieval era, candles found a deep and meaningful home in religious ceremonies. Catholicism and Christianity, in particular, adopted candles as symbols of divine light and spiritual purity. Every flicker in a darkened cathedrals and church became a prayer in itself, illuminating the path to salvation. The association of candles with prayer and intention became so ingrained that they naturally merged with the folk magic practiced in villages across Europe.

Here, we see some of the beginnings of candle magic as a personal, intimate practice. Villagers would light candles while uttering blessings, casting protections, or even weaving spells of love, fertility, or prosperity. The Renaissance added yet another layer to candle magic. The rebirth of Hermeticism and ceremonial magic brought a new understanding of how candles could be used to align with cosmic forces. Practitioners believed that the color of the wax, the timing of the flame, and the intention behind the lighting could channel planetary energies, summon spirits, or manifest desires. It’s no wonder that candles became indispensable in the practices of witches, alchemists, and mystics, serving as tools to focus will and amplify power.

Across the globe, candles begin to carry similar meanings. In Hindu traditions, oil lamps and candles were offered to deities as a gesture of devotion and to invoke blessings. In Afro-Caribbean practices, candles became central in rituals honoring ancestors and spirits, their light seen as a beacon guiding energies from the unseen world into the physical realm.

The History of Candle Magic in the Americas

The history of oil lamps and candles in America ties into the colonial and early settler experience. In the early 1600s, colonists brought tallow candles, made from animal fat, as their primary light source. These candles were smoky, smelly, and burned quickly, but they were accessible to all. By the 1700s, whale oil lamps became popular among wealthier settlers, producing a cleaner and brighter flame. However, enslaved and impoverished communities often relied on homemade tallow candles or simple oil lamps, repurposing whatever materials were available. The multicultural blending that defined American folk magic brought spiritual significance to these utilitarian objects.

In Hoodoo, a system of African American folk magic which is deeply multi-cultural and rooted in African, Indigenous, Judaistic and other practices, oil lamps and candles became potent tools for connecting with ancestors, spirits, and divine forces. Oil lamps were the original form of candle magic before the advent of electricity, and were longer lasting the candles. Hoodoo practitioners, often called rootworkers or conjure doctors, would craft oil lamps as magical devices by combining oils, herbs, minerals, and even personal items of the target (like hair or nails) inside the lamp. When lit, the flame was believed to activate the spell, drawing in spiritual assistance or amplifying the worker’s intention. These lamps were often made from everyday materials like mason jars or old lanterns, emphasizing the resourcefulness and ingenuity of Hoodoo practitioners in the face of oppression and scarcity.

As time progressed, Hoodoo folk magic evolved with the times. Candles were introduced and now play a central role in Hoodoo. Each candle color carried a specific symbolic meaning: green for money, red for love, black for protection or banishing negativity, and white for purity and spiritual clarity. Practitioners would carve their intentions directly onto the candle or dress it with oils and herbs before lighting it. As the candle burned, its flame became a channel for prayer, intention, or communication with the spiritual world.

In Appalachian Granny magic, another eclectic and practical form of folk magic rooted in the mountains, candles and oil lamps were tools of necessity that took on a mystical role. The grannies, as these wise women were lovingly called, used candles and lamps in rituals of protection, healing, and divination. For example, a Granny might place a candle in a window to ward off spirits or guide a loved one safely home. They also believed in the "reading" of a candle’s flame or wax drippings, interpreting flickers, cracks, and shapes as signs or messages from the spiritual realm. Oil lamps were similarly revered in Appalachian folk magic. Often kept burning in the home, they symbolized the hearth and protection of the family. These lamps were sometimes used in protective magic, with certain oils or charms placed inside to keep malevolent forces away. If illness struck a household, the lamp’s light might be used as a focus for healing prayers or blessings.

The multicultural blending that defined American folk magic brought spiritual significance to these utilitarian objects. African enslaved people integrated their knowledge of oils, herbs, and spiritual practices into their use of lamps and candles. Meanwhile, European settlers added their traditions of candle-burning spells and charms. In Appalachia, the influence of Celtic, Germanic, and Native American traditions created a unique fusion of spiritual and practical uses for light.

By the 19th century, paraffin candles became widely available, offering a longer burn time and cleaner light. These advancements allowed magical practices to become more elaborate, with practitioners using candle wax readings or crafting intricate oil lamp spells.

Metaphysical Reason why Lamps & Candles Work in Ritual

The power of oil lamps and candles lies in their unique ability to combine all the elements. Both oil lamps and candles are transformational tools, combining the elements of fire (flame), earth (wax or oil), air (smoke), and spirit (intention). The flame is fire; the melting wax, oil, glass or clay base is earth; and the smoke it produces, air. This elemental balance makes candles perfect for spell work, because it seeks harmony between the practitioner and the universe. When a lamp or candle burns, it transforms solid oil or wax into smoke and heat, symbolizing the alchemical process of turning intention into reality. No wonder they’re seen as conduits for wishes, blessings, and change. Their light is seen as a direct link to the divine, symbolizing clarity, hope, and the power to transform one’s reality. Whether guiding spirits, warding off evil, or sending a prayer to the heavens, these lights illuminate more than the physical world— oil lamps and candle can light the path to magic itself.

So, the next time you light a candle for a spell, a wish, or even just to create a cozy vibe, remember that you’re tapping into a practice as old as time itself. From ancient Egyptian temples to your modern altar, candles have always been there, carrying our hopes and dreams skyward, one flicker at a time. Whether you’re burning a dressed candle in a conjure spell or lighting an oil lamp to protect your home, know that you are a part of a global lineage of witches, priests, magicians, grannies, and root workers who have used the power of flame to ignite change, protect the vulnerable, and honor the divine.

xoxo

Lyonessa

[ltwilliammowett]

Oil lamp in shape of a greek warship, end of the 5th cent. BC

The oil lamp with the inscription ΙΕΡΟΝ ΤΗΣ ΑΘΗΝΑΣ (Sanctuary of Athena) was discovered inside the Erechtheion, Acropolis. Its form is linked to the celebration of the Panathenaia and the worship of Athena Polias, whose wooden cultic statue (xoanon) was kept in the eastern part of the Erechtheion.

During the last day of the celebration, the Athenians offered to the xoanon a new peplos, which, after the victory at Salamis, was transported hung like a sail on the mast of a warship -most possibly on one of the victorious triremes of the naval battle– which moved on wheels. The lamp possibly reproduces the features of this ship.

[1five1two]

The Ohio Hanukkiah Mound was a mound believed to be in the shape of a menorah and oil lamp, located near the Little Miami River in Milford, Ohio. Its origins are typically attributed to the Hopewell culture.

[the-first-man-is-a-cat]

Oil Lamp, 400-609 AD

[sporclechezchunklets]

My current entry on the 500 Quiz Club Playlist at Sporcle.

[blueiscoool]

BYZANTINE BRONZE OIL LAMP WITH CROSS HANDLE Ca. 4th-6th century AD

[thesilicontribesman]

Roman Oil Lamp Selection 1, Kendal Museum, Cumbria

[magratmakethetea]

I don't see another location for an oil hole, so one must hope! Hell of a risky angle though, in terms of accidentally pouring oil everywhere

you guys have no idea how important it is to me to know whether or not this lamp would be lit at the end of the elephant's trunk. this is the only thing that matters now

[lay-z]

❄️ Day 7 – Make do

Synopsis: Stuck in a safe house on a mission in the middle of nowhere on Christmas Eve, you and your alpha teammates are in dire need of some comfort.

Pairing: alpha!TF-141 x fem!omega!Reader Warnings/Info: No smut. | Omegaverse; military!Reader; a/b/o dynamics; emotional support (dog) omega; fluff; suggestive content; flirting; teammates to lovers/mates; eventual poly!relationship; eventual romance; typical omega/alpha behaviour

Word count: 2.5k

↳ back to 🎅🏼 Masterlist ☃️

Location: [Redacted]

EST. remng. time until exfil: 8 hrs. 4 min. 37 sec.

The wind is howling outside the shabby safe house, whistling through the creaks and cracks of withered floorboards while the rain keeps pouring down in ice buckets, fat drops pounding against the leaky windows.

You fear the seemingly ancient hut might cave in like an unstable card house with each violent gust of wind.

It’s definitely not cosy and anything but how you’d imagine to spend your holidays this year, but alas – you’re in the military, freshly recruited by a secret special ops task force just a handful of weeks ago, and neither war nor terrorism take a break, so you won’t, either. And you’re still trying to proof yourself to them, to those rugged, dominant and battle-hardened alpha soldiers.

Still, you’ve been away from a proper nest for nearly a month now and it’s starting to make you terribly anxious. You cannot possibly be of any use for your assigned alphas like this, not if you can’t even take care of yourself properly, and it’s showing.

Sometimes, the novelty of this arrangement catches up to you, makes you question your whole being and purpose. Especially, when you struggle to approach certain members of the squad to even offer your help and do your job. However, Captain Price had informed you in the beginning that you’re their first assigned emotional support omega, that some of his soldiers have never even been in close proximity to one before. He never told you who, but you already have a good hunch.

You don’t want them to know about your inner turmoil, though; don’t want them to think of you as some spoiled, prissy omega when you’re definitely still a soldier, as capable of the same war atrocities as they are – even if your nature gets in the way sometimes.

So, you do what you do best, grit your teeth, keep your demeanour neutral and make your usual rounds, seeing if anyone is in need of your support, though you’re ready for their usual declination – which is something that stings even worse than your own unmet need for comfort.

Nuzzling the cold tip of your nose into the thick collar of your winter combat jacket, you peel yourself away from the raggedy cot in the guest bedroom, boot-clad feet dragging along the creaking floorboards as you square your shoulders despite your own discomfort and walk down the short hallway into the dimly lit, sparsely furnished open living room.

And your nose immediately wrinkles at the concoction of sour, agitated alpha scents, cigar smoke, gun oil and musty wood. It’s bad enough to make your eyes water, but you swiftly blink away the gloss in your eyes, determined not to let them know how bad this is.

“Gentlemen,” you speak your greeting into the room, clearing your dry throat awkwardly as you assess the situation while the men barely seem to acknowledge you.

Captain Price is standing by a cracked window, puffing on a stubby cigar while staring outside into the semi-darkness, watching the storm, his broad shoulders tense and spine rigid.

Gaz is reading a worn softback book, sitting in the corner of the shabby couch where the old standard lamp flickers every couple of seconds, his dark brows drawn together in concentration, though his eyes barely move.

Soap is slumped in the only upholstered armchair, the battered cushions looking like they’ve seen better days; long legs stretched out in front of him, his bulky arms resting on each armrest while his head is tilted back, eyes flickering behind closed eyelids.

And the Lieutenant, Ghost, is sitting at the wobbly table on an equally wobbly chair in the darkest corner of the room, sharpening and cleaning his ballistic knives, the heavy scent of restlessness accumulated in his spot, though, as usual, his expression is hidden behind his skull mask, an air of indifference carefully crafted around his self while his own nature betrays him.

Their behaviour is making your stomach twist into knots and you swallow down a soft whine as your inner omega starts trembling with anxiety.

Then, Soap speaks up, his gruff, roguish voice breaking the tense silence, “Ye busy, sweetheart?”

You blink dumbly, eyes flickering around the room, unsure if he’s truly talking to you or–

But Soap lifts his head then, a boyish grin on his lips as his bright cerulean eyes lock with your, nearly making you squeak in surprise.

“C’mere, Corporal.” He says, lifting his bare right hand and curling his index finger, beckoning you over playfully before patting his thick thighs. It’s not an order, but the sudden interaction between you and the Sergeant has the other alphas perk up one way or another.

