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spartacus-the-dreamer · 3 months ago

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AKENAMĒP THE SAND PRINCESS PART 2

~A Gladiator II fanfiction

The navis oneraria glided through the mouth of the Tiber, its dark hull cutting through the waters with slow, deliberate purpose. A warm wind carried the scent of salt and distant spices, mingling with the acrid smoke of Rome’s ever-burning hearths. The city loomed ahead, its seven hills crowned with temples and marble palaces, the heart of an empire that had swallowed kingdoms whole.

Marcus Acacius stood at the prow, his posture rigid as he watched the docks of Ostia grow closer. He had spent enough years in the East to understand the weight of what this moment meant. Egypt had long been an ally to Rome, its wealth funnelled into the coffers of the emperors, but this—this was different.

Behind him, veiled in linen so fine it was near translucent, stood Princess Akenamēp. The golden asp coiled around her wrist marked her for what she was—a daughter of the old blood, a descendant of Pharaohs who had ruled the Two Lands before Rome had even been a whisper on the wind.

Her dark eyes, lined with malachite, remained unreadable as she studied the approaching shore. “This is where your emperors await ?” she asked, her voice smooth, measured.

Marcus inclined his head. “The Emperors Callaca and Geta hold court in Rome itself, but we dock in Ostia first. The journey will continue by road.”

She tilted her head, the corner of her lips curving into a smile. “And tell me, Legatus, do your emperors share their throne in peace, or will they attempt to impress me with a display of discord ?”

Marcus exhaled through his nose. The tension between the brothers was no secret, not even to those beyond Rome’s reach.

“You will see soon enough,” he replied. The gangplank groaned as it was lowered. As Marcus extended his arm, Akenamēp hesitated for only a moment before placing her hand lightly atop his. Then, together, they descended onto Roman soil, stepping into the wolves’s territory.

…

Akenamep looked around curiously. The air was thick with the hustle and bustle of the docks, the clatter of crates being moved, the chatter of traders shouting out their wares, and the distant cry of gulls circling above the quay. But beneath the noise, a quiet tension hovered in the air as Marcus Acacius led Princess Akenamēp through the crowd.

Her presence drew curious glances, but she moved with the grace of someone who had learned to command attention without a single word. Her eyes, though seemingly aloof, were constantly taking in her surroundings, measuring every detail.

Marcus, aware of her every move, kept his gaze fixed ahead. He had been tasked with ensuring the princess’ safety and comfort, and that was what he intended to do. But also…He dared a quick glance at her. All those years and the little princess had always been one of his most fervent defenders and allies in Egypt. He had to ensure her safety for political reasons—but also personal. The chariot awaiting them was grand but simple in design, its wheels adorned with gold leaf and its horses black as night, snorting softly as they pawed at the ground.

The driver, a grizzled veteran of the legions, bowed low as they approached. “All is ready, Legatus,” he reported, his voice low and respectful.

“Good,” Marcus replied, stepping aside to allow Akenamēp to enter first. She slid into the chariot, her movements fluid and graceful. As she settled onto the plush cushions, she glanced at Marcus.

“Do your emperors expect a tribute ?” she asked coolly. “Or will this be another attempt at a trade agreement that benefits only one party ?”

Marcus climbed in after her, adjusting his cape to avoid it getting entangled. The horses shifted impatiently, their hooves clacking against the cobblestones, and the driver clucked to them, urging them into motion. As the chariot rumbled along the narrow streets of Ostia, Marcus considered how to answer the princess’ question. He knew the history of Roman dealings with Egypt, and the bitterness of those agreements still lingered in the air like the scent of burnt oil.

“Rome,” he said at last, meeting her gaze briefly, “has a habit of taking what it wants.”

Akenamep’s gaze flickered to him, as though considering his words.

“It always does, does it not ?” Her tone was even, but there was an underlying feeling of anger that she hid. “But I will play my part, as I always do. If the gods smile upon us, perhaps this will not be a transaction, but a partnership.”

