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rxqueenotd · 11 days ago

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damnatio memoriae: PART VI

In the Roman world, damnatio memoriae was used to describe a range of actions taken against former leaders and their reputations. These actions included: defacing visual depictions, removing heads from public statues, chiseling names off inscriptions, and destroying coins.

summary: reader, who goes by 'Prima', was raised by a powerful Roman consul, under the reign of Imperator Septimius Severus. When it comes time for his eldest son, Caracalla, to marry again, a chain of events is set off, changing the course of Prima's life and the lives around her.

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warnings: major character death, crucifixion, rough sex, swearing, mentions of menstruation, ancient Rome as a warning in itself, read previous warnings.

notes: I am posting this at 2:57 AM EST. I had no intention of posting this today or touching this fic, but I have written 6 different variations of this chapter alone and finally weaved them all together the way I liked. This has not been beta'd at all so please forgive any mistakes. I argued with myself about making this chapter smuttier just for my reader's pleasure and what not, but the plot outweighed the horny this time. Once again, this fic is a labor of love and really has pushed me to become a stronger writer. I can tell that my style is changing and evolving, so thanks to everyone who has pushed me to keep going. This has almost been like therapy.

The road to Rome stretched before you like a serpent, winding through the countryside and coiling as the company rode without slowing. The rhythmic pounding of hooves against the packed dirt was the only sound filling the tense silence between you, Caracalla, and Geta. The heat of Caracalla’s body behind you was grounding, his arm wrapped around your waist in a firm grip, as if he sensed you might slip away into your thoughts if he let go.

Geta rode beside you, his posture rigid, his face unreadable. The tension between the brothers was palpable, taut like a bowstring ready to snap. You felt the weight of their unspoken words pressing down on you, suffocating in its heaviness. But you were not thinking of them. Your mind was elsewhere—on what you had left behind in Baiae, on what waited for you in Rome, and on the bitter taste of something you had not yet named.

Surrounding you were the Praetorians, their polished armor gleaming under the midday sun, their silent presence a constant reminder of the power that enclosed you on all sides. Their formation was tight, disciplined, ensuring that no one, whether from ahead or within your own group, could act without consequence.

It wasn’t until the outskirts of Baiae came into view that unease settled deep in your bones. You had not expected such a crowd as you passed through. The streets were unusually dense, the hum of voices growing louder as you entered. A slow dread curled in your stomach as you took in the gathered masses, their eyes fixed on something ahead. The murmurs were thick with cruel delight and hushed horror.

The horse beneath you slowed as Caracalla pulled on the reins, a low chuckle vibrating from his chest. “Ah,” he murmured, amusement lacing his tone, “Baiae always loves a spectacle.”

At first, it was just a shape against the sky, something out of place in the sea of bodies. Then the sun glinted off gold—bracelets, delicate and familiar, still clinging to limp wrists. Dread rooted itself deep in your stomach as realization struck.

There, raised high above the crowd, was a cross. And nailed to it, her body battered, her golden bracelets still glinting in the harsh daylight, was Prosperina.

The world constricted, narrowing to that single point of horror. The delicate curve of her throat now bore the grotesque bruises of strangulation. Her lips were parted in eternal silence. The silk of her stola was torn, stained with blood that had long dried in the heat of the sun.

You barely registered the way Caracalla’s fingers tightened against your waist, or the low murmur of the crowd. The only thing you could hear was the rushing in your ears, the sharp thrum of blood pounding against your temples.

Geta’s voice, quiet yet sharp, cut through the haze. “You look pale, Prima.”

You swallowed hard, your nails digging into your palms to ground yourself. “I did not expect such a… crowd.” Your voice was steadier than you felt, but even that small victory felt hollow.

Caracalla’s lips brushed the shell of your ear, his breath warm and thick with something unreadable. “Fitting, isn’t it?” he murmured. “She should have known better. You do now, don’t you?”

A tremor ran through you, though you masked it well. The weight of his words was heavier than the bodies they strung up for sport. You forced yourself to turn, to meet his gaze with something softer than defiance, though the battle within you raged hotter than ever.

“I do,” you said, voice quiet but firm.

His smirk softened, but he said nothing more.

The horse continued forward, but your mind remained rooted to that cross, to the woman who had, for a brief moment, shown you something outside the prison of power and control.

As the procession moved through the streets, as Baiae faded behind you on the road to Rome, you knew something had shifted, something within you now lost—dead, like the woman left hanging in the sun.

____________________________________________________________________________

The gates of the imperial palace groaned open just before sunrise. The courtyard stood empty, silent, and dark, the usual watchful presence of stewards and servants absent. No warm towels, no priestly incense, no wine. Just shadow and the faint scent of oil burned low in the sconces.