Price glances over his shoulder, blowing out a thick plume of smoke around the cigar between his lips. Gaz looks up from the pages of his book, one eyebrow raised curiously, his warm brown eyes flickering between Price, Soap and you while Ghost stops polishing one of his knives briefly before proceeding again.

It’s the first time one of them has made the conscious decision to ask for your presence, disregarding the brief and rare sniffs all of them have taken of your comforting omega scent in between action and battles.

Almost unconsciously, you give a stiff nod before approaching him while he sits up straighter in the armchair, moving his legs and angling his knees to give you more space.

“How–uhm–How do you… want me, Sergeant?” You ask tentatively, oblivious to the double-meaning of your innocent question, struggling to keep up your professionalism as you rock back and forth on your heels, heart pounding in your throat.

Soap’s formerly tired, half-lidded eyes light up with mirth as he drinks in your uncertainty, and deep down, he feels so bad for himself for denying himself and you this comfort  that you and the rest of the squad so desperately need – all on orders from Price; the admonition from several weeks ago still ringing in the young Sergeant’s ears.

“Don’t overwhelm her, lads. She’s precious tha’ one, a bloody fine soldier, and we wanna keep her around with us.”

But the Captain forgot that this is literally your job, that this is why you’re here with them in the first place, and gods damn, Soap needs a whiff of your scent, of something else but his or his pack mates acrid stench – something more like candied apples, cinnamon and fresh wildflowers – something more like you, sweet, sweet omega.

Soap holds his right hand out to you and waits for you to reach out as well, before he grasps your smaller, cold hand swiftly, pulling you onto his lap while he keeps you steady with his left, manhandling you until you’re sitting perched up oh so prettily on his broad lap.

Your lashes flitter briskly, bright doe-eyes flickering nervously as you drink in his features this up close and Soap is preening internally at the reaction you’re showing him, so surprised and almost innocent despite your occupation.

“Ye like sitting here with me, aye, sweetheart? Not too much for ye, innit?” He queries nicely, loud enough for the others, especially Price, to hear, while the corners of his eyes crinkle with giddiness.

You scan the room discreetly, vigilant eyes moving left and right, like prey looking out for predators, unsure if this might be some kind of test perhaps, to see if you’re a good omega, able to do what you’re supposed to. Looking back into Soap’s pretty eyes, you give a slow nod, “Yes and no, sir.”

“Aye… thought so.” Soap chuckles gruffly, pulling you closer against his buff chest, eager to have your warmth and scent seep through his clothes, mark his skin and calm his restless soul.

Gaz can’t take it anymore, can’t even continue pretending to be preoccupied with this stupid book in his hands. Not when you’re sitting on Soap’s lap like that, whispering and giggling with him like you’ve never done anything else before. It had already been hard enough, acting as if you weren’t there since you joined the team, when all Gaz wants to do is bury his face in your neck, nuzzle your soft skin, cuddle you close and have your soothing purrs reverberate against his chest.

He didn’t have a chance to hear them yet, but he’s sure you would make the cutest sounds and noises.

His jaw ticks when a whiff of your saccharine scent wafts over to him while he’s still seated on the shabby couch, just a few metres away from you. Perhaps, he could just snatch you right out of Soap’s hold–

The low rumble of Price’s chiding alpha growl makes Gaz bristle, eyes widening imperceptibly as he ducks his head slightly, because how did the old geezer even sense that he was becoming jealous… and possessive.

Suddenly, Soap calls out, “Oi, Garrick? Ye want a turn?”

Gaz perks up; closing the book at once, though he looks over at the Captain for guidance and permission, because he sure as hell won’t disobey a direct order like Soap did when the latter had asked for your comfort.

Meanwhile, Price’s annoyance is still simmering below the surface, vein throbbing rhythmically in his neck as he listens and watches how the Scottish Sergeant is acting with you, all gentle and playful, practically putty in your presence.

The room reeks less of agitation and discomfort now, their aggressive alpha pheromones now dulled and whitewashed by your strong, syrupy omega scent, melodic giggles and dainty demeanour, and Price has to admit, Soap does seem to be in higher spirits now.

So, he meets Gaz’ pleading eyes with a firm nod, and watches the younger alpha scramble to his feet, opening his arms invitingly, while Price keeps his distance, chewing on the glimmering cigar stump to ease his own restlessness.

“Hand her over, MacTavish,” Gaz huffs, long fingers wiggling in anticipation, “You wanna stay with me a bit, hm, sunshine? Aye, ‘course you do–” He coos at you, leaning in a little and getting a first real nose full of your intoxicating scent at this proximity. His pupils dilate at once, making Soap chuckle as he loosens his arms around you reluctantly.

You answer with equal eagerness, eyes twinkling happily as you slip into Gaz’ strong arms, chirping, “Yes, sure!”

You end up sandwiched between Soap and Gaz on the small couch, cooped up in two different pairs of strong, bulky arms while both young alphas gush over you, courting for your attention as they nuzzle, kiss and lick your neck, your hair, any patch of exposed skin they can reach. You don’t mind them scent marking you for the first time, don’t mind the way they’re getting excited as you feel their big bulges strain against the rough fabric of their combat trousers whenever you’re switched back and forth in their embraces.

Just once do you need to correct Soap’s behaviour by pinching the nape of his neck, when he bucks his hips up against your clothed core, rubbing his growing arousal against you briefly. But Gaz chides him, too, and that’s that before you continue coddling them as much as they do you.

Ghost is usually great at blending out his surroundings while simultaneously being hyper-aware of them, but you’re slowly and surely starting to get under his scarred, pale skin, carefully chipping away at his resolve with each tentative offer of your assistance to him and his packmates, always looking mighty eager to please and serve.

Fucking hell.

It's sickening, really, how your enticing omega scent seeps even through the barrier of black cloth covering his nose.

He’s never allowed himself to smell something so sweet, let alone be in close proximity with someone like you.

When Price had submitted the application for an emotional support omega for the 141 to the brass, Ghost had nearly lost it and, in a semblance of panic, threatened with both resignation and applying to transfer to another task force, anything that would put space between himself and any omega, not trusting himself to be around something precious and fragile like that.

And then you showed up one day, pretty as a peach, ripe as one, too, and Ghost reluctantly accepted your presence with a grumble, enforcing Price’s order not to get too close to you, though, that’s easier said than done, he’d learned fairly quickly.

Now, Ghost can barely keep himself from staring at the couch, where both Soap and Gaz are seemingly having the time of their lives – basking in the attention of their own little omega. He’s never seen the two alpha Sergeant’s act so bloody… corny.

And yet, the Lieutenant can’t help and wonder how it must feel like to hold you, to feel your weight on his lap and feel your hair tickle his nose when he leans in to–

“I know what I said about her,” Price clasps his heavy hand on Ghost’s shoulder, bringing him back to reality, “– but perhaps you shouldn’t keep restraining yourself like that, Simon,” The Captain mutters, “It ain’t healthy.”

“An’ what about you, sir?” Ghost counters, not looking up as he finishes up polishing his last knife for the third time.

Price huffs in amusement, fishing another cigar from one of his breast pockets.

“Don’t ya worry about me, lad.”

When Soap pulls back from your kiss-swollen lips at once, you whine softly, chasing after his pretty mouth, already utterly spoiled bit the little bit of attention you’d gotten from the young Sergeants, until the expression on his handsome face makes you pause and snap out of your contented daze.

“Ye ready for a turn, Lt.? Think ye can handle it?” Soap snickers while Gaz scoots to the other end of the couch, clearing his throat loudly, looking at anything but the behemoth of an alpha in his black combat uniform, now standing in front of the couch.

Your eyes go comically big as you tilt your head back against Soap’s broad shoulder to gaze up at the stoic Lieutenant; the cloth of his skull mask now tucked up to the bridge of his crooked nose, revealing dirty blonde stubble and several thick silvery scars along his exposed neck and the lower half of his face while his onyx eyes stare down at you with unmatched intensity.

“I dunno, Johnny,” Ghost gruffs out, tongue darting out to lick his chapped bottom lip, “Think yer pretty bird can handle me?”

[misguidedasgardian]

GLADIATORS

CREGAN I.

MASTERLIST

Summary: You see your father’s latest acquisition in a closer way, a wild man from the North who had become one of his gladiators.  

Pairing: Slave!Gladiator!Cregan x Domina!Reader

Warnings: Ancient Rome AU, Cursing, slavery (and everything that comes with it, technically rape, forced labour, punishments), blood, guts, gladiator battles, lude language, nudity, sex and everything related is no biggie here, we’re a ‘sex positive’ Republic, mentions of sex, same sex couples, orgies, and more.

MINORS DNI + 18

Wordcount: 6,7 k

Notes: This reader is young perhaps… like 18? 20? but so is Cregan!

“Dad, he is old!”, you whined. You heard your older brother snicker by your side, as their silly wives snickered like the silly girls they were. You sighed as you popped a grape into your mouth followed closely by a piece of cheese and bread and a sip of wine. 

“He’s got money… and he is in the senate!”, he said then, signaling one of the slaves to start lighting up the oil lamps along the Triclinium, the night had fallen over King’s Landing and it was getting dark.

“I bet you could find someone who’s in the senate who’s got a wife he is willing to divorce, and he won’t die of old age before the wedding”, mocked your eldest brother, but soon got quiet as your father looked at him with severity

“Nobody should divorce their wives on my account”, you said, the notion made your stomach turn. Even though divorce was a common thing, if a man desired another, or another union would ensure more privileges, or if his woman was unfaithful or not able to give in heirs to the family, they could divorce. A woman could divorce her husband too if she had her own reasons.

You knew the dowry of your middle brother’s bride was quickly being spent on the training of the gladiators in the Ludus underneath the house, so he needed to come into some money quickly, even though he would have to pay for your dowry.

One of the greatest events of the year was coming quickly, and his Gladiators needed to be in top shape. 

“Tomorrow I want you all there, at the games of Senator Tywin”

“Have we’ve been invited to the pulvinus father?”, asked your eldest brother

“Close enough, right by it”, he said, he seemed pleased, but you had learned to read him better, there was something lurking in his eyes that betrayed a darker desire… for more power perhaps.

“I've heard that Larys Strong and therefore Alys Rivers got an invitation this year to the pulvinus, and her gladiators in the primus at sundown”, whispered Martyn

You had two oldest brothers, Alton and Martyn. 

“That Ludus stands as such because of that whore Alys Rivers”, mumbled your father

“A woman Lanista?”, you asked, “how could that be?”

“She is not, but she whispers in her half-brother's ear while he aspires to be in higher positions”, explains your father. “While his brother, first born son and heir goes around playing gladiator”

“He is a slave?”, you asked

“He volunteer himself into that life”, murmured Alton, “you had seen him fight sister, Harwin”

“Oh wow!”, you said, not really knowing what to say, but rather, sipping your wine, you did remember seeing the biggest person you had seen upon the arenas of King’s Landing’s Coliseum. 

“Anyways, Alys stands as such because she was advised many years by Daemon himself the demon of the arenas”, mumbled Martyn

“Yes, fine Daemon/Demon”, your father would repeatedly, while on his cups, tell the tale of his biggest regret, and that was not purchasing a young Daemon while he was still in training, he grew to be the greatest gladiator at the arena, so much so he won his own freedom at the games of the Vulcanalia some years ago. Daemon, as many other gladiators, came from the shadowlands of Essos, as he sported beautiful white/silver hair and violet eyes. 