Marcus leaned back into his seat, the rough weave of the fabric pressing against his shoulder blades. Partnerships were like sandcastles, all too easily washed away by the tide.

“A partnership would imply mutual benefit,” he said, his voice low. “Rome is known for taking more than it gives.”

The charioteer guided the horses onto the Via Ostiensis, the road that led north to Rome. The clop of hooves and the creak of the chariot wheels were the only sounds between them for a moment. She looked at the general. "You must be glad to come back home, general…"

Marcus raised a brow at the change in topic. The princess was sharp—she must have noticed the subtle shift in his demeanor when they left the dock. Or she was attempting to catch him off guard. Either way, he took the bait.

“Ostia hardly feels like home anymore,” he replied. “But I am glad to be back in Rome. The East has its wonders, but nothing compares to the city.”

She smiled. "Do you have a family waiting for you ?"

Marcus’ expression hardened. The question touched a nerve that he thought he had buried beneath years of campaign and blood.

“No,” he said after a moment. “There is no family to return to, only soldiers and duty.”

The sun was setting, painting the landscape in hues of gold and amber. The distant silhouette of Rome’s seven hills loomed on the horizon, growing larger with each kilometer they covered. Her kohl-lined eyes remained fixed on the same horizon as Marcus’, catching the fading light of the sun until their dark pupils glowed with its brilliance.

"…The same sun," she murmured.

Marcus followed her gaze, watching the day surrender to the west. It was undeniable—the very sun that shone on Rome, caressed the ancient pyramids of Egypt, and set over the Parthian deserts. For a brief moment, the immense distances that separated their worlds seemed to collapse into insignificance.

"Yes," he agreed quietly. "The same sun."

A gentle smile graced her lips as she closed her eyes, as if savoring the ephemeral beauty of that shared light.

"Though the sounds differ, they all sing in unison. Life…life in a city destined for greatness," she observed.

Marcus leaned back against the chariot’s side, the rough-hewn wheels grinding over the graveled road. Her words echoed within him—both alien and achingly familiar. He had witnessed countless cities, yet none held the majestic allure of Rome. Still, he could appreciate her perspective: the vibrant pulse of the streets, the intricate tapestry of voices that together created a melody as beautiful as it was brutal. She possessed an uncanny ability to see beyond mere appearances. He studied her for a long moment, noting how the setting sun transformed her dusky skin to a burnished gold, with shadows delicately tracing her features.

"You hear Rome's song, then," he finally said in an even tone. "Most only perceive noise."

She opened her eyes and met his. "And what do you hear, General Acacius ?"

Marcus fell silent as the rhythmic clatter of wheels and the soft cadence of the horses filled the pause. "I hear..." he began, weighing his words. In his mind swirled the clang of forges, the murmur of a thousand conversations, and the distant roar of the Colosseum at the height of its gladiatorial bouts.

"I hear the song of an empire—a melody of power and glory..." he paused, searching her face, "…and of blood."

A soft smile deepened on her face as she leaned back. "How much blood, I wonder ? Isn't it said that your city was founded on fratricide ?"

A dark smile tugged at the corner of Marcus's mouth. "Yes, the tale of Romulus and Remus is a brutal one," he admitted. "But Rome was born from violence—it thrives on it."

Another pause allowed the creaking of the chariot to punctuate his words. "In Rome, the weak are devoured, and the strong rise to claim their place."

She hummed in quiet agreement. "Tell me, do you know my favorite part of that story ?"

Marcus tilted his head, intrigued. Rarely did he find himself discussing ancient lore, much less with a princess from a distant land. "And which part might that be ?"

His expression softened as he turned his gaze back to the shifting landscape. "That they were raised by a wolf."

He paused, his thumb lightly grazing the hilt of his gladius, the cool metal a silent reminder of battles past. "It symbolizes a rugged upbringing, mirroring the fierce nature of Rome itself."

Soon the chariot passed beneath an ancient archway that marked the city’s boundary—they were nearly there.