You dismounted without assistance, your hands steady as they gripped the saddle though every movement pulled at the flesh along your spine. The bandage there had begun to stiffen, tugging each time you shifted, a constant reminder of what had happened—what had been taken, and what had been allowed. Your sandals struck the ground with more weight than grace, and you straightened slowly, letting the pain sharpen your focus as you adjusted your cloak around your shoulders.

Caracalla said nothing as he passed beneath the archway ahead, his stride even, his guards flanking him in tight formation. He did not glance back. He hadn’t looked at you since Prosperina. Geta lingered behind the procession, his mount moving at a slower pace, his posture upright but not tense. His eyes moved across the palace walls, the dark windows, the empty balconies, watching, calculating, but not speaking. When his gaze fell on you, it stayed there.

You crossed the threshold last, stepping beneath the arch into the quiet weight of the palace. Once, this place had felt like a stage—alive with light and movement, voices echoing through marble corridors, laughter tucked into every shadow. Now it held the stillness of something recently abandoned. The torches flickered low and uneven, their flames too faint to chase away the gloom. You could smell old smoke, dust, and the faint rot of laurel leaves gone brittle.

Nothing had changed. But something in the air whispered that everything had.

Your footsteps echoed in the silence, a sound too loud in a space that used to absorb it. You felt eyes on you—servants tucked into doorways, guards watching from behind columns, the unseen murmur of slaves pressing themselves into corners, all of them waiting for the measure of what had returned. You said nothing. You met no gaze. You walked slowly, each step purposeful, letting your silence speak for you.

When you reached your chambers, the guards stationed there snapped upright, too quickly, as if your presence had startled them. Neither spoke. One inhaled sharply and didn’t release the breath until you dismissed them with a single word. They bowed—not deeply, not confidently—and stepped back into the shadows, grateful not to be summoned further.

The door closed behind you with a soft thud that felt heavier than it should have, sealing you inside a room untouched since you left it. Everything was as it had been. Your robe hung neatly behind the changing screen. A scroll lay open beside the chaise, its parchment curled at the edges. For a moment, you simply stood there, letting your eyes move across the space, cataloguing the unchanged. A strange stillness settled in your bones, as if you were no longer sure whether this room belonged to you, or if you had returned to it too changed to belong anywhere at all. You didn’t reach for the lamp. You didn’t undress. You only peeled back the poorly wrapped bandage and studied your palm.

The wound had stopped bleeding, but it was far from closed. The gash ran diagonally across the softest part of your hand, shallow but angry, pulsing faintly with each beat of your heart. It had been carved clean, and though you had bound it tightly with linen, the wrap had grown damp with sweat and the faint trace of blood that still seeped through.

You flexed your fingers slowly, testing the skin. The pain was sharp, but not unfamiliar. It wasn’t the first time you had bled for someone else’s power, but this time, you had drawn the blade.

You moved to the chaise, lowering yourself with more care than grace. Each shift in weight pulled at your back. The bandage you’d wrapped there before leaving Baiae had begun to tear away from the wound. You could feel it loosening beneath the fabric of your shift, the blood that had dried into the cloth threatening to pull again with every breath.

You didn’t call for assistance. You hadn’t since you returned. There would be no one to see you undress, no one to lay out clean robes, no one to scrub your fingernails. That, too, had been intentional.

The knock came only once before the door opened.

The healer entered without ceremony, without hesitation. She was older, her skin darkened by years of sun and work, her frame lean and steady. A long scar crossed her jaw, but her hands were clean and bare. She carried a basin of water, steam curling upward, and a folded cloth tucked under one arm. She did not speak. She did not bow.

You said nothing as she crossed the room and set her things beside you. She did not ask where the wound was. She simply moved behind you, lifting the hem of your cloak, then your shift, and found the bandage.

You had done your best with it, but it had slipped out of place during the journey. Her fingers worked quickly, unwinding the fabric, peeling it free from the broken skin beneath. The salve you had used was nearly gone, the cut reopened from the motion of riding. You inhaled through your nose and held still. The cloth pressed against your back, soaked in vinegar and lavender, stung sharply. You didn’t flinch. Her touch was practiced and methodical.

You remained seated for what could have been minutes or hours. Time stretched strangely in the hush that followed. The cloth beneath you had begun to cool, clinging faintly to your skin, when the healer, who had not yet left, cleared her throat softly.

Without waiting for your response, she moved toward the adjoining room, gesturing with a subtle flick of her fingers.

“Come,” she said, not unkindly.

You rose without speaking.