You would never say this outloud, but the gladiator battles were never a thing of your interest, not really. You did not liked the bloodshed, the gutting, you had no taste for violence, and yet, there was something to admire as you saw those men fighting 

They looked like they were carved from the finest artist, they stood like they were gods above the sands. They stood as fierce representations of the god of war himself.

“Well, her reign of depravity will not last long, I heard the Northman shows great promise”, mumbled Martyn’s wife Adella 

“What about the Northman?”, Martyn asked then, you raised your head in question. Oh the Northman.

The man had your father in a lockdown, taking most of his time, money and patience. He was ‘caught wild’ in one of the last incursions of the armies of the emperor to the wild tribes of the North, hence his nickname. Purchased by your father at the slave market, and trained for the last months. With the purchase, your father was hoping to impress Tywin Lannister himself, a senator and a very wealthy man, it did not work, so far, as the man planned to visit your father’s villa upon invitation to see the Northman’s training and hopeful subjugation. So far, no luck. 

He was caught fighting, he wasn’t a stranger to it, but there was a long way from being a soldier to being a gladiator. From being… whatever he was up there, to obey command from a man that subdued you into slavery. 

But again, your father’s temper has closely returned to normal, so, you could only assume the training was becoming fruitful, even so slowly. 

“He will never be tamed”, he said curtly, “but… if we keep managing him properly, we can turn that hate of his into the arena, he shows great promise”

“Forgive me father”, you said, raising from your place in the triclinium, “I take my leave to bed”, you said with a soft smile, nodding at everyone present

“Good, I won’t have you all tired tomorrow”, he said approvingly, and you nodded, thinking for which old bat he would have you presentable tomorrow.

He was determined to get you wed before the autumn plantings at the end of the year, and he didn’t seem to care to whom as long as it brought privileges upon his house. 

It was hot, so hot, you could barely stand, you were eternally grateful to your personal slave, Anya, who stood by your side, fanning you with a soft paper fan. She leaned into you as you allowed her, to also enjoy the soft waves.

Although, they brought some stench from all the people around you.

King’s Landing, although the capital of the great republic, stood famous for its stench, having grown rapidly and unprepared for it. 

The sun cooking the viewers of the spectacle didn’t help either.

The people cheered, bringing a new wave of hodor that made you dizzy and poor Anya almost faint

“Did you see that?”, asked your elder brother to the youngest, as two gladiators fought to the death, one cutting the other’s arm. HIs screams could be heard all the way up where you stood, near the pulvinus.

You rather stare into the sun, which you did. Soon, after midday, it was going to hide behind the wooden beams supporting the canvas on top of the Arena, there you truly were going to enjoy it. being able to relish in the shadow. 

“Tywin demanded only the best this city has to offer present themselves in his games”, the comment alone made you turned your gaze upon the Arena, as people cheered again, some even pushed you in their ecstasy, to see the gladiator in shining white armor decapitate the one missing his arm

“And Cole does it again”, said Martyn. The one who had an armor so polished it was blinding was known as Cole, he stood from the Rhoynar in the south, from Dorne itself, plucked from the desert to fight in another kind of arena. 

“See her gloat”, demanded Alton, you all looked towards the Lanista herself, Alys Rivers in the pulvinus, with a smug look upon her face, she of course was the one holding the wip that trained the man in the arena.

She was of extraordinary beauty, long lustrous black hair, long to her hips, wearing a deep green stola, beautifully decorated atop a black tunic, you wondered how she did not bake wearing such dark colors. 

She was stuck to the side of her rumored half-brother, he was a.. interesting man, thin and a bit twisted, unruly hair but fine clothing adorned his weak frame. 

“People of King’s Landing…!”, presented Otto HIghtower from the pulvinus, a small but central box, where the most prominent people attending the games would sit at. He was a Senator, friend to Tywin Lannister and apparently presenter to today’s games. Maybe he was the patron of the entire occasion, your father had been paid by a HIghtower man.

But this… was far from over.

It was odd to see such a gladiator so early in the day, the sundown was reserved for the very best part of the games, the primus, between the two best and more known gladiators. 

You found yourself thinking about like four names at the time.

Harwin, Cole, Aemond, and… the Northman.

Although Harwin was disapparating from latest presentations… he still held name, but he had lost his prowess as the last time he found himself in the Arena he asked for mercy as he found himself losing, he raised his hand in the air with both index and middle finger pointing to the skies begging for mercy, and it was granted.

Against Cole himself. He got terribly injured almost a year ago, thereafter only presenting himself in fights long before midday sun.

Yes, everything you knew about gladiators and fights was learnt unwillingly. 

But the primus did not belong to your father, so the Northman was fighting early, thankfully. You might have a chance to survive this heat, by retiring back to your father’s villa early.

Although, these occasions were like the market for older unmarried men. And your father would have you giving everything to sell…  

“... I give to you, from one of the greatest Ludus of the Republic, a man, from the wild tribes North of the neck…”, your father smiled proudly as the name of the family was spoken loudly for everyone to hear. “trained to wet the sands with the blood of his enemies… I give you… CREGAN!”, people booed at his entrance, as the wild tribes of the North had been villainized by the Republic, as relentless, violent and above all, uncultured and barbaric, but you had learned to read between the lines, they were described as such because they refused to bend the knee.

The gates of the Arena opened on the west side, revealing the men ready for battle. He stood tall and broad despite his young age, his dark brown hair tied back, although hidden by a thick helmet in the shape of a wolf’s head. 

He wore nothing protecting his torso, yet a thick metal belt putting together the lower part of a tunic. He wore forearm and shin protectors, and thick leather sandals 

He had a huge sword in hand, and a shield on his other.

The sight alone took your breath away.

You had seen him only practicing, briefly, as your father did not approve of you gazing from your balcony down to the men. As they would, “get distracted”, and you didn't enjoy their eyes filled with lust either. So you refrained from doing so, but…

The mere glimpses you had gotten of the men were nothing when putting in comparison to the men upon the sand today.

In all glory, in strength, as a gladiator was the mightiest representation of a man, or that is what your father always said.

This was a rare sighting though, as he had barely been making a name for himself, this time might be the first he presents himself alone. Your father was right, taiming him was proving to be incredibly difficult, but nobody could deny that even if he presented himself a gladiator today under your father’s ludus, he was still as unruly as the first time you laid eyes upon him, as the first time you gaze down upon him, entering through the gates, kicking and screaming, hair longer than you had seen in a men, even longer than he had now. 

He fought your father’s guards and even the ones who he would call his brothers this present day.

Tywin himself called for the start of the fight, his opponent was someone of the Ludus of Larys himself, one with lesser note, his name left your ears as soon as you heard it.

But you couldn't care less, as when he started to move upon the sands, the rest of the world could crumble around you and it would not matter in the slightest.

“He stands superior in all aspects”, mumbled one of your brothers and you couldn't tell which as you were so hypnotized.

Cregan attacked first, and that was very frowned upon in the Lanistas, as the first to strike tended to have disadvantage, his opponent met him half way and the clash of gladious responded all over the coliseum. 

There were some gladiators that favored other weapons, like the spear and short shield, or the Retiarius, that were gladiators trained with a net and a trident, in a fisherman fashion. 

It sounded laughable in paper, but they were quite impressive in the arena, not this time though, both gladiators stood with a gladious, meaning a sword, and a long squared concave shield.

The fight wasn’t lengthy, the superiority of the Northman was clear since the very first movement.

Although it wasn’t less breathtaking, as each of their movements, attacks, the way they moved, and deflected, its like they were dancing, dancing in a mortal rhythm 

The crowd cheered for them, and even though they were not on the Northman’s side, suddenly, they shifted as it became clear that he was the better fighter. 

Although you did not enjoy the games, there was this moment, this exact moment in which you felt like your heart was in your throat and you could tear your eyes apart from the fight. The moment where you really cared about who won, about who survived. The Northman, even thought it was the 

But it was brief, first Cregan drew blood on the arm of his opponent, and then, after a quick movement, the man was dead, dropped in a growing pool of blood on the floor. 

The magic was gone, and the crowd erupted in cheers, applauding, screaming his name, although there were those disappointed because of the outcome.

“He will be the champion of our house!”, said Alton, “mark my words!”, he said, as your two brothers hugged each other in happiness. you turned to Anya, who had a soft smile on her face, but kept fanning the both of you 

The rest of the fights happened quickly after that, the sun hiding behind the podium of the magistrates and people of importance in the city, which gave you relief as the day turned quickly, the sun moved above the sky until it hid behind the outer walls of the coliseum. 

The last fight ended quickly as well, Aemond killing his opponent in an impressive showing of strength and blood. 

Your father was called upon another man near the pulvinus, as you tried to stand your ground as people around you were quickly to leave the arena, but you managed to stand your ground, as your siblings found friends of their own to talk to. 

Your father came back to you, rubbing his hands amongst each other with a pleased look on his face

“I must attend a meeting in the magistrate’s house”, he said happily, “He spotted me in the crowd and invited me”, you smiled at him

“I’m pleased, father”, you said with a soft smile

“See yourself to the villa, with our guards and slaves, don’t wait up”, he commanded the lot of you. 

“We have been invited to the Lannisters”, mumbled Martyn, your father’s eyes again shone with interest. So he nodded towards your brother.

“I trust you’ll be well taken care of”, he said then, turning to you, he then signaled to one of his most trusted guards and even to the Doctore himself, the trainer of the gladiators.

“Yes father”, you nodded at Anya and the both of you exited the arena, followed closely by a guard. 

You turned quickly as you heard your name being called by a familiar voice, as you were int he shade of the hallways, as you turned you found yourself with your old friend from your childhood, Alysanne Blackwood

“How long haven’t we gaze upon one another?”, she said, grabbing your forearms as you did hers, she leaned in a made attempt to kiss both your cheeks as it was accustomed

“Too long”, you said with a long sigh

“We shall remedy that immediately!”, she said then, “you didn’t mind telling me your father’s Ludus was the one who owns the Northman himself?”, she tried

“Oh well, much has happened in the last couple of years”, you said shyly, smiling softly at her.

This was hardly the time, all the people were leaving the coliseum, and pushed you who were trying to stand on the sidelines. She looked at you with those deep green eyes of hers, she was so beautiful, lean and tall, with thick black hair fixed beautifully and big green eyes, her smile was contagious. 

“Well it's been too long”, she said then, as you failed to meet what she desired, “and I will wait no longer, to get reacquainted with dear friend”, she said, grabbing your hands

“My villa, its mine for the night, as my father meets with important men”, you offered, her smile was as beautiful as the rest of her

“Perfect, Jeyne Frey is also here”, she said, “we’ll go together”.

To say you were nervous was an understatement 

The night found you and your friends in the safety of the triclinium in your family’s villa, where the soft wine flowed freely and also the dining. 

“And his cock was huge!”, she said, making you gasp

“Alyssane!”, you chided, “don’t say that!”, you said, feeling your cheeks heated

“What? Cock?”, she teased, “Cock! Cock! Cock! COCK!”

“Stop it!”, you slapped her arm playfully

“I see them all the time!”, Jeyne said then, looking sheepishly, hiding her smirk in her cup of wine. 

“Only because you like to peek as your brothers have sex with slaves!”, mocked Alyssane 

“No I don’t!”, she said, but you knew she was lying. 

“I bet that Northman’s cock is huge too”, teased Alyssane, finally revealing her true intentions behind her and Jeyne’s visit to your father’s villa. You got quiet, so did Jeyne, but the expression on her face said it all, she was as intrigued as Alyssane

“I wouldn’t know, even if I saw it”, you said

“You had never seen a man naked?”, asked Alyssane, raising one of her perfect eyebrows

“No”, you said then, well… you sort of had, men, male slaves on sale on the streets, but you had refused to look long enough to draw a complete image in your mind. What you saw in a couple of seconds did not please you at all, rather… you disliked.. something so… small and wobbly. You shaked at the very memory of it.