"Is there a reason for this sudden interest in old tales, Princess Akenamēp ?" Marcus inquired, his tone laced with curiosity.

Her expression remained serene as she responded, "Do not the gods speak to us in countless forms, General Acacius ?"

She turned her gaze to the unfolding landscape as dusk fell; the sun’s final traces of red melted behind the hills, and the city’s lights began to twinkle like a scattered crown above the darkness.

"Rome was nurtured by a she-wolf. An unlikely mother, yet the city thrives regardless," she said softly.

Marcus watched her intently as she observed the approaching metropolis. Her regal bearing, the contrast of her smooth, dark skin against the pale linen of her dress, the kohl that framed her eyes, and the perpetual half-smile on her lips—all combined to create a vision of quiet strength and indescribable beauty. For a long moment, he wondered what emotions stirred within her as she beheld Rome. Was it fear, curiosity, or merely the acknowledgment of another milestone in her journey ?

Her eyes met his, and her smile widened imperceptibly. "You have the eyes of a wolf, General Acacius. Tell me—are you one of Rome's true heirs ?"

Comparisons to wolves were not new—often uttered by those who saw only the blade in his hand and the blood on his armor. Yet her words, imbued with quiet insight, struck a chord within him. Lowering his voice, he met her steady gaze. "And what would you know of wolves, Princess of Egypt ?"

Her eyes did not waver as she replied, "Does your people not worship Mars—the god of blood and war, the harbinger of victory and demise ? Often depicted with a wolf's skin. And if I am not mistaken, your city was founded by two men raised by an animal." An almost imperceptible smirk curved her lips. "How fitting—a city of animals."

He smiled a little. Rome’s deities and legends were steeped in bloodshed and conflict. Indeed, the city had been born from fratricide and strife. Perhaps Rome was indeed forged on the blood and bones of those consumed by the strong.

And perhaps, he was one of those very wolves she spoke of.

She laughed softly and the sound was like the rustling of silk.

"I am only being playful. I know that wolves howl at the moon, and are feared for their sharp fangs and claws." She shifted on the seat, her form slowly bent forward before tilting her head curiously at him. "But I also know that they hunt as a pack, and are fiercely loyal to those who belong to them. So tell me, General Acacius ? Are you loyal ?"

He held her gaze, the question hanging heavy in the air between them. Loyalty. A concept as ancient as the city itself, steeped in blood and battle. He could sense her testing him, trying to peel back the layers of his armor. She knew his reputation for victory, but she wanted to see beneath the surface.

She wanted the truth.

"My loyalty," he said slowly, "is to Rome. It is the city that gave me a name, an identity. My duty is to the Empire and its people, nothing else."

Her smile widened—satisfied. "…Good General. Loyal to his masters. Tell me…do you answer by name or is it sufficient for one of your emperors to whistle for you to answer the call ?"

Marcus' jaw tensed briefly at her words. To be reduced to a dog, answering to a whistle. It was a belittling analogy. Yet he knew there was a degree of truth in what she was saying. He was a weapon of the empire, as sharp and deadly as his gladius. When called upon, he answered.

"My role is to serve Rome," he replied after a few seconds, "in whatever capacity necessary. The emperors hold the power, not the dog, Princess Akenamēp."

She hummed and remained silent for a moment before smirking as she started whistling innocently all the way to the palace. Marcus gritted his teeth at the sound of her whistling, the melody light and innocent, a stark contrast to the undercurrent of mockery he could detect. He knew she was toying with him, testing his patience, and it was working. Her every question, every gesture, was designed to dig beneath his skin, to see how far she could push before he snapped.

But he refused to give her the satisfaction. He held his silence, watching stonily as the chariot rolled to a halt before the Imperial Palace.

Once arrived, she waited patiently for him to offer her his hand…Marcus offered his hand dutifully, helping her descend from the chariot. His touch lingered for a moment, his calloused fingers against the smooth skin of her hand. He could feel the heat of her flesh, the faint thrum of her pulse. He held her gaze as she stood before him. She was a vision in the dusky light, her kohl-rimmed eyes like the night itself. This princess was like a snake, he thought, her mood shifting like quicksilver.

