#ancient rome

[softpascalito]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter I

! This Fic contains major spoilers for Gladiator II ! Proceed with caution !

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x F!Vestal!Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 1.8k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, More tags to be added (!)

AO3 // Masterlist

notes: ! last major spoiler warning for gladiator II below the cut !

guys, where do we even start. i can't live with his end so i am rewriting it. enjoy <3

vestal (vigins) - priestesses of vesta, virgin goddess of Rome's sacred flame (details will be explained later in the story) dulcissima - sweetest (fond nickname) domus - a roman house posticum - a servant's entrance cubiculas - roman bedrooms

You didn't think it would lead to this.

A beloved General, a just man, kneeling in front of his opponent in the sand that covers the arena floor, the cloud of its dust settling onto the two men facing each other. The particles glisten in the scorching heat of the relentless sun above you, just as violent as the battle you have just witnessed.

It is not something you have ever truly enjoyed, hearing the last gasp of a dying man, seeing the moment a blade enters his stomach. Watching the winner shout with glee. Watching the dead body be dragged away.

But sitting in the specifically reserved area near the Emperors is good custom. Custom keeps one alive.

Custom is also hard to uphold when the man your heart is set on is fighting to keep his life mere feet below you.

You see Acacius’s lips move, see the pleading look in his eyes.

And then a soft thud echoes through the Colosseum as Lucius drops his sword and falls to his knees across from the General.

You wipe your hands furiously on your white gown, trying to keep your hands from sweating as your heart pumps wildly in your chest. You wonder what would happen to it if the sword would've found Acacius’s torso instead. Or his neck. Maybe it would've just given out, unwilling to beat any longer if his was not doing the same.

“No! Kill him! Soldiers!” The Emperor's cries reach you even through the uproar of the crowd, which is unwilling to accept any match that doesn't end with death. Rome always wants death.

“Archers!” He yells and you hold your breath as they draw their bows in unison, tips pointed right into the middle of the arena where the two men are still kneeling.

“Move,” you whisper under your breath, almost as if you believe Acacius can hear you. But he doesn't. He stays on his knees, upright, seemingly waiting for the arrows to hit. An archer to your left releases his arrow with a slight tremor in his arm–and misses by inches. It hits the sand behind Lucius instead, a small cloud of dust rising around it. But your eyes are drawn to the gentle movement of the General as he raises his arm.

“Hold.”

He doesn't have to scream the command. But his deep voice still travels throughout the Colosseum with urgency. The voice of a man who knows how to instruct his soldiers, how to make himself heard even on the battlefield, in the face of death. Even if it's his own that is imminent.

His reminder rings out in your head.

“How many of them will be loyal to you?” – “All of them.”

The archers hold their fire, no arrows following the first one. You turn your head to catch a glimpse of the twin Emperors, both practically jumping up and down with fury as they yell at the archers, at the guards, at anyone who will listen. “We'll have his head! We'll have the General's head for this! How dare he defy us–”

The bows are lowered as soldiers march into the arena, roughly placing cuffs around both men's hands. Acacius doesn't try to intervene with their orders this time, slowly rising to his feet and letting them lead him back towards the gate, though you don't miss the small stagger in his step. It makes a wave of worry wash over you.

“We’ll have your head, General! You will not live to see another battle! You will not even live to see another sunrise!”

Your blood runs cold at that and you stand up abruptly, your head bowed as your feet carry you back into the outer corridor of the Colosseum, a light breeze greeting you as the angry yells and curses from inside the arena grow more quiet.

You have given everything for Rome. Your vows, your service. You will not give him.

***

The moon is hiding away behind a large cloud when you slip out of the house and onto Via Nova, the sounds of cicadas and the occasional bark of a dog filling the night. Having fulfilled your duties for the evening and claimed that the scene at the Colosseum gave you a dull headache, you retired early. When the sounds of the other women in the house died down, you took your chance.