The air in the balneum was warm and heavy, scented with steam and oil. The water in the sunken bath shimmered faintly, moving only by the slow, steady trickle of a fountain built into the far wall. Steam curled from the surface, catching in your throat with the faint sting of rosemary and crushed mint.

The healer moved without commentary, setting down her basin and cloth on a low bench before stepping to the edge of the water. She reached for a slender bottle of warmed oil and poured it slowly into the bath, the surface blooming with a slick sheen.

You untied the sash at your waist and let your shift slip from your shoulders, allowing it to fall to the floor without ceremony. She did not avert her gaze. She had seen bodies broken before—this was simply another kind of ruin.

As you stepped down into the balneum, the warmth enveloped you immediately, rising to your thighs, then to your waist. The ache in your muscles softened, only slightly dulled by the heat. You sank into the water until it covered you up to your chest, your elbows resting on the smooth ledge at either side.

The healer knelt beside the bath, wetting a cloth with the steaming water. She didn’t ask permission. She began with your shoulders, then your neck, dipping the cloth again and again, scrubbing the remnants of dried sweat, blood, and travel from your skin.

When she lifted your arm, her breath caught for only a second.

The bite mark there had darkened overnight. Bruises ran in parallel lines down the inside of your arm—grip marks, unmistakable in shape and intent. She did not ask questions. She dipped the cloth again and moved to your side, where the worst of it lay.

Your skin told the story: across your ribs and hips bloomed the handprints of possession, bruises deep and uneven, the imprint of knees, knuckles, teeth. The lash mark on your back-- a gift from Caracalla’s whip– ran like a line of red ink beneath all of it, angry and swollen, and had barely been held together by the fresh bandage.

She traced a cloth along the curve of your spine, carefully avoiding the wound. Then she tilted your chin gently upward to wash your face, the only moment of softness in the entire exchange.

“Tell me,” she said, not sharply, but with the steadiness of someone accustomed to damage.

You opened your eyes and met hers.

“What would you have me say?”

Her expression didn’t change. She dipped the cloth again and began to clean your hand, the diagonal gash now swollen, the edges faintly pink.

“This one was your doing,” she said quietly, wrapping her hand lightly around your wrist.

You didn’t answer.

Her thumb brushed a smear of dried blood from your palm. The heat from the water brought the sting back to the surface. You held still, letting her work.

Once she finished, she poured a ladle of warm water over your shoulders, letting it run down your back, over your thighs, between your legs. She did not look away. She was not here to pretend. Her fingers found a spot at your side, near your hip bone, where the bruises had layered over each other in a wash of purple and yellow. Her touch paused there.

She didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

When she finished washing you, she retrieved a soft cloth and motioned for you to stand. You did, slowly, water cascading from your skin in thin rivulets. She dried you without comment, beginning with your arms, then your legs, moving around your body like a ritual performed too many times to need instruction.

At last, she said, “There are places they strike where the bruises fade quickly. Yours will not.”

You nodded, the ache behind your eyes sharp and steady, but no tears came.

“I know.”

She took one final look at you—naked, marked, upright—and then turned from the bath, speaking only once more as she reached the door.

“Someone should see what Rome does to its daughters.”

The door shut behind her, and this time you truly were alone.

The warmth from the bath clung to your skin, but it couldn’t reach the cold settling in your chest. You moved slowly to the marble bench, wrapped the drying cloth tightly around your shoulders, and sat. Your eyes flicked to your reflection in the dark water—distorted, distant, but yours.

You weren’t thinking about shame.

You were thinking about how blood keeps score.

And how long it might take for the empire to answer for yours.

____________________________________________________________________________

Rome did not welcome you back. It endured you.

By midday, the palace had resumed its rhythms—or appeared to. Bread was baked. Bronze was polished. Scribes whispered over scrolls. But something vital had gone missing in your absence, and whatever remained behind smelled faintly of rot masked with perfume.

The silence was heavier here. It did not serve as awe but as insulation—thick, padded, suffocating. And those who moved within it did so carefully, as if afraid to wake something sleeping beneath the marble.

Your footsteps echoed where once they would have been muffled by murmuring courtiers. You passed no one in the colonnades, no senators trading favors in shaded alcoves. Even the priests walked lighter than usual, their vestments trailing behind them like funeral cloth.

Word had traveled faster than your horses. You saw it in the way the servants looked away when you passed, in the way the guards stiffened—shoulders too tight, hands a breath too close to their swords. You heard it in fragments from behind curtains and in the dry coughs of those who pretended not to see you.

They didn’t know what had happened in Baiae. But they knew something had.

And more than that, they were watching to see how you’d carry it.