She met his gaze with a knowing smile before slithering her arm around his.

"Shall we enter, dear wolf ?"

Her every move was calculated, her scent sweet and heady. Like a snake, she coiled herself around him without him realising.

"Yes," he replied, his voice even. "Let's proceed."

As they walked in, he noted the curious glances from the palace guards. To see a foreign princess on the arm of Rome's most decorated general was an odd sight. He could hear the soft murmur of whispers in their wake, the soldiers clearly curious about this newcomer. He looked down at her, her expression calm and unruffled, as if they were merely taking an evening walk. She was completely at ease…or so he thought.

His eyes caught something at the corner of his eye. He lowered his gaze slightly and saw the way she was stroking her knuckles with her thumb mechanically…as if caressing her own skin to reassure herself. It was a subtle gesture, subconscious, but it hinted at something beneath the surface. Was she as unworried as she appeared, or was this a mask, a way to hide an internal turmoil ?

Marcus continued on, leading her into the palace, the grand halls and corridors stretching out before them. He could sense the curious eyes upon them from the officials and court members, their whispered conversations just out of earshot.

And yet, the princess remained silent and unperturbed at his side, her hand still resting on his arm. She however reluctantly released his arm to take a few steps forward when it was time to greet the two most powerful men in Rome: the emperors Caracalla and Geta. Both the sons of the deceased Roman emperor Commodus and empress Julia Domna.

At the far end, upon twin thrones raised on a dais of polished onyx, sat the rulers of Rome. Caracalla and Geta.

Caracalla lounged forward, one elbow propped lazily on the gilded armrest, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm. His hair, a shock of untamed orange curls, burned like a dying ember in the dim light, sweat-matted at the edges as though he had just risen from some drunken brawl. His tunic, an ostentatious display of purple and gold, sat unfastened at the collar, revealing the flush of his skin—the hue of wine and excess. His features, broad and chiseled, were twisted into something feral. His mouth curled into an impatient sneer, his eyes sharp, predatory—like a beast sizing up its prey. His faithful pet monkey by his side on his shoulder.

Geta, by contrast, carried himself with an air of languid amusement, though his cruelty was no less dangerous. He sat upright, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers wrapped around the stem of a silver goblet. His hair, identical in its unnatural brilliance to Caracalla’s, had been oiled and shaped into something more refined, yet no less wild—like a wolf groomed in silks. His tunic, cut from the same decadent fabric, clung to his frame, though unlike his brother, he had taken care to fasten it properly, as if to suggest a veneer of restraint. His lips curved—not in a scowl, but in something worse: a smirk, lazy and knowing, as if every soul in the room were already dancing at the end of his strings.

Marcus kept a polite distance as the princess approached them.

Caracalla's eyes narrowed as they fell upon the princess, taking in her dark skin and heavy kohl-lined eyes. He giggled.

"Who is this one ?"

His brother, Geta, looked up from his goblet, his gaze flicking over the princess. He seemed more intrigued than his brother, but his expression was cold, his eyes calculating. He said nothing, waiting for the princess to introduce herself.

She raised her hand to her forehead and extended it towards them in greeting.

"Greetings, oh great emperors. I am Princess Akenamēp, an ambassador from Egypt. My father is the Pharaoh Nectanebo III. I have come to discuss the trade agreements with you and—"

Caracalla waved his hand impatiently, cutting her off mid-sentence. "Yes, yes, we know why you're here. The trade agreements, the exchange of goods, the usual boredom."

He leaned back in his seat, his gaze roaming over her again. His tone was dismissive, as if her presence held no weight.

Geta, on the other hand, was more intrigued. He said nothing, waiting for her to continue. He took a slow sip from his goblet, his eyes never leaving the princess.