“You had never seen any of your gladiators in such fashion?”, asked Jeyne, ready to tease and follow Alyssane’s lead.

“No I have not!”, you said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Aren’t you at least a bit curious?”, asked Jeyne

“Well, of course I am”, you defended

“You are to be married before the darkest of the winter months, you should at least know what you are up against”, Alyssane said simply, “and I would not deny the sight… of such a man”

“You are here just to gaze upon naked men?”, you said playfully, although, a bitter taste in your mouth, as you were feeling clearly used, and pressured.

“No, I am here to gaze upon naked gladiators”, Jeyne said then.

But another flavor joined the others, the need deep within you impress your friends, your friends from rich houses of the capital 

“Bring me the Northman”, you said to the guard that stood in the corner watching the whole reunion, he seemed terribly nervous, but nodded and left you. You shaked with the resolution in your command, and felt a pit in your stomach in anticipation.

You knew he was going to take a while, so you turned back at your friends and smiled nervously, and they seemed terribly motivated. 

“I must say”, began Jeyne, as she saw your face filled with trepidation, “that my tongue will not be kept from wagging about your hospitality to my father”, she wanted to make sure you knew there was going to be recompense for this, and good recompense. His father, as old as time, sat in the senate, she stood the daughter of a senator.

“Thank you Jeyne”, you said with a soft smile, you took a long gulp of your cup, to try and soothe your nerves. Alyssane did the same, but with a smirk on her lips, she said nothing as she studied your form. 

Finally, they both took sit position in their triclinium as you heard movement behind you. You looked back to see their trainer Roose Bolton, following closely behind the man himself. The wildling from the tribes of the North, whose name was Cregan Stark, although everyone called him… ‘The Northman’

He stood with thick shackles around both wrists. in front of him. He was wearing nothing but a clean subligaria, and his body was like one of a god, well defined and gleamed under the light of the torches, he had recently been cleaned. The sight made your mouth dry, so you took another long sip of the mulsum in your cup. He had thick brown hair that he used tied in the back of his head, and he had sharp eyes, cold as ice and the same colour. The features of his face were soft, declaring his young age, your own, perhaps. 

“Leave us”, you demanded, but the trainer Roose Bolton looked conflicted

“Domina, I don’t think…”

“I said leave us”, you said, about to lose your courage, your friends behind you giggled, weirdly giving you confidence to commit to your own command. With a grunt, the doctore nodded and left you, with only your friends, a couple of guards standing silently in the corners of the room behind veils, and him.

The Northman

He was deadly still, looking forwards, beyond you and your friends, beyond this room, his jaw was tense, you could tell that being here, summoned by you like this… for him was humiliating, but there he stood, tense like a bow. He said nothing, he didn’t move an inch.

“Is this what all northmen look like?”, Jeyne teased, “he is more beast than man”, you didn’t know if that was a real question, but your eyes never left his form, even if it wasn’t he didn’t answer.

“You can answer”, you encouraged 

“All northmen do not look like me”, he said finally, the dark tone in his voice made the three of you gasp. “some make me look like an Andal”, Jeyne and Alyssane giggled at the prospect of finding even gruffer men than him. 

“Oh he speaks the common tongue”, Alyssane was on fire, making you more uncomfortable. His eyes finally found yours, and you couldn’t take your own out of his. 

“Yes he does”, you whispered, he indeed had a beautiful set of eyes. You then looked down at his chest, there was a red line, his injury from the battle in the Arena, it was still fresh, but you could tell it was healing properly

“I think he is handsome”, mumbled Alyssane, taking foot to walk towards him, you feared his reaction, as the guard standing in the corner of the room clenched his hand around the pommel of his sword. 

But the gladiator still didn't move as Alysanne walked around him, teasing him with a single finger, touching his skin as she walked. His eyes were still on you. 

“He stands as Mars, ready for war”, she whispered

“Alyssane seems taken by the man”, teased Jeyne in your ear

It was a curious thing, this what you were feeling, like somebody wanted to take something that belonged to you, but again, he wasn’t a thing, and you didn’t own him. Not technically at least, your father did.

“Their day starts early tomorrow”, you mumbled, making Alysane stop and look back at you with a teasing smile on her face. “his training I mean”, you said then

“Of course”, she said, you signaled the poor shaking guard and he grabbed Cregan, and took him from your side. You could swear you saw lingering eyes from him to you, but you must have imagined it.

“You should… enjoy him while you can”, said Jeyne finally, once you found yourselves alone again

“What do you mean?”, you asked her, her and Alyssane shared complicit looks

“Well, obviously, before you take an old bat as a husband, you should enjoy one of his gladiators, like that Northman for example”

“No…”, you said quickly, “I couldn’t possibly do something like that”

“Why not?”, asked Alyssane

“He is a man trained as a gladiator!”, you said, “he is a bit dirty…”, you tried, not quite convinced 

“You have him bathed and oiled before you”, said Alyssane like it was no issue 

“What if he doesn't want to?”, you tried then

“He is a slave, under your command…”, said Jeyne, “...and a man”

“What if he decided to kill me instead?”, you said then, “wrap his hands around my neck”

“I will not shame you is that is to your pleasure”, giggled Alyssane

“Aly!”, you whined, “the point is I really couldn’t, I mean, he is big and thick… and wild looking”

“Delicious then”, she offered

“Dangerous…”, you continued, although you felt your cheeks heated. 

“Well if you don't have him, maybe I could!”, she teased

“What are you talking about?!”, you asked, scandalized, “when have you heard that proper Andal women lay with their gladiators?”

“Oh I’ve heard a ludus where such things happen quite frequently”, she teased

“Where?”, you asked

“In Alys Rivers’ ludus!”, your eyes opened wide in shock

“Really?”, you asked, “the bastard sister of the Lanista Larys Strong?”, you asked 

“They say she offers her gladiators in… other manners”, she said, winking at you, “perhaps we should find ourselves at her door?”, she asked Jeyne

“Perhaps we shall”, she said back. 

“Don’t be mean!”, you teased back, she laughed, as she was clearly jesting, you hoped.

“The hour is late”, said Jeyne with a soft smile, “I should start my journey back to my villa before my father starts a search party”, she said, raising from her chair

“Yes! me as well!”, said Alyssane, “I hope I can meet you tomorrow at the market?”, she asked you, you smiled and nodded profusely, as you accompanied them to the atrium, and therefore the door

As you watched them leave, nervousness started to take a hold on you, as did the warmth of the wine consumed to hide your embarrassment 

It was not common to find yourself alone in your villa, your father had allowed it because you were in company of friends -who had influential fathers-, but now there you stood, no brothers, or sisters in law, father or friends to loom over you.

Your lower belly burned with necessity, with something you have never felt before, a longing, your body burned with anticipation and excitement. You didn’t know if it was the mulsum you had drank, or the power you just discovered, all the whole thing combined.

“Bring the Northman up here”, you said to the first guard you saw, he nodded and went to comply with your command. Your body was tingly because of the alcohol and you were excited to say the least, you didn’t even care that you had already sent the poor man down mere minutes ago, tonight, you had the power.

You shakily served yourself some more wine, back in the safety of the triclinium, the room where you ate, met with friends and family, where you were most comfortable. The man was standing right in front of you in minutes, the guards nodded at you and then left you as they had done before.

The gladiator stood there, now he seemed more surprised than before, as he found you alone, and he also seemed to be showing more of his emotions on his face.

“Northman”, you called, he turned to you quickly, anger in his eyes

“That’s not my name!”, it took you by surprise, you couldn’t deny it, the anger in his eyes, the sharpness in his tone. 

“What is your name?”, it was of no consequence to you, his domina, and you should express so, that it did not matter anymore what his real name was, but, there you were, asking him nonetheless

“My parents named me Cregan”, he said, “of House Stark”, he said sharply, “as many leaders of my house before me”

There was so much more you wanted to ask, as his words truly shocked you, but as you gazed down the street you came to your senses, realizing that you should not allow such things. As your father tended to say, “who were you before this Ludus does not matter, the only thing in your mind should be sand, and the blood of your enemies”

“That is not what you are here for”, you finally find your voice, minimizing his anger at hand, turning his attention somewhere else.

“Remove your subligaria”, you whispered the command as if you did not wish it, and his sharp eyes were trained on you

“Look at you, a little domina in the making”, he teased, his tone much changed since he let you know of his true name. The very words made your cheeks heated, and you found yourself averting his gaze, his did not stray from your face as he released himself from the only item of clothing he was wearing. Your eyes followed the trail of his perfect skin, down his toned chest to his belly and…

The sight alone made you gasp. 

This looked nothing like the ones of the male slaves in the market, if anything, those were… flacid and small, that sight brought you disgust and uneasiness, this one however, made your mouth dry and your skin tingle with desire. Desire that was pooling in your lower belly.

“You can touch me”, he said, he was being amused at your expense, only making you even more nervous, “I will not bite… much”, your hand was placed on his belly, muscles showing in beautiful shapes, you couldn't believe something could be hard but soft at the same time.

As your hand lowered, you found thick dark hairs there, making you shudder 

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen”, he whispered, so close to your face your hand stopped right before getting to his base and you looked up at him.

“I’m the daughter of your dominus”, you said, as you believed he was forced to praise you.

“Do you think that’s got something to do with what I just said?”, he asked. Your hand stopped right as the base of his cock, you shuddered, his manhood was terribly hot. 

You had never spoken to this man before today, you had barely glanced at him, and now, here he stood, under your command, looking at you with his sharp eyes, not missing a thing. 

“I’m sorry, this was a bad idea…”, you whined retrieving your hands like his skin burned you. Cregan grunted when your soft hands left his cock, and that only made you burn more heatedly

“And you are going to leave me hanging like this?”, he asked, amused, mocking you, but inside he was suffering, he was enjoying it too much, it has been so long without a woman’s touch, “you can’t do that!”

“My apologies”, you said quickly, leaving him there standing 

His doctore came to collect him, he retrieved his cloth from the ground, putting it in place

“A little tease that one”, he mumbled to the serious man

“Do not speak of domina in that way”, he growled as he pushed him 

“There is not much domina in her”, he chuckled

“That’s it, five lashes in the courtyard”, he said

“I’d think better of it doctore”, he said defiantly, taking advantage of the fact that only the two of them were present in the narrow passage that separated the villa from the training grounds of the Slaves, “the Vulcanalia is merely a fortnight away from now, and they have high hopes for me”

“Keep walking boy”, Roose Bolton threatened.

He led him downstairs and then through the big gate that separated the villa from the ludus, where the gladiators lived and trained. A guard locked it tight after they passed through it

“I advise you to keep what happened to yourself”, he said gloomly, Cregan looked back at his doctore, but nodded.

He was directed straight to a long open room, where the gladiators ate lunch and dinner. He directed himself to the cook, who gave him a clay pot with a white mush in it, just like the day before, and the night before that. 

“Here comes the whore!”, someone shouted at him, as his “brothers” started mocking him and winking at him.

It didn’t take much to guess what happened in the villa, there was only one reason you get called upon at such hours, and wearing so little

“Shut the hell up Ben”, he mumbled to his only friend he had in the Ludus, he haden’t say anything, but he was grinning at him like an idiot.

“Was it her?”, he asked him, “the daughter? the domina?”