You were dressed in dark linen bound with a thin gold sash at the waist, the fabric carefully chosen to obscure the worst of the bruising along your hips and arms. Cassia had helped you braid your hair back from your face in a style too severe for mourning but far too austere for court. It sent a message. You hadn’t come back soft.

The hall leading to Septimius’s quarters had once been a place steeped in lore and legacy—lined with oil lamps and veiled attendants, always humming with the quiet urgency of those who waited for the voice of a god. Today, it felt like a tomb.

No guards stood outside the door. Only a single servant boy sat on the floor beside the arch, nodding off in the warmth, his tunic wrinkled and damp at the collar. When you approached, he startled upright and scurried away without speaking.

You entered without being summoned.

The air inside was thick with incense and decay. The curtains had been drawn back slightly to allow the afternoon light to filter in, but it did little to soften the room. A copper basin sat unused beside the bed, the cloths inside it already stained. Flies hummed near a bowl of half-eaten dates on a table that had once held treaties and letters from distant provinces.

And there, in the center of it all, lay Septimius.

The emperor. The imperator. The father of Rome.

His body had shrunken beneath the linen blankets, the shape of his frame no longer divine but withered, as if some greedy thing had already begun to feed on him from within. His skin was the color of parchment left too long in the sun. His lips were cracked. A faint wheeze rattled in his throat with each shallow breath.

He did not notice your entrance. Or if he did, he gave no sign.

You stood at the foot of the bed for a long moment, unsure whether to speak. There was no court here. No audience. Just you and the dying breath of a god who had once moved nations with a glance.

Then, without opening his eyes, he spoke.

“I know that walk.”

His voice was paper-thin, barely audible, but it scratched through the stillness.

“I heard it once… in my mother’s house, just before the storm hit Antioch.”

You said nothing.

He turned his face slightly toward the sound of your breath, his eyelids fluttering open just enough to expose the bloodshot blue beneath.

“I thought you were her,” he whispered. “Or the other one. The dead one.”

You stepped closer.

“I’m none of them,” you said.

“No,” he rasped. “You’re what’s left.”

A long pause. Then, with startling clarity, his voice sharpened—not in strength, but in tone.

“They were my balance. And now they tilt the world.”

He blinked slowly, his gaze going glassy again. His hand moved under the blanket, weakly fumbling for something—perhaps for the past, or for a name he couldn’t quite recall.

“One sun rises…” he murmured. “One must fall.”

You stood still, your arms at your sides, the cloth of your robe suddenly too heavy across your shoulders.

“The gods mock me,” he said softly, almost dreamlike. “I made them emperors… and they make war within their own walls.”

His head turned toward the window, the faintest trace of light gilding his temple. For a moment, it was possible to see the man he had once been—the marble-cut silhouette, the fury, the mind. And then it passed.

His eyes found yours again, focused for the first time.

“You… you are my weapon The clever girl they say will outlive us all.”

Then he blinked once more, and the recognition faded.

He drifted back into silence, the breath in his chest shallow, the sound of it barely distinguishable from the rest of the still room. You stood there longer than you meant to, watching the rise and fall of the blanket over his chest, wondering how long it would continue. Wondering who would be the first to stop pretending that Rome was still being ruled at all.

____________________________________________________________________________

You didn’t return to your chambers after leaving Septimius.

Instead, you walked the eastern colonnade, where the light was thinner and the arches opened onto the inner garden. The breeze moved through the cypress leaves in slow spirals, rustling the ivy along the carved stone pillars. It had once been a place for midday gatherings, performances, quiet conversations about music and law. Today, it was empty.

Or so you thought.

You had just rounded the corner, the hem of your stola brushing against cool marble, when you heard voices ahead—quiet, controlled, just beyond the curve of the wall. You slowed.

One voice—measured, low, unmistakable.

Macrinus.

“I do not believe in omens,” he said, his words carrying in the stillness. “But I do believe in patterns. And Rome follows them as surely as blood follows the blade.”

There was a pause, then the quiet rustle of someone shifting their weight.

Geta’s voice followed, cooler, more restrained. “And what pattern do you see now?”

You stepped back into the shadow of an arch, letting the folds of the stone wall swallow your form. The corridor ahead twisted gently, a sculpted bust of Juno obscuring you from view. From where you stood, you could see neither man—but you could hear them clearly.

Macrinus spoke again, his tone almost casual.

“Two emperors. One fading. One fracturing. The court divides itself like a carcass under knives. And the lady? She returns cloaked in silence, and everyone steps back as if she carries fire.”

“She carries something,” Geta replied. “Though I haven’t yet decided what.”

A soft laugh from Macrinus.

“She carries the memory of Baiae. That is enough.”

There was a stretch of quiet between them, broken only by the sound of water trickling in the distance.

“You think her dangerous?” Geta asked.