Akenamēp didn’t know if she could continue so she looked back at Marcus—trying to see if she could talk again. Marcus nodded slightly, giving her permission to continue. He could see the two emperors growing bored of the princess' diplomatic formalities. Caracalla's gaze had shifted, his attention already divided.

Geta, however, remained focused on her, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observed her actions. He smiled.

"An Egyptian princess ? We have never had one of those visit us before, it is usually the old man who comes in person. Why isn’t he here ? Your father ?"

Akenamēp closed her eyes and forced herself not to react at the obvious taunt. She bent her head forward.

"My father is…sick, your highness. He sent me in his stead."

Caracalla chuckled, his laughter loud and boisterous. "Sick ? Or just too old to travel this far ?”

Geta, on the other hand, seemed to have a different opinion. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze more intent. "And a woman to represent him. No doubt he thinks this would soften our hearts and increase the leniency of our terms."

Akenamēp raised her head once again, her gaze meeting Geta's coolly. Her words were measured, yet her voice firm. "I assure you, my presence is not a ploy to sway you, my emperors. I was sent because my father trusts me to negotiate on his behalf. I am just as capable as any man."

Caracalla laughed again, his tone mocking. "Oh, I'm sure you are. But you see, little princess…"

He stood up and descended the dais, his steps heavy against the stone floor. He stopped before her, his face inches from hers, his gaze flickering over her frame significantly.

"…In Rome, power is something men hold. Women are meant to be seen, not heard."

She smiled innocently as she realised she was a few centimetres taller than him. Her eyes lowered and she replied.

"Is that so, Emperor Caracalla ? Rome may compensate you well then…"

Caracalla's face twisted into a scowl at her words. His pride wouldn't allow him to tolerate such brazenness from a woman, especially one of a foreign land.

"I rule Rome, you insolent princess," he said, his voice a low growl. "My empire is the envy of the world. My achievements are legendary. And you, a mere daughter of a sand-covered kingdom, dare to imply—"

Geta, watching from his throne, chuckled softly into his goblet. He was clearly enjoying the spectacle.

Akenamēp tilted her head before looking up at Geta. "I have come to discuss the terms of the trading agreements. I will go back to my ‘sand-covered kingdom’ as soon as we have reached a suitable agreement. Please. Do not see me as a woman, but a good-willed messenger for the duration of the negotiations."

Caracalla bristled, his face reddening at her audacity. But before he could retort, Geta intervened.

"Enough, brother," he said, his tone calm yet authoritative. "Let's hear what the princess has to say."

Caracalla grumbled, but subsided, returning to his throne. Geta leaned back in his seat, his gaze measuring the princess.

"Continue," he said.

She smiled and tilted her head in acknowledgment.

"Thank you, emperor Geta. As I have said, I have come here to tell you that Egypt has sent the required wheat and barley and will keep sending them for the duration of agreed contract. Egyptian linen has been provided three times in the last three months and another shipment should arrive in a few days. We also added papyrus for your literature and administration for good measure."

Caracalla scoffed, his tone derisive. "Yes, Yes, We know all of this. The grain, the linen, the papyrus, you're repeating what we are already aware of."

Geta shot him a quick glare, silencing his brother's petulant retort. He looked back at the princess.

"And what else does Egypt have to offer ?"

She smiled—she had predicted the question. "Lapis lazuli, turquoise, and amethyst that I have allowed myself to bring with me for safety. All for you, my emperors."

Caracalla's expression softened at the mention of gemstones, his gaze flickering towards the pouch of stones that the princess held. Geta, on the other hand, remained pensive, his eyes studying the princess.

"The jewels are a generous offer, princess," he said, his tone thoughtful. "But what do you ask in return for them ?"

She knew what was to come. She restrained a shudder as she finally spoke up.

"My oh so generous emperors. I have come here for a specific purpose…"

Geta's eyebrows raised marginally, his earlier amusement giving way to piqued interest. Caracalla, on the other hand, looked irritated.

"A specific purpose ?" he asked with obvious disdain. "What could you possibly want that is so important that you had to come all the way to Rome ?"