“Yes”, he said, his friend pushed him playfully

“Did you fuck her?”, Cregan just looked at him angrily

“No”

“Was she not pleased with you then?”. he asked, frowning

“She is young, she doesn’t know what she wants”, he said simply, really not wanting to share what had happened upstairs.

It was humiliating, to say the least, to be treated like that. To be called upon to be gazed at by women who looked at him like a piece of meat, and then again to be touched.

Oh but he meant every word

You were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, since the first time he saw you, standing on that balcony, looking down at him. He did not blame you for your father, for the blood that ran through your veins, for the republic that created you. You had nothing to do with any of it.

Just by looking at you he could tell the kind soul that moved your body and warmed your heart

But you were the daughter of the man who purchased him, he wasn’t the one who enslaved him, but it was the man that had condemned him to the life of a gladiator. 

“Well, maybe you can change her mind”, he teased

The only reason he was playing along with the Andals was to see how to escape them, so far, it had been easy to stay alive, he had been trained since he could pick up a sword on how to hunt, how to fight, how to survive, the North was not a place for the weak

“Father?”, you called out loud, the servants all dropped their eyes as you passed them by looking for him, but you couldn’t find him in his study, so you were on your way to his room at the other side of the villa

“What’s this ruckus?”, he asked, looking at you with sharp eyes as he went to encounter you in the atrium

“My good friend Alyssane has summoned me to go to the market at noon”, you knew he wouldn’t refuse you, not if Alyssane was involved, so he just sighed and motioned for you to follow him. You went back to his study, passing all the statues decorating the atrium. A normal Andal family would display in honor effigies of their most prominent family members, but yours displayed the most prominent gladiators and fighters that had come from this ludus.

“Here”, he passed you a small punch filled with gold coins

“Thank you father”, you said, offering a complacent smile

“Take one of my men with you”, he said then, “one of the gladiators”

“I hardly think that’s necessary, a servant and a guard would do just fine”, you said quickly, always as you were in the market you wanted to pass by as inconspicuous as you could. 

“I insist, after the games, and before the Vulcanalia, I want the people to see them, to get excited, take the Northman”, you hid your face before your father could see the embarrassment in it. 

One of the guards of the villa went to fulfill his request, and you sighed in exasperation. 

You came back to your rooms to get ready to go out, and once you were, you returned to the entrance of the house, where Cregan himself was waiting for you with a severe look on his face, this was not to his liking, he was standing right by a guard, and by Roose Bolton. 

The sight alone made you tremble

Had he told anybody what happened the day before? that you had touched him and presumed to have him?

Once his eyes found yours, he smirked. 

“If something befalls the daughter of your dominus, fate worse than death awaits you boy”, he said in his ear

“Rest assured, that I will look after her with my life”, he said with a silly little smile.

You took a long sigh, and nodded to the guards and started walking out of the villa.

The villa stood on top of a hill, you had a pretty nice view upon the city of King’s Landing, but the rest of it wasn't quite impressive, the road was made of dirt and the houses around it were less impressive than the one your father had inherited from his father. It had been in your family since the very creation of the city.

You led a small comitive, all on foot, as you bluntly refused to be carried in a cot. You, your faithful slave Anya, Cregan himself, being flanked by two guards.

The center of the city started right at the foot of the hill, so it was a short minute walk.

You reach a street made of cobblestone, one adjacent to the one that led to the main street, as it was time before you had to meet Alyssane, you started to look the small stores

“Did your father hear of the way you handled me last night?”, Cregan whispered as Anya was tending elsewhere, you look back sharply at the Northman.

“No, and he shall not!”, you said sharply

“Oh well, I guess if he had, he’d have me castrated”, he whispered for your ears only, “and I guess you don’t want that as it seems you like what you saw”, he teased

“Stop it”, you said back. Your father was a practical man, and if he had heard of what occurred last night, you would be the one at fault, as everyone involved was just following your command. “My father will never know of this”, you sentenced 

“You wanted to lay with me? A gladiator? a slave?”, he asked then

“I was mistaken”, you said, trying to gaze upon what a man was cooking on his store towards the street, it smelled delicious 

“You are mistaken”, you heard him claim, his thick accent made your thighs, “for seeking bedding before connecting, to seek sex, instead of love, to want lust before you even began to feel the fondness”, he said sincerely.

“Thinking love is something within the grasp of someone in my position is foolish, and I learned not to be blinded and distracted by foolish things”, you whispered sadly. You nodded at the man and exchanged a couple of aerus for a plate of lamb soup. “I’ll be married before the year is over”, you whispered. 

[petermorwood]

Recent article on NPR about the history of artificial light somewhat frustrated me -- they portrayed all of pre-kerosene history as dark and heinously expensive at all times. Thing is, the writers based their findings solely on tallow candles, & ignored oil lamps, beeswax candles, clever use of refraction & outdoor light including moon/starlight... Also seemed to ignore the ubiquity of hearths / cook fires. Was wondering if you'd be willing to talk about non-tallow light? This isn't to ignore that truly, artificial lighting WAS much more difficult & expensive for much of human history, but acting like tallow candles were the ONLY light source seems very silly! (Plus your other lovely post about bottles of water used to make those candles more efficient via refraction & focus)

I'm betting the article you mean is this one - which refers back to this one.

For matching reference, my own posts about period lighting are here, One and Two, including observations about painting walls white, how to light candles and lamps without matches, and several other matters.

*****

It didn't take too much listening before I got tetchy, because the first half of this podcast seems more about mocking how WEIRD and PRIMITIVE old-time people were, than passing on any useful information.

Despite the presence of Jane Brox (author of "Brilliant: The Evolution of Artificial Light") whale oil only gets touched on in passing, and olive oil isn't mentioned at all.

Instead she starts talking about using oily seabirds (stormy petrels) as "candles", despite this scholarly study concluding that it was something talked about far more than done, besides being so very, very localised that its relevance to the history of lighting is very, very small.

But hey, WEIRD and PRIMITIVE, right?

*****

By contrast, making candles was so commonplace that it was another of those jobs which created surnames. Fletcher once put feathers on arrows, Cooper made barrels, Fisher, Miller, Baker and Farmer are obvious, and Chandler used to make candles.

Lampier, of course, made lamps, which helped keep those naked candle-flames away from anywhere they shouldn't touch. The man on the left is making the lantern bodies, the one on the right is shaving sheets of horn as windows.

It's cheaper than glass, less easily broken yet is translucent enough, when shaved properly thin, to give quite adequate light.

*****

The podcast has a digression about measuring the light output of a reproduction Ancient Babylonian lamp. Here's an original and a repro.

Yet that too says nothing about what fuel the lamp is or should be burning - olive oil, traded all over the Mediterranean by ancient olive-growing cultures.

These are Roman oil-lamps, from simple and cheap to elaborate and costly.

As for beeswax, so far as the podcast is concerned might as well not exist, despite being a by-product of honey, which was THE principal pre-sugar sweetener for centuries when not being made into all that mead whose existence, production and quaffing nobody questions.

Oh yeah, and then there was the amazed discovery (2:40 / 1:25, depending on which you're listening to) that melted beef fat "...smells really nasty, like, ANIMAL nasty,"

Why is this guy surprised? It's part of an animal!

*****

It's the same sort of infotainment ignorance as displayed by this TikTok twit, right up to complaining about the effort involved in preparation of anything because not having powered appliances was so labour-intensive, oh woe. Yes, it was, welcome to any historical period before about 1920. That's where "the daily grind" originates.

However the implication (listen, it's there) that cattle were raised just to provide fat for candles is ludicrous. The fat was a by-product, not a main one, and was often a butcher's side-line, while members of the Chandlers' Guild only worked with superior beeswax.

I don't think you could make candles like these with tallow:

...and you definitely couldn't make one meant to be hand-held.

Picture evidence shows, by their clothing, the class of society who bought these, and tallow-greasy fingers would have been a no-no.

A Chandler didn't make individual candles. By the time that fresh batch is hung up, the first batch away down at the end is cool enough to be dipped again.

A chandler's shop in a medieval city would look very similar, and often had a horizontal wheel on which to hang each batch of candles, rotating them up and around to cool, then back to the dipping pot. Non-modern people may not have had modern tech or time-and-motion studies, but they weren't stupid.

*****

By contrast, the podcast's disparaging attitude of WEIRD and PRIMITIVE is emphasised by what seems a deliberate avoidance of anything which counters it (examples of that in my own posts) and finally at 11.24 / 9:50 came this:

"Even when you get all the way to the 1700s (...) most people are still subsistence farmers, living in some kind of hut, trying to grow enough food not to starve to death (...) and light? Light still comes from finding stuff that's lying around and just lighting it on fire."

Some kind of hut...

Stuff that's lying around...

After making such a declaration, I'm surprised - since they'd been implying it for half the podcast - someone didn't just go ahead and announce that "there's some lovely filth down here..."

That's when I stopped listening.

Enough is enough, and I'd had it.

*****

ETA:

cc: @asmuchasidliketo :->

Here's a photo of what purports to be a Petrel (not petrol, that's something else) Candle, held in the Pitt-Rivers Museum, Oxford. It's mentioned in that scholarly article I linked above.

Just as "one swallow doesn't make a summer", so one - and only one - known example of this, which may have been a fake-up to spoof the Southerners, doesn't prove it was a common or even rare practice.

There's another reason to take this with a big pinch of salt, so maybe Jane Brox was on a low-sodium diet when she wrote her book.

Creatures with a layer of fat or blubber for insulation all have it like any other form of insulation, on the outside, where it does some good. A wick passed through the inside couldn't draw on it for fuel since there's a layer of muscle and another of internal organs for the oil to get through first.

The cropped-off bottle just visible to the left is a far more likely way seabirds became lamp fuel: by rendering out their oil. This oil is from the Northern Fulmar, Fulmaris glaciaris (or glacialis, I've seen both. Same bird regardless).

Incidentally, the Wikipedia article on European Storm Petrel mentions a supernatural connection, that the petrels were the souls of drowned sailors, and killing them is unlucky.

Not just killing them but making them into candles sounds like A Bad Idea, and is yet another reason why, IMO, the candle thing may be a folktale, or a deliberate leg-pull, or...

Let's just say "improbable" and leave it there. :-P

[caracalla-dondus]

hi hi i hope you’re having a fab day i loved your most recent works and saw you wanted some requests so here i am i didn’t see any rules posted yet so if anything in this ask makes you uncomfy im very sorry!! but oki okie this is semi inspired by your last geta fic and so i was thinking like Caracalla x like actress reader who comes into town with her acting troop and peforms for the emperors one night when caracalla is in bad mood and readers the only one who can make him laugh while he’s in one of his moods and so geta keeps calling reader back to entertain him and sorta help with his sundowning and caracalla just gets absolutely obsessed with reader and refuses to let them leave and go back with there troop and jsut wants to keep reader all to themselves smut if you do that would be fab but if not that’s okie too!! ~🫐

Thank you for your request and kind words 😊 I hope you enjoy the fic and that it's to your liking. I wrote more than I was planning but actress!reader inspired me.

The Actress

Pairing: Emperor Caracalla/Actress!reader

Summary: Caracalla becomes enthralled by an actress one night and soon becomes completely obsessed with her.

Dividers By: cafekitsune

Author's Note: I refer to actress!reader as a mime actress but "mime" does not mean the modern day mime who wears white face paint and is silent. Mime actors and actresses in ancient Rome were entertainers who did comedy, satirical, or even erotic performances. From what I briefly read, mime actresses were some of the few women allowed to publicly perform and they performed without masks unlike most theater actors. It was a scandalous profession, often equated with sex workers, but they could gain a lot of fame from their work. Empress Theodora was once a popular mime actress before she was empress.