It isn't far to the domus Acacius and Lucilla reside in, your own quarters located just below Palatine Hill. On a clear day, you can see the stone walls of his house from the garden you use to grow herbs.

After about fifty feet, you turn, following down a more narrow path that allows you to travel in the shadows. A few minutes later, it leads you to the posticum of the noble home, an entrance off to the side, used mainly by the servants–or visitors unwilling to be seen. Acacius has taken to keeping it unlocked whenever he knows you are coming. You pray that it still is.

A light push against the wooden door is all it needs to swing open with a small creak, making you hold your breath as you place one careful foot in front of the other. The last thing you need is to alert any guards to your nightly visit.

But you’ve learned how to walk in the shadows and which streets to avoid. You know that the second step from the bottom creaks if you put too much weight on it. It feels like the stone walls of his house are silent witnesses to the amount of time you have spent tip-toeing to his quarters after everyone else has retired for the night.

You distantly wonder if they have allowed him the comfort of his own bed as you enter the atrium, already turning right towards the cubiculas–and pause when your gaze flickers around the open space.

Acacius is hunched over on a chair, a thick metal cuff sneaking around his ankle, the chain fastened securely around one of the columns that line each side of the open room. Your breath catches in your throat as you notice that he is wearing nothing but his red tunic, the gold details on the edges already worn and fading. He shivers in the cold night air, his arms wrapped protectively around himself. He looks so different from how he did in the arena just mere hours earlier. Smaller, somehow.

When you step forward, his head turns, eyes widening as you step into the dim light and recognition flickers over his face. “Dulcissima.”

You try to give him a smile but you're sure it fails miserably. Instead, you lessen the distance between you, passing the fountain in the center. “Acacius–”

“By the gods, what are you doing here?” He whispers, his soft brown eyes looking up at you. He sounds scared, his voice quiet but rough. Up close, you find that not only have they left him chained up in his own atrium but they have also not tended to his wounds. Caked blood and dirt decorate his skin, a part of his hair matted down with something that you hope is the latter.

You ignore his question. “They sentenced you to death.” No matter how hard you try, you can't keep your voice from shaking.

“They sentenced me to death the moment they learned about the plot,” Acacius mumbles quietly. “You know this. It was always going to end this way.”

“Where is Lucilla?” You ask quietly, casting a quick glance around yourself, almost expecting her to step forward from behind one of the columns. Even if you know you have nothing to fear from her. In fact, she may be the only person who understands what you are currently feeling.

“She is with two of the men. On their way to Lucius,” he admits, turning his body a bit more into your direction, which immediately forces a small grunt out of him. You suck in a sharp breath, though you're not sure whether it's in response to his injury or to what you just learned.

“He may already be dead.”

Acacius glances up at you with a look you can't quite place. Then he nods. “He may be.” He shakes his head ever so slightly. “But he has friends in the Colosseum. You forget whose son he is.” The General pauses again, his eyes searching your face as his whisper becomes more urgent. “Why are you here?”

A small sigh escapes you as you take two more steps towards Acacius. “Because you forgot who I am.”

It takes a few moments before recognition flickers in his eyes–and he understands. That as a Vestal, you may pardon with a touch of your hand. Even slaves. Even those sentenced to death.

He has seen you do it, once or twice. When prisoners called out to you as you passed by them with the jug of holy water. Begged you to place your palm on their head, to allow them to live. And they did. But this? This is different.

“No.”

“Marcus,” you say softly. “It’s the power they have given me, the role they have cursed me with. I may as well use it for good.”

“Dulcissima, they will know,” he protests, wincing slightly as he shifts his weight onto his legs and stands up. “They will know about us. They do not even need proof to put you on trial.”

“I do not care if they put me on trial,” you blurt out, taking a step forward just as he takes two back.

“Do not lay your hand on me,” he warns, raising his hand not unlike the way he did in the Colosseum earlier.

“Marcus. Please.” You’re begging more than asking. You don't think you could take it. A Rome without him.