She lowered her gaze before continuing. "…My emperors. I…Egypt has taken a decision."

Caracalla groaned, his patience thinning. "Yes, yes, get to the point. What decision ?!"

Geta didn't seem as hurried however, his eyes still fixed on the princess as she gathered the courage to say next:

"…We have decided to limit—if not completely abandon—the transaction of Egyptian slaves and animals." She remained with her eyes cast downward as she prepared for their upcoming outrage. It didn’t take long.

Caracalla's face twisted into a scowl at her words. "WHAT ?"

Geta, although his expression didn't change, was clearly taken aback.

"You're saying you'll no longer offer us slaves and animals for the games ?" he asked, his voice a touch sharper than before.

She dared to look up. "…Egypt has sent you many slaves and animals over the years. My father even witnessed your games and took pleasure in the entertainment you so graciously offered…But let us see the games as they are. Sacrifices. Human sacrifices. And my people dropped such customs long ago. If we keep supplying and supporting such…barbaric customs…our country would be going against the evolution we pride ourselves upon. The slaves we sent are our people. We cannot keep sending them abroad when we—ourselves—have noticed a shortage in births."

Caracalla's face turned an alarming shade of red at the princess’ words. His eyes were like slits, his face twisted in anger. "Barbaric. You dare to call Rome's games barbaric ?!"

Geta, however, remained unnervingly calm. His gaze was steely, but his hands were steady on the arms of his throne. Caracalla continued, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

"You dare to lecture us on civility ?" he snapped, his voice a harsh bark. "Your country, as you call it, is nothing more than a collection of sand and dunes. We, on the other hand, are the grand empire of Rome. Our games, our customs, are an essential part of our cultural heritage. They are a reminder of our strength, our power. And you would dare take that away from us ?"

She looked down. "…You have your own slaves. Our traditions and human ressources’ shortage prevent us from giving you more. But I dare to think you have enough to last…"

Caracalla sputtered, his face now verging on purple. "Enough slaves ?! What nonsense. We can never have enough slaves. The more we have, the more we can train for the games."

Geta remained silent for a moment, his eyes never leaving the princess. His expression was unreadable, his thoughts obscured by his usual cool facade. But his gaze was more intense, his fingers slowly drumming against the armrest of his throne.

She looked back at Marcus before returning her attention to the emperors. "We are providers for a majority of the food you eat, the fabric you use for your clothes, the paper you write on and the gold or precious gems we offer for your protection…Isn’t that enough ?"

Caracalla seemed to be about to explode at this point, but Geta held up a hand, silencing his brother. He leaned forward, his gaze fixed intently on the princess.

"Your words are true," he said, his voice almost a purr. "You seem to put much value on the items you provide us, princess. But do you realize the scale of our empire ? We need vast quantities of those resources, day after day, just to keep it running."

He leaned back, his smile cold.

"And, as it were, we prefer to have more than one supplier."

She tilted her head. "…But we are your first supplier. We are closest to you by sea and our empire is as great in number as yours. And to be honest, emperor Geta ? With all due respect, you offer us protection against…what ? You are the biggest military threat we have now."

Caracalla scoffed. "You think we only protect you from outsiders ? We protect your entire country, your borders, your people."

Geta lifted a hand to silence his brother once again. He looked at the princess, his gaze still intense.

"I understand your concern, princess,” he said. “But you must also understand our position. Rome is a vast empire with endless needs."

He paused, then leaned forward again, his smile still cold.

"Are you suggesting that you could withdraw your supplies if we don't agree to your terms ?"

She took a deep breath and raised her head to look at them challengingly. "…Maybe we would. Maybe we wouldn’t. Would you be willing to risk that bet ?"

Caracalla laughed, the tension finally breaking with his outburst.

"You underestimate us, little princess," he said, his tone mocking, "We have conquered lands and peoples many times greater than yours. You are but a flea compared to the lion that is Rome."