“I think she is still breathing,” Macrinus said. “And in this palace, that makes her dangerous enough.”

More silence.

Then Macrinus added, “He’s unraveling, you know. Our beloved Augustus. Rome sees it. The senators see it. Even the gods must be tired of watching him clutch the empire like a spoiled child refusing to share.”

Geta didn’t respond.

“You could have it,” Macrinus said softly, not a whisper, but something close. “With the right voices behind you. The right faces at your side. Even the right silences.”

There was a long pause before Geta finally spoke again.

“I’m not in the habit of collecting poison in exchange for power.”

“No,” Macrinus said. “But sometimes, poison is the only thing sharp enough to cut through rot.”

You felt something tighten in your chest—not fear, not quite. Something sharper.

There was movement then—footsteps shifting, the echo of a sandal against stone.

“You’ve said enough,” Geta murmured.

Macrinus replied, “Only because you let me.”

The sound of their footsteps retreated in opposite directions, and the space between them stretched once more into silence.

You waited until you could no longer hear them before you stepped from the shadows.

The garden beyond the colonnade was still, the breeze faint. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, the empire tilted just slightly off its axis, and you, tucked inside its heart, stood still as marble, listening to the silence where power had just passed.

_________________________________________________________________________

You had not summoned him. You hadn’t seen him all day. But the moment the doors slammed open, you knew who it was.

Caracalla stormed into your chambers with the force of a man who had not slept. His cloak was half-undone, one fastening swinging loose at his shoulder. His jaw was tight, his eyes wild, a flush rising under the skin of his neck.

You did not rise. You did not greet him.

He stopped only once the distance between you had disappeared, standing over where you sat, his breath sharp and uneven. His hands were clenched at his sides, his fingers twitching.

“They’ve begun invoking it,” he said, barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loud would make it more real. “The edict.”

You looked up at him slowly.

“The one my father signed,” he continued, voice cracking, “naming me and Geta as co-emperors.”

He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, too short to be real.

“A senator quoted it to me this morning. Quoted it, as if I needed reminding. ‘It is the will of the Imperator that his sons rule together.’ As if his will matters more than mine. As if I’ve already been replaced.”

You didn’t answer. There was nothing in your voice that would have softened this. Nothing in your silence that could have made it worse than it already was.

“They’re not even pretending anymore,” he snapped. “They speak Geta’s name in the baths, in the temples. They look to him in the council chambers. And they look at me like I’m the rabid dog my father failed to leash.”

He began pacing, his sandals scuffing softly against the marble, the weight of him heavy in the silence. He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers trembling slightly.

“And you,” he muttered. “You say nothing. You do nothing. You walk these halls like you don’t belong to me.”

You kept your voice level. “Perhaps because I belong to myself.”

He turned.

He was on you in an instant, crossing the space in three furious strides. His hand gripped your wrist, the one still wrapped, and then released it just as quickly to shove you back into the chaise. The cushions caught you, but it knocked the air from your lungs.

He followed, pressing down, his knee between your thighs, his weight sudden and possessive.

“Have you bled this month?” he demanded.

The words landed with more force than the shove.

“What?”

“Have you bled at all? Since we were married?”

You stared at him. “I don’t know.”

He didn’t believe you.

His hands were already at your waist, pulling at the sash, yanking the fabric aside. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t help him either.

“You don’t know if you’re carrying my heir,” he muttered. “You don’t know.”

He looked down at you, his breath ragged, the fear behind his anger beginning to rise to the surface.

“If you are—if you are—then I win. If you're not…”

He trailed off, hands trembling against your thighs.

“… then there’s nothing left.”

He pushed inside you with the desperation of a drowning man, his pace brutal, rhythm unforgiving. You felt the sting of it immediately—the pain layered over bruises not yet healed, the pressure where your body hadn’t recovered from the last time he’d taken you like this.

“Mine,” he said against your throat, voice harsh, fractured. “You’re mine. They can doubt me, they can whisper about Geta, they can quote edicts like scripture—but you, you will not be theirs.”

You didn’t cry out. You didn’t speak. You lay beneath him like stone.

“One empire,” he spat, hips slamming into yours. “Two heads. That’s what they say now. Like it's a prophecy. Like I’m already dead and he’s already ascended.”

He bit down hard on the curve of your shoulder. You turned your face away.

“Do you know what they'll do if I let them?” he growled. “They'll raise Geta on a dais and drag me behind him in chains. They'll offer him Rome with one hand and hand me the dagger with the other.”

He came with a strangled sound, half growl, half sob, collapsing over you. His weight crushed your ribs. His hand found your face, but you pulled away.

Stillness followed.