The grand halls of the imperial palace were alive with the sounds of music, laughter, and the clinking of goblets. All in attendance were lively and enjoying the night. All except for Caracalla. Geta could feel his brother's restless agitation beside him. Caracalla had been in one of his darker moods, his hair was unkempt from refusing to allow the servants near him, his toga was disheveled from the tussle him and Geta had when Geta attempted to get his brother presentable. Caracalla had not wanted to be there that night. Geta had hoped his brother’s foul mood would be improved by the pleasant evening of revelry, but it seems to only be worsening it. With a sigh, Geta had a servant refill his goblet and he observed his brother. Geta often found himself playing caretaker to Caracalla, whose moods could disrupt everything. Geta never liked his brother being unhappy and he was determined to change his sour mood.

"Bring in the actors," Geta commanded, waving a jeweled hand.

The troupe of actors and actresses quickly stepped before the emperors and bowed. Their costumes were vibrant, their smiles wide and infectious. Yet Caracalla's face remained a mask of irritation, unmoved by them and their antics. But then the mime actress, with her expressive eyes and exaggerated gestures, and her beauty illuminated by the glow of the oil lamps stepped forward. Her voice was melodious as she spoke, delivering lines with such charm and wit that even the spectators who were distracted by aspects of the festivities had leaned forward with interest. She captivated the audience with her presence. She said a jest, a line mocking a pompous senator that everyone secretly despised and gossiped about. And then something remarkable happened.

Caracalla laughed.

It wasn’t a sarcastic, malicious laugh, nor was it a scornful snicker. It was genuine. It was carefree. It was innocent. Geta was immediately intrigued by her effect on his twin. Caracalla was enthralled, his eyes fixed on the actress as if she were the only person in the room. She had done what no one else had been able to accomplish that night or most nights, she lifted his foul mood. No one had managed to make Caracalla laugh like that in a long while and it gave Geta an idea.

After the performance, as the troupe of actors and actresses bowed and the audience erupted in applause, Geta raised his hand and beckoned the mime actress forward. With a curious gleam in her eye, she approached the imperial box. Caracalla watched her excitedly, his eyes bright with newfound interest. Geta leaned forward and asked, “What’s your name, actress?”

She gave her name in a soft and respectful manner, bowing her head gracefully.

“You will stay here in the palace tonight. My brother finds you amusing, and I wish for you to remain and continue to make him laugh,” Geta informed her.

A flicker of surprise passed over her face, but she quickly adapted. “Of course, Caesar,” she said smoothly, her cheery nature shining through. “It would be an honor.” There was no true choice of course. To refuse an emperor was to invite ruin.

Caracalla’s volatile eyes lit up, very pleased by his brother’s proposition. “Yes! You’ll stay here,” he echoed exuberantly. “You’ll stay with me.”

From that moment forward, the actress’s life changed drastically. The acting troupe she had once called family faded away as she found herself the companion of an unpredictable emperor. While others might have rightfully felt caged after being forced into such a situation, she simply went with the flow. Her time on the streets and on stage had gifted her with invaluable adaptability and resilience. She was blessed with the kind of wisdom that comes only from having to survive on her wits alone for so long. Life was a performance after all, and she was an expert at surviving any role thrusted upon her.

Her time as a traveling actress had taught her to read people quickly. She prided herself on her ability to sense danger or opportunity in a mere glance. With Caracalla, these skills became crucial. She learned quickly how to navigate Caracalla’s tempestuous moods. When he was agitated, she knew whether to soothe him or stay quiet. When he sulked, she held him close, whispering soft reassurances, and stroking his hair as if he were a fragile boy rather than the most feared man in Rome. In moments of volatile rage, she knew it was best to step back, leaving him to tire himself out. Yet her greatest tool of all was her charm. No matter how deep Caracalla spiraled into paranoia or rage, he could never resist her when she turned playful. One kiss, one embrace, one timely seduction, and his dark thoughts would vanish into thin air. His volatile temper would melt beneath her touch, and his anger would turn into boyish giggles. It was surprisingly easy to draw Caracalla under the influence of lust. He hungered for affection, craving a closeness he’d never experienced, and she was quite generous with her attention for her emperor.

Caracalla quickly became obsessed with her.

At first, he simply wanted her near. She was to dine with him, to amuse him, to accompany him in the evenings when his mind became clouded. She spoke to him with kindness, soothed him when frustration overtook him, when he was playful she laughed at his jokes even when they made no sense, and indulged his whims with the patience of a mother tending to a difficult child. Caracalla in turn clung to her like he often does with Dondus, refusing to let her out of his sight for too long.

Caracalla would dress his monkey Dondus in tiny outfits, and she would sit beside them, smiling indulgently at the sight. Caracalla laughed at his own games, turning to her, desperate for approval like a child wanting a mother's praise. “Look! I got Dondus a new dress!” he’d say, beaming.

She would laugh sweetly, clapping her hands. “How distinguished he is!”

Caracalla adored her praise, craving her attention. She became his favorite source of comfort. Often, in the twilight hours, Caracalla would grow restless. His moods turning dark, a product of the illness that plagued his troubled mind. He would pace the room, muttering about imaginary plots, threats, and betrayals.

“Geta is against me,” he whispered one night, eyes wild. “Everyone is against me.”

“My emperor,” she said sweetly, lifting her eyes to meet his. “Do not dwell on such dark thoughts.” She approached gently, her touch gentle on his shoulder. “I’m here,” she said soothingly. “And I’ll shield you from them all.” She had learned it didn’t do much good to try and talk sense to him in these moments. If she denied his claims about Geta then he would just rage at her and accuse her of favoring his brother like everyone else does. She knew these thoughts would naturally fade on their own. But she also knew to carefully choose her words because they held the power to heal or destroy.

Caracalla’s tense body relaxed under her touch. He leaned into her embrace, eyes growing soft, vulnerable. “Promise?”

“I promise,” she whispered, gently running her fingers through his red hair as he buried his face against her. “I’ll always be here for you.”

She knew exactly how to calm his fears, to make him feel safe. She’d hold him until his fears subsided, or distract him with whispered words, soft laughter, and kisses that left him breathless, his troubled thoughts wiped clean.

Geta was initially wary of her influence over his brother, but he eventually found himself grateful for her presence. The arrangement made his life easier and lifted a weight off his shoulders and that was enough for him. Geta recognized the power she held over his brother and began to rely on her to keep Caracalla tamed. “Keep him content,” he instructed her privately. “Keep him calm.”

She understood her role and embraced it. After all, things could be worse than being the favored companion of an emperor. She had influence, luxury, and a kind of power she had never dreamed possible for herself. Caracalla frequently gifted her all kinds of extravagant things. She had silk stolas in nearly every color. She had lavish jewels. She held political sway by being a whisper in his ear. And if she had to deal with some erratic moods of his in return then so be it. She thought it was better to be under the protection of an unstable emperor who cherished her than to be accosted by random men like before when she was a simple mime actress with no one to defend her. To the palace staff, senators, and other nobles, she was no longer just a lowly woman in a scandalous profession who warmed the emperor’s bed. She was now a force to be reckoned with, the woman who had the affections of the mercurial emperor.

She became more than just a source of entertainment. She became Caracalla’s heart, his anchor to reality. She could be a mother, a lover, a confidante, or simply the pretty distraction that eased his pain. And in return, Caracalla became obsessed with her, refusing to let her leave his side. Her world became a gilded cage, but she learned to live comfortably as the lovely bird within it.

On one particularly bad night, Caracalla's rage became too much even for her to simply soothe with words. He threw things, smashing vases, wine goblets, everything in his path was being destroyed. His shouts echoing through the palace halls. But she approached when she sensed his anger was cooling down, her arms slipping around his tense form. She pressed soft kisses to his jaw, his neck, his trembling hands.

“Come to bed,” she whispered enticingly, her voice honey sweet. “Let me help you forget it all.”

Caracalla shivered under her touch, his anger silenced by desire. He cupped her face roughly, crashing his lips against hers. And just like that, the world around him ceased to exist. There was only her. Only the taste of her lips, the scent of her skin, and the promise in her eyes.

She had long learned that lust was the quickest way to control him. It was almost effortless the way she could fill his mind with longing. And as Caracalla’s thoughts clouded over, drowned by his desire, he whispered, vulnerable, “You’ll stay with me forever?”

She smiled softly against his lips. “Always.”

And she meant it. There were worse things, after all, than being the possession of an emperor.

I have no idea if I would ever write a part 2 but I do have some ideas for it 🤔 I was reading about Claudia Acte who was the concubine of Emperor Nero and who may or may not have been a mime actress at one point (I only saw it mentioned on one website) but Nero at one point desired to marry her but she came from a lowly background. So Nero had a whole fake genealogy made up for her linking her to royalty and even bribed ex-consuls to be ready to swear to her royal bloodline but this angered his mother and she prevented the whole thing lol. But that just feels like something Caracalla would do with actress!reader and something that Geta would be forced to arrange because he would want to see his brother happy. So if I did write a sequel it would probably be something like that.

Do you guys remember that House of Gucci movie Lady Gaga was in? Well I was reminded of Patrizia Gucci saying "it's better to cry in a Rolls Royce than to be happy on a bicycle" and that's kinda the mindset I was going for with actress!reader. She's been torn away from her acting profession that she enjoyed, and she should be upset about it, especially since she's the object of obsession for an unhinged emperor and has been forced to essentially be his caretaker so Geta can get a break, but hey now she's got all this access to wealth and she has major influence over one of the most important men in the empire so what does it matter if she's often in the path of Caracalla's destruction? When life with Caracalla occasionally gets too rough, she'll just wipe her tears with a silk palla and then get another expensive one made after her tears stain it lol. Her life experiences have made her opportunistic but she does also truly care about Caracalla and does actually love him.

[causeimhappinesss]

Rome's Devotion (part 3)

Warnings: Emperors Geta & Caracalla are warnings themselves, (slight?) blasphemy, non-con/dub-con, misogyny (Ancient Rome, so…)

Pairing: Geta x Christian!reader x Caracalla

Words: 5k

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language (I’m french), so you can correct me if you spot some mistakes :)

Masterlist

-

Claudia’s hand shakes my shoulder, her touch insistent. Her breath, warm against my ear, carries a hint of urgency.

“Get up.”

I burrow deeper under the coarse woolen blanket, turning my face toward the cool, unyielding wall. My limbs feel leaden, as if the weight of my dread has seeped into my very bones, anchoring me to the straw-stuffed mattress… It anchored me to the arch reality.  

“I’m sick.” I murmur, the words barely more than a whisper, lacking conviction. Thankfully, my morning voice could save me. At least, I hope it will. Around us, the other girls stir, their movements sluggish as they emerge from the grasp of sleep. The air is thick with the mingling scents of candles perfume, sweat, and the lingering traces of last night’s lamp oil.

Claudia crosses her arms over her chest, her brow furrowing. There’s no doubt: she doesn’t believe one single world leaving my mouth.

“You can’t avoid the emperors forever.”

A shiver courses through me when she mentions them, a visceral reaction I can’t suppress. The mere thought of facing their piercing gazes, their veiled threats, accepting their hands on my body, sends a wave of nausea rolling through my stomach. The dark brunette sighs, the sound heavy with empathy and frustration. Lowering herself onto the edge of the bed, the wooden frame creaking beneath her weight, she speaks softly:

“Listen... If you really don’t want to go today, take my place. Lucius and Fabia are heading to the Macellum (market). You’re a free woman, the Magister Domus will likely agree.”