Geta remained silent, his expression never changing. His eyes were locked with the princess’. Caracalla continued, stepping forward.

"You think yourself powerful, offering us what you believe we cannot live without. But do not forget, we are the ones holding the whip here. You are but a subject to our rule."

As his brother raved like a madman, Geta leaned back in his throne, his eyes still on the princess. His expression was unreadable, his mind working behind his inexpressive gaze.

She didn’t look at Caracalla. She knew where the true threat was…She didn’t shy away from Geta’s gaze. The silent wolf was just as dangerous as the howling one…

Caracalla took another step forward, his hand itching for his dagger.

"You are on our land," he snarled, "In our palace, in our city. You are surrounded by our guards on our territory. You are a guest. You would do well to remember it."

Geta raised a hand once more, silencing his brother once again. Caracalla obeyed. Then, Geta stood up, descending the small platform of the dais which held the thrones. His steps echoed in the large hall as he approached the princess, the toga he wore flowing behind him.

She was suddenly eyes to eyes with him and smiled. "…Greetings, emperor Geta. I was wondering when you would grace me with your presence down from your throne."

She wasn’t mocking him. She had had to see Caracalla get close and personal three times before Geta had decided she was worth the approach. He lifted an eyebrow, his gaze flicking towards his seat on the dais and back at her.

"I was simply enjoying the scene from above," he said mockingly. "Your exchange with my brother was quite entertaining."

He took another step closer, looking down at her, his gaze calculating. She didn’t flinch, even when those dark golden orbs highlighted with red liner met hers. His lips curled into a slight smirk.

"You have much courage," he noted, his voice smooth, "To come here, into the heart of the Roman Empire, and to openly challenge us like this."

Her eyes glanced up at Caracalla before returning to him. "Challenge ? Those are merely new the conditions of the trading agreements."

She smiled placidly. "Do not shoot…the messenger."

Geta's smirk deepened at her reply. He turned his head towards his brother.

"Did you hear that ? My brother," he said with a smile, "The princess is just a messenger, is she ?"

Caracalla bristled, his fists clenching again. Geta's gaze shifted back towards the princess, his voice turning smooth again.

"But you are no mere messenger, are you ? You speak for the kingdom of Egypt itself."

She tilted her head quizzically at him. "Isn’t that what a messenger does ? Talk on behalf of its sender ?"

Geta chuckled, the sound deep and dark. "Oh, my dear princess, you are a diplomat through and through."

He took another step forward, his gaze still locked on hers. "But you and I both know that you are more than that. You do not simply speak on Egypt's behalf. You think and act on Egypt's behalf."

He slowly walked around her, his eyes taking in every detail.

"You have power," he told her, "You have authority. You are not simply a puppet."

He stopped directly behind her, so close she could feel his breath on the back of her neck.

"You are a princess," he continued, his tone almost mocking, "But you are also a leader. You hold your country's future in your hands. It must be…exhilarating, is it not ?"

She immediately turned around.

"If you dare to imply that I am blinded by power then I…"

She did not expect him to be so close to her and her eyes widened momentarily in surprise. Geta's expression was cool as he looked down at her. His brown eyes reflected the light of the room—as hellfire within the darkness of darkest pits…

"Oh, is that how you interpreted my words ?" he asked, his voice a low purr before he smirked. "I merely meant to say that you are not some fragile blossom, easily swayed by the wind. You are a lioness, ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness…"

Marcus was silently watching the scene and notice how both brothers seemed to circle around the princess like two vultures ready for a feast. But the princess didn’t let weakness show.

She smiled politely at Geta. "Am I ? But I am just a woman…surely, I wouldn’t be so dangerous as you seem to suggest—unless you are scared, emperor Geta ? But no. How absurd…"

He arched an eyebrow at her and his smile widened.

"A woman, yes." He agreed before whispering in her ear. "But just because you were graced with a feminine form, doesn't mean you are no threat, especially with you daring to enter our palace and making demands."