His breathing slowed. He didn't speak. You felt the heat of him slowly drain, the tension in his limbs unraveling inch by inch.

When he finally rose, he didn’t look at you. He pulled his cloak over his shoulders, fastened it without care, and walked toward the door.

He paused there, one hand resting on the frame, his back to you.

“I will not be erased,” he said quietly. “Not by the Senate. Not by my brother. And not by you.”

Then he was gone.

You lay still, every part of you aching, your breath shallow, your skin sticky with sweat and something else. You reached between your thighs and felt the wetness there. Not blood. Not yet.

But your stomach turned all the same.

____________________________________________________________________

The Temple of Fortuna stood quiet on the western slope of the Palatine, half-sheltered by cypress and laurel. You hadn’t set foot there since your return—not because you lacked faith, but because you had long since learned that gods, like men, only answered when it suited them.

Today, though, appearance required more than silence.

You brought a guard, just one. He remained at the base of the temple steps, far enough not to hear your thoughts, close enough for others to see. The act was carefully measured. A lone woman making a public offering for her dying Emperor would be theater. A lone woman without a guard would be weakness.

You carried only a small oil lamp and a sprig of laurel, cut fresh that morning from the edge of the garden near Septimius’s quarters—where no one spoke above a whisper now, where the lamps were kept burning long after dawn.

The steps of the temple were warm beneath your sandals, heat rising through the pale stone. The outer columns rose tall and pristine, casting long blades of shadow across the marble floor. At the center of the inner sanctum stood Fortuna herself—unchanged, unmoved, her face carved in calm repose. One hand cradled the horn of plenty. The other held the rudder, steady and silent, as if fate itself were a thing she guided with one finger and no effort at all.

There was no congregation inside. Only a priest, old and silent, who tended the nearest brazier and then faded into the dark.

You crossed the threshold alone, your sandals whispering against the polished floor. The air inside was heavy with resin and something metallic—old offerings, old prayers, old failure.

You knelt—not for spectacle, but for the act of it. Because once, long ago, you had believed in the weight of kneeling. You laid the laurel at her feet, then lit the oil with a deliberate tilt of the wick. The flame caught slowly, a small blue tongue of fire curling upward, flickering but unafraid.

You didn’t pray aloud. You didn’t believe she would hear you differently if you did. But you let the thoughts sit there, between the offering and the heat.

Let him go. Let him go before he witnesses the demise of Rome at the hands of his sons.

You rose carefully. The stone had left its pattern in your knees. The air no longer smelled only of incense. You could feel the sun reaching through the archways again, drawing long shadows across the floor.

It wasn’t until you turned to leave that you heard the footsteps behind you.

You didn’t reach for the guard at the base of the steps. If the gods wanted to test you here, they’d chosen a familiar instrument.

“I thought it might be a soldier,” you said without turning, your voice quiet and dry. “But soldiers don’t move so carefully when they think no one’s watching.”

The sound of the steps paused, then resumed—closer this time. You stepped out onto the marble platform at the top of the steps and turned just as he reached the base.

Macrinus looked exactly as he always did—well-dressed, expressionless, and vaguely unimpressed by anything that had not been crafted by his own hands. He wore a dark cloak pinned with a brooch you recognized as provincial. Subtle. Intentional. A reminder that his power came from places the court forgot to look.

“I didn’t think you were the praying type,” you said.

“I’m not,” he replied easily. “But I know when others are trying to be seen praying. That’s worth observing.”

You tilted your head slightly. “And what did you observe?”

“That your offering was small,” he said. “Which means you still believe in economy, if not mercy.”

He ascended the steps slowly, two at a time, until he stood just below you—close enough to speak without raising his voice.

“There are men,” he continued, “who pray in temples like this asking for favor. For victory. For sons. You come for none of that.”

You didn’t answer.

He smiled faintly, though it did not reach his eyes.

“You’re not here to ask Fortuna for anything. You’re here to remind her that you’re still watching.”

There was no reason to confirm it.

He looked past you, through the arch of columns, toward the altar where your lamp still burned in its dish.

“She’s a strange one, Fortuna. She gives generously and then takes with both hands. But she rewards steadiness. And patience.”

You narrowed your eyes. “If you’ve come to deliver a proverb, you can leave.”

“I’ve come to deliver a reminder,” he said.

“Then do it quickly.”

He looked back at you.

“You’re not sentimental. That’s why I trust you to understand what others will pretend not to see.”

A pause.

“Septimius is dying. Rome is tilting. The Senate is restless, and the gods are quiet. That leaves men like me.”

“And what do men like you want?” you asked, voice calm.

“Survival,” he said. “Preferably the kind that leaves us in power.”