The Magister Domus, the overseer of the household, holds dominion over the servants, female or male, with an iron fist, his authority rivaling that of a centurion over his legion. His hair are only made of silver strings, emphasizing his sharps features and the lines carved on his face. He ensures that every task is completed with precision, that discipline is maintained, and that the intricate machinery of the household runs smoothly. However, hope flickers within me, tentative and fragile, just like a flame needing more oil to burn. I sit up, the sudden movement causing a slight dizziness.

“Really?”

Claudia nods, her expression softening. I grasp her hand, squeezing it tightly, seeking reassurance

“Thank you, Claudia.”

She shakes her head, a rueful smile playing on her lips, before pulling me into a brief, firm embrace.

“Don’t think this will last. If they summon you, you’ll have to obey.”

I nod, swallowing the lump that has formed in my throat, words eluding me.

We move through our morning rituals with haste. The water from the basin bites at my skin, each splash a jolt to my senses, washing away the remnants of sleep. The simple breakfast of coarse bread and figs feels like a feast today, each bite a small comfort, knowing I won’t have to face the emperors’ oppressive presence.

Together, we approach the Magister Domus’ quarters. He stands amidst a sea of servants, giving them orders, his sharp eyes missing nothing. The room is filled with the scent of freshly laundered fabric and the faint, underlying aroma of the herbs used to deter moths.

His gaze lifts as we enter, a flicker of irritation crossing his features even before we speak.

Claudia steps forward, her voice steady.

“Magister Domus, I don’t feel well this morning. Y/N volunteers to take my place to walk to the Macellum.”

The silence that follows is thick, stretching uncomfortably, as the Magister Domus’ eyes bore into us, weighing the truth of Claudia’s words.

Finally, he clicks his tongue, a sharp, disapproving sound. “You’re all lazy. It’s irritating!”

He scrutiny shifts to me, his eyes narrowing, as if he’s searching for any sign of deceit, any reason to deny the request. The tension is palpable, my heart pounding in my chest like a war drum.

Then, with a sigh, he shakes his head, clearly annoyed. Usually, he’s the one giving orders, when the emperors don’t, but his lack of time play in my favor.

“Fine. But tomorrow, I don’t want to hear lame excuses. Now, go to work!”

Relief floods through me, so profound that I feel lightheaded. A breath I hadn’t realized I was holding escapes my lips.

Today, I am free.

*

The sun beats down on the city, turning the air thick and stifling. Heat shimmers off the stone streets as I follow Lucius and Fabia through the crowd, weaving between merchants and slaves carrying baskets overflowing with figs, olives, and amphorae of wine. The scent of fresh bread mingles with the sharper tang of vinegar and the sweet decay of overripe fruit. For the first time in days, my chest feels light. The oppressive walls of the palace no longer press in on me. Here, among the voices bartering and laughing, among the scents of the earth and the sea, I breathe freely.

I miss my old life, that’s for sure, but after my brother and mother died, I lost everything. I was evicted from the place I was living in and had lost my job some time before. This led me to Rome, in the hope of finding work, first as a servant to Senator Gracchus before I was introduced to the Magister Domus of Palatine Hill, where I was promised a more suitable salary… The money I’m saving. The food and shelter I was also given weren’t inconsiderable, it was way better than working in a brothel. I couldn’t have been a lady of the night.

Lucius hands a small wax tablet to a butcher, listing the cuts of meat for the palace kitchens. Fabia haggles over the price of onions, clicking her tongue in disapproval at the merchant’s demand. I let my gaze wander.

Then, I see him.

A young man stands near a stall selling amphorae of oil, the golden liquid glistening in the midday light. His profile is sharp, his posture relaxed, yet something about him twists my stomach into knots. My breath catches. My legs stiffen.

My brother.

No. It can’t be.

But the shape of his jaw, the way his dark hair curls at the nape of his neck… It’s the same. My mouth goes dry. My fingers tighten around the edge of my dress. My brother is dead. I know this. I saw him buried. I buried him. Still, my feet move before I can stop them.

The world spins around me, but I cannot tear my eyes from the scene before me. My brother’s body lies in the dirt, an unnatural stillness to his form that pulls at my soul, rips it apart. His face, once full of warmth and life, is now pale and lifeless. His eyes, wide open but seeing nothing, stare at the sky, so empty… Empty for the eternity. The soldiers stand around him, their boots sinking into the mud, their weapons dripping with the blood of my family.

I can’t breathe.

My chest tightens, suffocating under the weight of what has just happened. I want to scream, to shout at the heavens, at the gods, at the soldiers, at the crowd that has already begun to scatter as if nothing had happened. But the scream catches in my throat, and all that escapes is a strangled sob.

“Y/N.”

Rufina’s voice breaks through the haze of my grief. My friend’s hands are on my shoulders, her grip tight, urgent, pulling me away. But I can’t… I can’t leave him. He’s my brother. My blood. My heart.

I want to scream his name, Valerius, but no sound comes. The only thing I hear is the pounding of my heart, the rush of blood in my ears, and the sound of the soldiers’ boots retreating from the scene, as though what they’ve done is just another task completed for the day.

Rufina’s breath is hot against my ear as she tugs at me, urging me to move.

“Y/N, we have to go."

I shake my head violently, my legs refusing to cooperate. It’s as if the ground itself is pulling me down, rooting me in place, but Rufina shows to be stronger than my grief. She pulls me back, drags me away, but my feet drag behind. I feel the weight of each step, like moving through water.

But I still can’t look away.

“Y/N, please.” Rufina whispers, her voice strained. “He’s gone. You have to come with me.”

I don’t know how I stand, but I do. My legs wobble, and my breath comes in ragged gasps. Every part of me wants to collapse, to crumble into the dirt beside him, but Rufina won’t let me. She’s forcing me forward, her hand over mine now, pulling me through the crowd, away from the square. The stares of the onlookers follow us, but none of them say a word. I don’t know if they pity me or not. I don’t know if they even care.

“Come, please. You’re safe.” Rufina says, her voice quieter now, but still insistent.

“But he’s not! He’s… He’s…”

Tears spills of my cheeks, they flow like an angry sea, they come in waves, each one burning my skin, rolling down my face, falling to the ground like raindrops in a storm. My throat constricts, and a sound that isn’t quite a sob escapes me. I want to shout at the gods. I want to demand that they give me back my brother. I want to tear the sky open and make the sun answer for what it’s done.

“Why, Rufina? Why?” I gasp, my voice barely a whisper, my words choked with grief. “Why did they…? He… He was just trying to save our mother, he was trying to save her…”

Rufina’s hand squeezes mine tightly and she pulls me forward, away from the square, from that crowd of vultures, not humans… Just scavengers satisfied with death, blood, decaying bodies.

“He was a thief, my dear friend. Those rich Romans won’t care why he did it. It doesn’t matter now.”

But it matters. It matters. My brother, my sweet, older and kind brother, was only trying to help us. He only wanted to get the medicine for our dying mother. The soldiers don’t care about that. They didn’t care about his reason. The first time it happened, he had to pay four times the price of the medicine. This second time, he paid the price of his life.  

“I couldn’t stop them.” I whisper, choking on my tears, the salted taste slipping on my tongue. “I couldn’t save him.”

The woman wraps her arm around my waist, supporting me as I stumble. “You didn’t have the power to stop them. You did what you could. Now you need to come with me. We need to go. NOW!” she insists as some gazes linger on us.

But as we walk, I can’t stop seeing him, his body lying on the ground, the blood still fresh in the dirt. My brother is gone. And I can’t bring him back. I can’t bring him back.

“Rufina…” I murmur, my voice broken. “What will I do now? He was all my mother and I had left.”

Her face softens, but she says nothing. She doesn’t need to. I can feel her sorrow for me in the way her arm tightens around me, in the way she keeps me close, never letting go. Around us, the city keeps living, movies, just as its citizens. People go about their business, oblivious to the tragedy that has just unfolded. So many people meet that kind of fate, that’s nothing new. The market smells of fresh bread and spices, but I can’t smell anything but the metallic blood, the dirt, and the emptiness that fills the space inside of me.

My brother is gone. And nothing will ever be the same.

“I… I need to bury him… I can’t leave him like that…”

“Y/N?”

A hand grabs my shoulder. I jerk back, reality crashing down as Fabia’s concerned face swims into view. Her gray eyes darkens with curiosity and she tilts her head, while Lucius sighs.

“Come on. We still have work to do. I don't intend to be chastised for being ineffective.”

The young man I was admiring turns and leaves the market, while my breath shudders out of me.

Not him. Not even close.

This man is taller, his limbs leaner. His skin is darker, sun-kissed in a way my brother’s never was. His features lack the sharpness I knew so well, his eyes softer, his lips curved into an unfamiliar expression.

I nod and force my feet forward, but my chest aches as if I’ve lost my brother all over again.

Valerius only lives in my memory.

*

The walk back to Palatine Hill feels like a slow, torturous march. The heat from the day still lingers in the air, and the sun begins to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in deep orange and pink shades, as if Minerva, the Goddess of arts was painting in the clouds, at least for other people. To me, it’s just the natural amazing work of art God created, what I imagine in the Garden of Eden. Soon, my mind spins, my thoughts a whirl of dread and exhaustion, while my feet feel like they belong to someone else as they drag across the cobblestones. The great city fades into the background as the towering palace looms ahead, its sheer walls suffocating. The idea of facing the Emperors tonight sends a wave of nausea creeping up my throat, and my chest tightens as if something heavy is pressing down on me.

I try to breathe, to steady myself, but the closer I get to the palace gates, the more my stomach churns. The quiet whispers in the back of my mind grow louder…

Don’t let them see you, don’t let them call on you.

I push those disturbing thoughts away, but they won’t quiet. The idea of being summoned, of having to stand before them in all their power, is unbearable. I can’t do it. Not tonight. Not again and so soon.

I slow my pace, feeling the tension rise with each step. My chest heaves, my body betrays me. The sweat on my brow isn’t just from the heat, it’s cold… The product of deep fear. I clutch at my side, pretending my stomach hurts, trying to make my gait unsteady. I bite my lip, hard, praying that people will notice and believe my next lies.

Oh dear Lord, I know it’s a sin, but you have to understand me… I must avoid them at all cost, for my moral and body integrity.

At some point, when we’re all in our servants quarter, with Claudia, I catch the glance she gives me, somewhat half curious, half concerned.

“Are you alright? You look pale, sickly.” she notes, her voice gentle as always, except when she’s anxious or in a bad mood. She’s always been kind, but even she can’t protect me from everything, especially those perverted Emperors.

“I’m not feeling well.” I whisper, my voice wavering just enough to make it sound convincing. “I’m dizzy. My head… It hurts. I think I’m coming down with something.”

I look up at her, and I can see the hesitation in her eyes. She’s about to say something, but then she sighs, her shoulders sinking.

“Fine. You can rest in your bed tonight, if they send someone for you. The others and I will handle the rest.” she mutters.

Relief washes over me, but it’s tinged with guilt. I hate lying. I hate using people’s kindness like this. Alas, it’s my only way out, I have to take it.

After a quick dinner with a tasteless whine, some bread, vegetables and cheese, I hurry to get in my little bed, in the middle of the others. Here, the soft, musty scent of incense fills the air, and the pale golden lights from the window barely cuts through the heavy curtains. I feel the weight of everything pressing down on me. I collapse onto the bed, the sheets cool against my skin. I bury my face in the pillow, my eyes closed, not even listening to the surrounding conversations, while the other servants, free citizen like me or slaves, fill the room.

And then, just as I start to drift off, I hear it, the soft, steady knock on the door. My heart leaps into my throat, my stomach flipping with panic.