His back hits the marble column and he curses under his breath just as you reach him. The chains meant to keep him from escaping turn into chains that make sure you can save him. Even if he does not want saving.

The tremor that has been a constant in your hands since seeing Acacius fall to his knees in the arena has disappeared, your fingers stretching slightly as you stand on tiptoes to reach for his head.

Soft, dark curls greet the tips of your fingers and you sigh in relief, mumbling a prayer as your hand comes to rest on his head like a crown. A shuddering breath leaves him, his eyes cast downward. Tension bleeds from his body, his shoulders sagging. A softness his soldiers never get to see.

It is a reminder of the nights you’ve spent together, always hidden and always too short. With whispered promises and silent prayers to Vesta to forgive you for loving him. You do not know how not to. And you don't ever want to find out.

But the way you bend upward, lips meeting his forehead–it simply comes more naturally than it should.

notes: thank you for reading! feel free to follow me on here or twitter/ao3 for updates on the next chapters! also, i would love to hear yalls thoughts so feel very free to leave a comment <3

! when commenting or reblogging, please make sure to hide spoilers from others !

[reawakened-revenant]

I used to really dislike the Apollo and Daphne myth - partially from sheer overexposure, partially because my main takeaway was “wow Cupid, WTF, how is that an appropriate punishment for being insulted?” - but I’ve come to appreciate it from the meta perspective of it being Ovid’s way to give Augustus the middle finger.

Augustus exiled Ovid for unclear reasons - possibly including criticising some of his marriage reforms and/or sleeping with one of his daughters (also exiled around the same time…).

Apollo was Augustus’ patron god.

My take on the intended meaning? “Hey Augustus, here’s your patron god getting screwed over - literally and metaphorically - by the god of lust! F*** you and your reforms!”

Medea: *gets hits with a love arrow and forced to fall in love with Jason, resulting in the murder of three family members and two other people*

People: She couldn't help it!!! Eros/Hera made her fall in love :(

Apollo: *gets hit with a love arrow and forced to fall in love with Daphne, resulting in her death*

People: omg TYPICAL god🙄 what can you expect from a MAN🤢 he's just as bad as Zeus!!!😠

Me:

😒

[memories-of-ancients]

Roman silver bowl with portrait of baby Hercules strangling a snake, uncovered near Hildesheim, Germany, 1st century AD

from The State Museums of Berlin

[getascupbearer]

who is she?/ a misty memory

synopsis: geta returns from war to find a stranger wearing his daughter's skin. (3.09k) contents: mentions of war, underage marriage, fighting, angst, family feels, grabbing, lots of crying a/n: i love feedback!! never feel afraid to slip into my inbox!! i hope you enjoy this:))

my masterlist!!

war had ravaged the eastern border of rome.

he had seen men at their worst, at their most depraved, clawing and fighting for every last breath as the roman army suffocated their smaller armies until defeat.

the feeling of victory still lingered in his veins as he entered rome, banners flying in the wind as their people lined the roads, cheering yet another conquest.

his people loved and lusted after war, just as selfishly engaged with it as their emperors.

palatine was a glowing beacon home in the dimness of rome's afternoon, the streets lit by torches that lined the roads. their people lined the roads and cheered, appetites warmly sated by war.

as they road through the roads, geta could not help but scan the crowds, eagerly looking for the sight of his child. it was hard to spot any face in the masses of people, all blurring into the background, faces overwhelmed by the flowers and banners.

yet, selfishly, geta only wanted to see his daughter.

eleven months had flown by, the days slipping out of his grasp as they warred with a neighboring country, emerging victorious on the cusp of a year.

it had been the cruelest form of torture, to be taken away from his child in her most vital years, growing and maturing into her role as princess. she was no heir nor did she have a claim to the throne, but, the ground she stood on with rome's people was high enough for the worries of a prince to be pushed onto her.

how had she grown in the months of his departure? had she grown in the months he had been gone? had she flourished underneath the trusting eye of their mother?