He stepped closer.

“One of them will fall. Your husband, or your brother-in-law. It won’t be both. It never is.”

You remained still.

“Back the right brother,” he said.

“And if I don’t choose?”

His gaze flicked once to the flame behind you, then back to your face.

“Then I imagine I’ll see you here again soon. But the offering will be blood.”

You studied him, searching for something behind the mask of diplomacy.

“Will you be the one to spill it?” you asked.

He tilted his head, almost amused.

“Domina,” he said gently, “I’ve never needed to spill it myself. I only need to know where it will fall.”

Then he gave a slight bow—precise, rehearsed, not quite mocking—and stepped back down the steps.

You watched him walk away, his cloak lifting faintly in the wind as he disappeared along the garden path.

Behind you, the lamp on Fortuna’s altar blew wildly in the breeze but did not go out.

___________________________________________________________________________

The walk back from the temple was longer than the one to it.

The air had thickened with heat, and the garden paths were quiet, too quiet, as if the city itself had drawn a breath and forgotten how to let it go. You took the northern colonnade back to your chambers, avoiding the inner halls where the servants clustered. You didn’t want more eyes today—not curious ones, not sympathetic ones, and certainly not ones that flinched.

Your guard peeled away once you reached the door, and you stepped inside expecting silence.

Instead, you found Geta.

He was seated in the corner of your chamber, half-draped in the long afternoon light spilling from the window. His back was straight, one leg crossed at the knee, hands resting loosely on the arms of the carved chair. He didn’t rise. He didn’t look startled. He had been waiting.

You shut the door behind you and let the stillness stretch.

“I sent no summons,” you said.

“I know,” he replied.

You crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate. You passed the table where Cassia had left a half-filled cup of wine. You didn’t drink from it. You let your fingers rest lightly on its rim.

“How long have you been here?”

“Long enough.”

You turned.

“If you're here to speak of your brother, I suggest you do it quickly.”

He said nothing for a long moment. Then, with that same quiet control he always carried like armor, he answered:

“I’m not here to speak of him. I’m here to speak of you.”

That, more than anything, made you pause.

He rose from the chair, not aggressively, not with ceremony, but with the intention of a man who’d decided the conversation would now happen on equal ground. He stepped closer—not close enough to touch, but enough that you could feel the air between your bodies shift.

“You haven’t changed,” he said.

“Neither have you,” you replied. “Still slipping through shadows pretending they don’t belong to you.”

“You’re wrong,” he said calmly. “They belong to me now more than ever.”

You studied him, the elegant cruelty of his restraint, the way he wore silence like a weapon. It was what separated him from his brother—the refusal to waste blood when silence could do the same work.

“Do you know what they’re saying in the senate halls?” he asked.

“I know what they whisper.”

“They whisper more loudly now.”

You moved past him toward the window, your hand trailing along the edge of the stone sill.

“They’ve started invoking the edict,” he continued. “Quoting my father like he still belongs to this realm.”

“Perhaps because his is the only voice left that isn’t shouting.”

His lips twitched. “Or because it’s the only one that still scares them.”

You turned back to him. “And what scares you, Geta?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

He stepped forward again.

“I saw what he left you with,” he said, quieter now. “In Baiae.”

You held his gaze. “I walked out of Baiae under my own power.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No. But it’s enough.”

The pause that followed was sharp.

“You cannot change him,” Geta said. “But you can help end him.”

You said nothing.

“So that’s why you came,” you murmured. “To recruit me. To turn the ruin of my body into leverage.”

“To offer you what he never could,” he said.

You stepped toward him, closing the space entirely, your voice like silk drawn tight.

“Tell me, Geta… if I am with child, will you have it slain at birth? Or will you simply cut me down before I am able to deliver your brother's heir?”

His face didn’t move, but something in his eyes flickered—cold, calculating.

“No one would need to lay a hand on the child,” he said. “Not if its father dies disgraced.”

You studied him.

“So you’d let it live. Not out of mercy. Out of strategy.”

He didn’t deny it.

“I’d let it live,” he said, “because sometimes a child is more dangerous than a sword. A child is a memory. A mirror. A threat without ever having to lift a hand.”

You gave a soft, almost soundless laugh. “How generous.”

“I’m not generous,” he replied. “I’m smart.”

You moved past him, pouring the wine you hadn’t touched into a basin. When you turned, he was watching you again—this time with something harder to name.

“You’re not afraid,” he said.

“I was. Once.”

“You’re wasted on him.”

You didn’t speak.

He turned toward the door, hand on the frame, and paused.

“You came into my chambers uninvited,” you said.

“I know.”

“To ask for an alliance.”

“To offer one.”