No, please, not me not yet. I beg silently. The sound of footsteps follows, and I freeze. Someone opens the door and a man clears his throat.

“Y/N is summoned to serve the emperors.” the voice calls out softly, but firmly.

I don’t move. I don’t even dare to breathe. I'm pretending to be in a deep sleep, when this man could grab me by the ankles and drag me out. The door creaks more open, I hear some light steps and Claudia’s voice:

 “She’s sick.”

“She’s been in bed all evening. Won’t be able to serve tonight.” adds someone else.

Good people still exist…

A brief silence. I can feel the weight of the Pretorian’s presence through the door, his impatience radiating. But then he sighs, the sound of retreating footsteps following.

“Very well.” he says, and I listen to the faint scrape of the door closing.

My chest heaves with the release of the breath I didn’t know I was holding. It’s done.

I let myself sink deeper into the bed, the blankets enveloping me like a cocoon. My heart is still racing, but now it’s from relief. I can’t believe it. They won’t call for me tonight. I close my eyes and feel the tension in my body start to ease, slowly, painfully.

And then, before I can stop it, the exhaustion hits me like a wave. My limbs feel heavy, and my head, finally free from the terror of the night, grows foggy. I let the warmth of sleep take me, the quiet peace settling around me.

Tomorrow, the Emperors will be there, waiting. Tomorrow, I might be summoned. Tomorrow, I won’t be able to escape. But for tonight, I’m still free.

I wake to a faint touch on my hips, fingers gently brushing over the skin. My heart races. I freeze, eyes still closed. I can’t help but it’s a dream. Unfortunately, the pressure doesn’t fade. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My body tense when the soft whisper of a male voice reaches my ears:

“Are you hiding from us, little lamb?”

I nearly jump out of my skin, my breath catching in my throat. My pulse pounds and my blood buzz in my ears. The room feels too small, too suffocating. I open my eyes, every instinct screaming at me to move, to run, but I lie there, frozen.

It’s him.

Caracalla.

I can hear his soft chuckles, like he’s enjoying my discomfort, like he’s watching me, waiting for me to do something, anything. I dare not move and look up yet. I can’t.

Should I respond? Should I beg for mercy or stay silent? How long will they torment me before they get bored? Before I feel like I’ve lost everything?

Slowly, I raise my head and see the man as he stands there, imposing even if he’s shorter than his brother with his average height. A slight smirk spreads on his face as his azure eyes linger on me. I immediately pull the blanket tighter around my body, grateful I’m still in my night dress, though it feels like no protection at all. I try to act calm, but my voice trembles.

“I-I’m sick. Th-That’s why I’m h-here.” I stutter.

Caracalla doesn’t seem to be listening. He leans closer, eyes scanning me with a strange intensity.

“I know you’re sick, but I must admit I’m highly disappointed.”

Before I can say another word, he reaches out, his finger brushing against my chest, then slowly drawing something on me. I freeze. The Holy Cross. He traces it carefully, and I can hardly breathe, my skin tingling where his finger touches.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, you are healed!” He says softly, mockingly.

He flicks my nose, gently but decisively, and I am left dumbfounded, blinking up at him in confusion. He laughs softly, a quiet giggle that makes my stomach twist with discomfort.

“Is that what filthy Christians say, no?” he asks, his voice laced with amusement.

I try to swallow the lump in my throat, not wanting to anger him, but I barely manage a whisper. “It’s almost that.”

Actually, I don’t dare say more, fear tightening around my chest like a vice. I don’t want to die. I’m still young. I dream of finding the right husband to have children with him. I dream of happiness.

Suddenly, a strange thought crosses my mind then. Do Caracalla and Geta used to sneak into the servants’ room, that women they loved, when they were children? Did they have this same kind of strange power over everyone around them? Was this just how they grew up, twisting the world to their will? I shudder at the thought.

I force my voice to stay steady, not sure what to do.

“Augustus, maybe you should leave now. You’ll get sick too.” My voice is soft, pleading, and I pray he’ll go. I don’t want him here, not with the power he holds, the dangerous curiosity that glints in his eyes.

He looks down at me, completely unfazed. His smile deepens.

“That’s not a problem. I’m tough. I’ve seen war, little lamb. I’ve been through campaigns since I could walk.”

I blink, unsure how to respond. His confidence is overwhelming, and I feel small, insignificant in his presence. What could I possibly say to make him leave? I want to shout, to scream for him to go away, but I know that would make everything worse, such as ending beheaded. Instead, I stay silent, clutching the sheets tighter, trying to gather some strength, but it feels like a futile effort.

Caracalla leans over me, his broad frame blocking the space between us, while his hypnotizing eyes lock onto mine, burning with a mix of power and something else, something darker. His hands move without hesitation, sliding slowly under the covers, fingers grazing my legs. My body stiffens, a jolt of fear running through me. I try to pull away, but there’s nowhere to go, the bed too small, the space too tight. I feel his fingers creeping further, the heat of his touch against my skin sending a shiver through me that has nothing to do with desire. It’s pure terror.

Jesus… Help me…

“No.” I whisper, my voice trembling.

I force myself to speak louder, to stop him before I lose control.

“I’m bleeding.”

His hand freezes, his fingers hovering over my legs as if he’s waiting for some kind of confirmation. I can barely breathe, my pulse thudding in my throat. For a moment, everything is so still that I think I might suffocate under the weight of the silence. Then, he blinks, and a smirk plays at the corner of his lips. His gaze darkens with amusement, as if I’ve said something absurd.

“Blood doesn’t scare me, far from it.” he replies, his voice low and thick, almost amused.

I want to crawl out of my skin, to run, but I stay still, frozen in place by the force of his words. His hands are still there, moving slowly as though testing me, and I can’t breathe. The world feels like it’s shrinking. I slide my hands over his, my fingers trembling as I try to push them away. The motion feels weak, like I’m trying to hold back a flood.

“I don’t like it,” I manage to say, my voice cracking. “It’s dirty.”

The words taste bitter in my mouth, but they’re the only thing I can think of. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks as I try to control the tremor in my hands.

"I’m not worthy… not worthy of soiling you, my Emperor."

The moment I speak those words, something changes in his expression. His smirk falters, his eyes narrowing as he watches me closely. He doesn’t pull away, but something flickers in the air between us, something cold, distant, before his lips curl again, just a little. He doesn’t move his hands, doesn’t push further, but instead he leans in closer. My breath catches in my throat as he tilts his head, his face coming so close to mine that I can feel the warmth of his breath waving on my skin. Then, with slow, deliberate movement, he shifts his lips to my neck. His breath against my skin is almost unbearable. My body tenses. Heat spreads across my skin as if I’ve been set aflame. My heart races.

I feel the heat of his lips on my neck, the faintest touch, just enough to make me feel dizzy. All of a sudden, his tongue slides over my burning skin, traces its way higher, to my jaw. I blush deeply, my skin smoldering, my hands clammy against the sheets. A warmth spreads through my lower abdomen and my breathing quickens in an erratic race, like my heartbeat. He lingers, just a breath away, his nose brushing against my skin as though inhaling the very scent of me. Something in my lower abdomen throbs.  My chest tightens, my throat closing as if I can’t breathe. I feel the weight of his presence, his power, his dominance closing in around me. And I feel small, so small, unworthy of the way he looks at me.  

What’s happening to me…?

I can’t stand it anymore. The shame is suffocating, choking me. I yank my body back, my eyes wide with panic, my pulse pounding in my ears. My hands press against the mattress as if push myself through against the wooden headboard, away from him, from the suffocating heat of his touch.

How could I have let this happen? What did I just let him do?

I want to crawl into a hole and disappear, my face flushed, my chest tight with mortification. Before I can collect myself, the door to the room swings open with a loud crash.

Geta.

He’s standing there, frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide and locked onto us. His face is unreadable, but there’s something in his expression, something sharp, something dangerous. I can’t read it, but I feel the tension rise in the room like a tangible thing, thick and suffocating. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’ve been caught in the act of something unholy, and I want to scream, to explain, but nothing comes out. Caracalla doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t look at Geta, doesn’t break the tension. He only gazes at me, his face unreadable. He doesn’t seem angry. He stays still. Like a predator.

I can’t stop looking at Geta, his eyes fixed on me, and the room feels smaller and smaller as I try to make sense of what just happened, of what I’ve just allowed to happen. His gaze catching mine, sharp and calculating, his lips curving into a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

“Brother, we’re going to be late.” Geta says, his voice carrying a hint of authority.

His deep brown eyes glance over to Caracalla, but then they drop to me, lingering there. My chest tightens, and I suddenly feel exposed, even though my body is covered by the thick woolen blankets. His gaze doesn’t waver, and I feel an uncomfortable heat crawl up my neck. I want to look away, but his eyes stay fixed, like a hawk’s on its prey.

“You have to let her rest,” Geta continues, his voice softer, more persuasive now, but there’s a certain edge to it. “We need her full of energy for tonight.”

His smirk widens, just a touch, and I feel a sick knot twist in my stomach. His gaze doesn’t leave my chest, and the heaviness in the room grows unbearable. It’s as though I can feel the weight of his thoughts pressing against my skin, making me want to shrink back.

Caracalla’s eyes flick toward me for a moment, then back to his brother, his brow furrowing slightly as if in thought.

Geta steps closer to the bed, his expression shifting, all smooth charm again.

“You know we expect you to serve us tonight, sick or not.” The words slide from his lips like poison, casual but cold. They hang in the air between us, biting into the stillness.

I want to speak, to say anything, to tell them I can’t, that I’m not well, but the words don’t come. My throat is tight, the fear of defiance swirling in my stomach.

Caracalla doesn’t say anything, just turns toward the door. Geta follows, but not before casting one last glance at me. His eyes trail slowly down, and I feel his gaze again, like fingers running over my skin, until the door finally swings shut behind them. The second the sound of their footsteps fades away, the silence envelops me, and my breath comes in quick, shallow gasps. My chest feels tight, my heart pounding, and I can barely catch my breath.

I punch the pillow, the soft fabric offering no relief to the rage building inside me. It’s a weak, futile gesture, but I don’t know what else to do. The tears well up before I can stop them. I swallow hard, fighting them back. I want to scream, but I don’t. Instead, I bury my face into the pillow, pressing my hands against the fabric, trying to drown out everything.

The suffocating weight of their words presses against my chest. Sick or not. Serve them tonight.

I don’t know how much longer I can bear this.

What will they do with me to me?

Could I escape them?

Gradually, an idea dawns on me.

- - -

Author notes:

I see people saying Caracalla he’s short, but technically for Ancient Rome, if we keep Fred Hechinger’s height, Caracalla is average while Geta is really tall 😊

Anyway, interesting things will happen in the next part… What do you think our ginger freaks are up to?

So, in this part, I wanted to expand a little on the servant's life and reader's past. I'm trying to be evasive, but some things are important to give consistency to a story.

I will try to write the next part quickly, but it's taking me some time. I make my living as a French novelist, so writing is already my main focus during the day, which leads me to write this fanfiction at night, when my brain is already tired haha. So, please, be a little patient, I'm not abandoning you for the sequel. Keep on supporting me, it's really motivating! And thank you sooooo much for the comments and reblogs, you're all so lovely ❤️

The beheaded thing? Sorry, I had to mention that possibility for you know why + it’s my French brain that stayed in French mode for History lol

My AO3: BetrayedWriter

⚔️ Taglist: @duckyhowls (@babey-fruit-bat, @punk-in-docs, @t6gse370, @angelcloudxxsblog and @miragens-para-uma-vitoria, tell me here or in DM if you want to be added for part 4)