had she missed him as much as he missed her? his side had grown cold with the absence of his child; no longer warmed by her constant presence.

an unfathomable amount of blood stained his hands. in his year of absence, he had grown too. he was no longer as slight as he once had been, now muscled and ragged from war, new scars from combat lining his skin.

whilst he had been hardened by war, he dearly prayed that his daughter was still soft and kind, unharmed by the world. yet, all he could do is pray as the chariot raced down the streets. -

when the chariot had stopped at palatine, geta thought he was dreaming.

palatine still stood tall and imposing, held together by caracalla while he went to war, preforming his duties as the eldest son. however, as he stood in front of his brother and mother, his child was nowhere to be seen.

instead, he caught glimpses of the back of her head, still childishly done in plaits that laid behind her shoulders, golden leaves pinned in her hair. her back was turned to him, seemingly engaged in conversation with a younger guard.

from his position on the road, he could see how she had gotten slightly taller, no longer at waist level with caracalla, now standing just below his shoulder.

he could see the glittering jewelry in the sun, a large amount of gold on her arms, rings glinting as she talked. her hair was longer, and a little more tamed than usual, falling in plaits that brushed against her hips, promptly hiding her curls.

somehow, she even seemed more muscular- slighter, as she stood in front of the guard. the childish chub that clung to her arms now gone, replaced by gold bands that decorated her upper arms.

her clothes had seemed to change too. whereas she used to stay firmly covered up underneath his careful eyes, always covered with a shawl that blurred the illusion of a body. yet now, the shawls were gone.

she wore a sheer white stola, embroidered with the faintest of detail, her stola glittering in the sun. underneath it, she wore a sleeveless tunic, a light pink in color that brushed against her ankles, skimming over anklets.

caracalla and his mother were talking to him, muted congratulations falling from their lips as the generals descended from the chariots, cheers of victory spilling out into the night.

yet, nothing compared to the sight of his child, directly facing him. by some cruel fate, his child had changed in ways that made him nervous.

-

there was no childish cheer, nor a cheek splitting grin that pulled at her lips, baring her teeth.

instead, she politely smiles and promptly bows, still standing tall in front of the guard: and geta can barely swallow the fear in his throat.

he had left a child behind but he was coming home to a stranger.

whereas she had been clean faced and toothy when he left, she now donned makeup, an startling mix of lipstick and rouge. around her neck, she wore a torc, adored with pearls that wrapped around her neck, hiding her neck from sight.

now that she faced him, he noted that the jewelry wasn't plain gold. instead, a number of gems littered the items she donned, ranging from garnet to pearls. she seemed to be layered in jewlery. from the torc that wrapped around her neck, to the lunula danging from her neck; to the anklets that were stacked high with the signet rings that flashed his way, to the bands encasing her arms and the large earrings she wore.

she put caracalla to shame as she stood behind him, still politely smiling.

he wanted to move forwards, to grasp his child and hold her tight. he wanted to mull over her changes, to mourn over the time he lost with his precious daughter.

yet, as he goes to move forward, the senators seems to pour out of palatine, filling the courtyard as his child disappears in the mass of people.

-

he sees his child once more during cena.

she's sat on the far side of the table, wedged in the middle of ambassadors and generals, sitting across from his mother.

from his spot at the head of the table, he can spot her red nails, thrumming against the table as the servants rush around.

she will not meet his eyes, firmly stuck in conversation with her grandmother as conversation floats around the room, the clinking of cutlery against plates filling in the gaps of silence.

it is not until she goes to get a drink that he realizes that one of the signet rings, is an engagement ring.