“How would you have me show loyalty?” you asked. “With silence? With blood? With the body that’s already been spent like coin?”

He didn’t turn around.

“With a choice,” he said.

And then he left.

The door closed softly behind him—not with violence, but with finality.

________________________________________________________________________

Sleep would not come.

You had tried, lying still beneath the soft linen canopy with your back to the door, the flickering, but rest remained just out of reach. The silence pressed too tightly, not a comforting hush, but a heavy, listening sort of quiet that settled between your ribs and stretched into the spaces behind your eyes.

You rose without dressing further, tying your robe at the waist and leaving your feet bare on the cold floor. You did not call for Cassia. There was no need. The palace was not asleep; it merely played at sleep. It was a thing that breathed shallowly in the dark, hoping not to be touched.

You moved through the corridor like mist, your steps quiet, your breath even. The sconces had burned low, their flames little more than embers behind their glass. The palace, always grand in daylight, shrank at night—its arches heavier, its halls longer, its grandeur reduced to echo and stone. You passed under painted ceilings you’d stopped noticing months ago, past statues that had once looked majestic and now seemed to watch as you passed. There was no clear purpose to your wandering, and yet your feet carried you with certainty, as though they had chosen a path your conscious mind had not yet accepted.

You passed the west gallery where poets once read aloud from scrolls, their voices full of measured elegance; you passed the old fountain court, where Septimius had once received an envoy from Alexandria beneath a canopy of hanging roses; and then, finally, the cracked mosaic of Minerva—a favorite of his, once, before it had fallen into disrepair. He’d claimed the flaw made it real, that even gods deserved a fault. You remembered that, the way he’d said it like he believed it, like he thought he was being generous.

And then you were there.

The corridor narrowed and quieted, the torches fewer, the air warmer with the scent of fading incense and thick, sour sickness. You moved slowly, your shadow stretching ahead of you in soft, flickering lines. There were no guards. No stewards. No attendants. The doors to the emperor’s private chambers stood half-open, and the silence beyond them was not peaceful, but final.

You stepped lightly, one palm resting against the frame.

The fire inside had burned low. The embers pulsed a dull orange in the hearth, casting thin slats of light across the bed, the drapes, the room that once held more power than the entire Senate combined. Septimius lay beneath the covers, his body diminished, his chest barely rising. His mouth was open, his skin slack and yellowed, his breath so shallow it barely moved the air.

You might have thought he was already dead.

But he was not alone.

Macrinus sat at the edge of the bed, facing the emperor. He was dressed simply—dark tunic, sleeves rolled to the elbows, no insignia to mark his station, no ring, no blade. He looked like a man preparing to smooth out an old account, not a conspirator, not a killer, just... a man with a task.

You stood still.

He leaned forward, adjusting something at the head of the bed—quiet, practiced, not rushing. And then you saw it: his hands closing around the pillow, lifting it gently, and bringing it to rest atop Septimius’s face.

There was no sharp movement, no dramatic shift of weight. Just pressure.

Septimius twitched once, a weak, animal reflex beneath the linen, more instinct than resistance. His hands, thin and spotted, didn’t even lift from the blankets. His feet pushed faintly against the mattress, but Macrinus didn’t budge.

The emperor made no sound. Not even a gasp.

Only the rustle of fabric, the faint strain of dying breath, and then nothing.

Macrinus held the pillow down longer than he needed to, his back straight, his arms locked in position. His face remained neutral. There was no satisfaction, no hesitation—just the calm resolve of a man who had waited too long to act and had finally chosen his moment.

When he lifted the pillow, the emperor’s head lolled slightly to the side, his mouth falling open farther, his eyes glassed over and staring somewhere no one else could follow. Macrinus did not reach to close them. He only reached to smooth the sheets over the man’s chest, tucking the fabric gently, almost tenderly, as though he were sealing something away.

You had not moved.

He never looked up. He never turned. You remained still, just outside the door, the column at your back like a second spine, and watched in complete silence as a god was undone by human hands.

When he stepped away from the bed, he paused to adjust his tunic, glanced once at the fire, and then turned toward the door—not yours, but the other, the inner one, the one that would lead him out unseen.

You slipped into shadow before his footsteps began.

You walked away slowly, your hands loose at your sides, the hem of your robe catching faintly at the corners of worn stone. You passed the same mosaic, the same court, the same doors—but they felt different now, less like places and more like ruins. There were no tears. No curse. Only the faint knowledge settling behind your eyes that history had shifted while no one watched, that the seat of empire had emptied with no witnesses save you.

No trumpets. No declarations. No blade. Only a breath. And then nothing.

And somewhere in the quiet that followed, Rome exhaled—and turned toward its next act.

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