-

geta’s vision narrowed, the room around him fading into a cacophony of muted voices and clinking dishes. the air grew thick with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wines, but all he could taste was the bitter, acrid tang of betrayal.

his daughter, the child he had yearned for amidst the blood and chaos of war, was slipping further from his grasp.

she had become a stranger—adorned in jewels meant for brides while he languished on the battlefield, missing the very moments that made her who she was.

he shot to his feet, the chair scraping harshly against the marble floor, drawing startled glances from the senators and generals alike. murmurs rippled through the crowd as he pressed past the bodies that lingered at the table, carelessly brushing aside a servant who was unfortunate enough to be in his way. his heart thundered in his chest, fueled by an ugly mix of protectiveness and fury.

who had dared to marry his child off whilst he was gone?

“brother!” caracalla’s voice rang out, his brother’s confusion miniscule against the turmoil that had ignited in him. ignoring it, he focused solely on the distant figure of his daughter, laughing lightly—a sound that pierced through him like a dagger.

she barely has time to look his way before his hand is enclosing around her forearms and pulling, yanking her out of her seat.

smartly, she doesn't make a sound as she's tugged away, ignoring the questioning tones of her grandmother and uncle. the celebratory dinner forgotten in his anger.

-

they're barely out of the hall when he whirls around to look at his child, perturbed by the ring. she goes to open her mouth, but he catches her wrist before she can say anything, pulling the ring off of her finger.

without a care, he launches it away, hearing the clinkering of gold down the hall.

“what is happening?” he demanded, his voice low but simmering with intensity. “an engagement without my consent? do you truly think i would happily return home only to find my daughter betrothed to a stranger?”

his child stays quiet, wilting underneath his gaze as she shrinks, avoiding his eyes.

with a huff, he releases her wrist before grabbing her chin, his fingers digging into her cheeks in an unforgivingly. she jerks, no doubt caught off guard by the motion, staring at him.

geta’s heart raced as he held her chin in his grasp, forcing her to meet his gaze. the warmth of their reunion he had dreamt of had turned to ice.

he searched her eyes for the little girl he had left behind, but instead he saw a reflection of uncertainty, the innocence he had cherished seeming to flicker away.

“what has happened to you?” He demanded, his voice barely above a whisper but laden with anger and anguish. “where is the child i left? the girl who clung to my leg as i left for war? i return to find you transformed—dressed as if for a wedding, adorned with jewels that should not be yours to wear!”

finally, his child spoke, tears welling up in her eyes as he stared her down. “father, please…”

“no! you will not dismiss this!” he pressed, anger spilling over into desperation. “tell me the truth. who has arranged this betrothal? who dares to place a ring upon your finger without my knowledge?”

her eyes glimmered with tears, and for a brief moment, he had to remind himself that this was still his daughter, struggling beneath his fierce scrutiny.

he knew she was close to tears as she swallowed, voice drawn tight as she struggled to speak over the lump in her throat. “it was grandmother.”

"your grandmother?” he echoed, shock coursing through him. “she has taken it upon herself to betroth you? what madness is this?”

he stared down at her, seemingly breaking her facade of bravery as she begun to sob, cheeks still squished in his grasp.

as he pulled her closer, a simmering intensity surged in him, fueled by panic and fury. the weight of her sobs clawed at him, igniting something dark and desperate within. the thought of anyone else claiming her—engaging her, marrying her—made his chest tighten with anger. he gritted his teeth, the possessiveness draping over him like a cloak, suffocating yet exhilarating.

“do you even understand what you’ve done?” he demanded, his voice low and gravelly, barely concealing the mess of anger brewing inside. each word was laced with a strange blend of desperation and ferocity. “you allowed yourself to be betrothed to a man you don’t even know?"

" i was scared, father!” she cried again, her voice breaking under the pained weight of his grasp. “grandma said it'd be good for me! that i needed to do it for the empire! i thought if i went along with it, i could—”

"could've what? play happy family with a husband? where have i messed up in raising you, that you would think for even the slightest of moments i'd be okay with you marrying? you're still a child!"

staring at his child, sobbing in his grasp, geta is reminded of the time she had snuck out, sneaking out seemingly miniscule to getting married.

releasing her cheek, he stepped back, watching as her gaze fell to the floor once more, sobs filling the silence of the hall.

"return to our chambers. i will be there in a few minutes, and don't you dare sneak off!"

-

when he arrives at their chambers, he is once again caught off guard.

her makeup has been scrubbed off, jewelry resting on a table, wrapped up in linens. if he stared hard enough, it was as if he never left her, still his giggly, sweet child.

as he stepped into their chambers, the door creaking softly behind him, geta’s heart sank. the warmth of the room contrasted sharply with the chill that had settled in his chest. his daughter sat on the edge of their bed, her posture rigid, the remnants of her earlier composure faded beneath the weight of her distress.

her eyes glistened, cheeks still wet with tears, and the sight struck him harder than any sword in battle. she looked so small, so vulnerable, and in that moment, he couldn’t fathom how he had managed to leave her.

“why did you let this happen?” he asked again, his voice steady but low, the anger replaced by a deep swell of concern.

“i didn’t mean to!” she cried, her voice cracking. “i didn’t know what else to do! you were gone, and i was terrified… i thought…” her breathing hitched, and she struggled to find the words. “i thought you might never come back.”

geta felt like the ground had shifted beneath him as the reality of her confession settled in. “you thought i was dead?” the question fell from his lips like a stone.

“yes!” she wailed, burying her face in her trembling hands. “every day i watched for you, waited by the gates, and when the guards came back, i’d ask them about you, and sometimes they wouldn’t say anything… it made me so afraid, father!” her sobs racked her tiny frame, and the sound of her grief reverberated through him like thunder.

the pain in her voice was a knife to his heart. “i would have fought through every damn battle to get back to you, if i’d known,” he murmured, embarrassment mingling with anger. “didn’t you know i’d return? that i’d always come back for you?”

“but… but what if you didn’t?” she whispered, her voice muffled by her hands. “i couldn’t bear it, father. i didn’t want to be alone! i thought if i went along with the betrothal, it might make things easier… make the pain of you being gone hurt a little less.”

his chest constricted as the weight of her words settled on his shoulders, crushing him beneath the unrelenting pressure of her fear. she ha felt abandoned, adrift in a sea of uncertainty, and in his absence, she had grasped at the only lifeline she thought she could find, even if it meant marrying off.

geta sank to the floor in front of her, the remnants of cold anger evaporating into a warm pool of guilt and regret.

“my child, you’re not alone, you were never meant to carry this burden. i thought of you every day, and it hurt to be away from you like this,” he choked out.

reaching out, he took her hands, gently drawing them away from her face, cradling them in his grasp as he searched her eyes. “you should have trusted that i would come back. i would always come back to you.”

“but what if you hadn’t?” she whispered again, the raw fear shining brightly in her eyes. “i wanted… i wanted to make you proud, and if that meant marrying someone, then i thought that might be it. i thought it might give me a family… give me a family if you never came back"

geta felt the weight of her despair like a chain around his heart. his daughter, caught in the desperate throes of his abandonment, had sought solace in a choice that should never have been hers to make. “you are my daughter,” he whispered fiercely. “you are my heart—and this,” he added, gesturing to the empty room around her, “this is where you belong, my child."

his voice softened as he continued, “when i fought, every blow and every drop of blood was for you and your future. i never wanted you to feel this way. not for a moment, my darling child. i would have rather faced death than have you think you were ever alone.”

her tears continued to fall as she finally met his gaze. “i missed you so much, father. every waking moment i was scared, scared of losing you and scared of being left all alone.”

geta pulled her into his arms, cradling her close against his chest. the familiar scent of her perfume grounded him, the innocence of her childhood weaving its way through the darkness that had threatened to consume them both. she clung to him, sobs wracking her tiny frame as he whispered comforts against her ear.

“you are safe now. you are never alone again. i’m here, i’m home.” he murmured, running a hand over her curls, feeling her go limp in his hold.

-

geta awakes the next morning with his child firmly burrowed in his side. she's still asleep, cheek pressed against his cheek. it's sickly sweet, reminiscent of the days before he left.

the sun is still rising, the littlest slivers of light seeping through the curtains, still overwhelmingly dark.

later, geta will force himself out of bed to return to his position. later, he will see his daughter once more, jewelry left in their room as she seeks him out.

later, he will watch his daughter in the garden as julia domna is dragged off, banished to the seaside for the next few months.

that night he will ponder his daughter once more, curled on the rug of his study, sleeping underneath one of his cloaks.

he will think of ways to keep her in palatine, always underneath his watchful eyes, unable to slip away until his death. he'll pull out the gold ring, hidden in the depths of his desk, never to be put on his daughter again.

he'll think back to the time he arrived and he will recognize the mask his child was wearing; relieved of his arrival, yet stuck by a decision she had not made.

he'll think back to the polite grin and curse himself for not seeing the tears in her eyes, or the way her lips quivered as she stared at him. he'll curse himself for not recognizing the fact that she had been wearing a stola meant for wives sooner, or that the guard behind her hadn't been a guard at all.

but for now, he is content to lie in bed with his child.

[illustratus]

Arminius' Triumphal Procession

[blueiscoool]

LATE ROMAN BRONZE OIL LAMP WITH GRYPHON HANDLE AND STAND 5TH-7TH CENTURY A.D.

[creative-chaos-apparently]

I was given some 3D printed busts. Octavian is a little bit short. He looks like a little gremlin

“Fiddle dee dee! I steal your asparagus in the night!”

[grunge-samurai]

Me, getting ready to go watch Gladiator II tonight and awake once again my life-long hyperfixation with Ancient Rome.

[memories-of-ancients]

Glass flask, Eastern Roman, 3rd century AD

from The Virginia Museum of Fine Arts

[desimonewayland]

Statuette of a Sleeping Cupid

A.D. 50–100

The J. Paul Getty Museum

[wandering-jana]

Tour Magne, a a Gallo-Roman monument from the 3rd century BCE with later reconstructions by the Romans.

Nimes, France

Dec. 2016

[mythologyolympics]

Mythology Olympics tournament round 1

Propaganda!

Ammit was an ancient Egyptian goddess with the forequarters of a lion, the hindquarters of a hippopotamus, and the head of a crocodile—the three largest "man-eating" animals known to ancient Egyptians. In ancient Egyptian religion, Ammit played an important role during the funerary ritual, the Judgment of the Dead. Unlike other gods featured in ancient Egyptian religion, Ammit was not worshipped. Instead, Ammit was feared and believed to be a demon rather than a deity, due to her role as the 'devourer of the dead'. During the New Kingdom, deities and demons were differentiated by having a cult or center of worship. Demons in ancient Egyptian religion had supernatural powers and roles, but were ranked below the gods and did not have a place of worship. In the case of Ammit, she was a guardian demon. A guardian demon was tied to a specific place, such as Duat.

In ancient Roman religion and myth, Janus is the god of beginnings, gates, transitions, time, duality, doorways, passages, frames, and endings. He is usually depicted as having two faces. The month of January is named for Janus (Ianuarius). Janus presided over the beginning and ending of conflict, and hence war and peace. The gates of a building in Rome named after him (not a temple, as it is often called, but an open enclosure with gates at each end) were opened in time of war, and closed to mark the arrival of peace. As a god of transitions, he had functions pertaining to birth and to journeys and exchange, and in his association with Portunus, a similar harbor and gateway god, he was concerned with travelling, trading and shipping.

[domitiaa]

ONE YEAR LATER:

domina’s official press release for vipsania:

 “joelle will play vipsania, who refuses to play the conventional power games expected of roman aristocratic life. she is happily married to fellow outsider, livia’s son tiberius, and is a force for good in his life.”

[salmonella-destroyer-of-worlds]

Actual roman epitaph for a dog