She shivered at his words and couldn’t find the words to defend herself. Caracalla, who had been silently watching until now, could no longer hold back.

"Confidence, or arrogance ?" he interrupted, his voice sneering.

"Caracalla…" Geta warned firmly but, Caracalla ignored him, his eyes still fixed on the princess.

"What right do you have, to come here, into our very own palace and demand such things ?" he repeated his brother’s words, his voice growing louder, "You offer us nothing we cannot live without. You think yourselves superior ? You, and your bunch of sun-burnt monkeys ? You are but grains of sand to us."

She glared at him and took a step out of the circle the emperors attempted to trap her in. "Sand storms are known to kill men, emperor Caracalla. I suggest you never forget that…"

Caracalla's face turned red with anger.

"Are you threatening me ?" he thundered, his fists clenching.

Geta took a step forward, positioning himself between the princess and Caracalla. "Calm yourself, brother."

Caracalla huffed, his face still purple with rage.

"I will not stand for such insolence !" he ignored his brother and shouted, "We could make your country bow at our feet if we wanted to !"

Geta laid a hand on his brother's shoulder, his gaze warning his brother to keep silent. He could see this was quickly getting out of hand.

"I think there is no room for threats tonight, brother," he said calmly. "We are here to discuss, not to fight."

Akenamēp bowed—knowing that she better not push her luck. "I will be leaving in 6 days. You are free to think about our proposal until then…I will leave you to your affairs. If you wish to speak to me, do send a messenger to the boat—as I imagine you wouldn’t wish for my presence within your home for the duration of my stay."

"We shall be in contact with you before you leave," Geta said, his voice cool and formal.

Caracalla, still angry but more controlled, did not comment. He simply folded his arms in front of his chest and glowered at the princess.

Akenamēp nodded and was about to leave when she stopped and looked at General Acacius—waiting for him. As the princess looked at him, he nodded and walked up to her.

She smiled and wrapped an arm around his.

"Let’s go."

Acacius nodded and placed a hand on hers as they walked out of the palace. As they disappeared from view, Geta’s gaze lingered on the place she had been standing just moments before.

Meanwhile, Caracalla scoffed, breaking the silence.

"That pompous little…”

Geta laid a hand on his brother's shoulder, silencing him.

"Let her leave," Geta said, his voice cool, "The less time she spends under our roof, the less trouble we'll have. She is leaving in six days. We have time to think."

Caracalla grumbled but did not argue. He knew his brother was right. The princess was a headache, and the sooner she left, the better…

#gladiator 2 #general acacius #geta and caracalla #emperor geta #oc

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illkangwi · 1 year ago

Text

⇂ about him ⇂

fast data

main inspo characters

ko dongman (fight for my way), atsushi otani (lovely complex), chandler bing (friends), dimitri (anastasia), garret (quest for camelot), jim hawkins (treasure planet), kenai (brother bear).

personality

à primeira vista, william pode parecer reservado e irritadiço, mas à medida em que vão lhe conhecendo melhor, as pessoas ganham acesso ao quase inocente modo de vida do rapaz. devido a conflitos internos, relações malsucedidas e falta de confiança, seu estado de espírito mostra-se menos esperançoso e mais resguardado — quando em condições regulares geralmente é mais positivo e crédulo nos outros. em palavras mais simples, a personalidade de golden retriever foi há um tempo engolida pela do gato preto, não tendo um prazo pra voltar até que o kang coloque sua vida no lugar e se cure no processo. é ágil, direto e sincero com as pessoas tal qual a confiança que seus olhos passam toda vez que diz algo, mas é mais difícil consigo mesmo, tendo tendência de culpar-se pelos próprios erros e escolhas. já foi mais apocalíptico, hoje em dia colhe as consequências de suas antigas decisões. criado de forma conservadora, é até mesmo surpreendente o fato de que antigamente não teve problemas em rebelar-se, mas hoje em dia a banda anda tocando outra música. tem um bom senso de humor quando quer, e apesar de não andar complacentemente mostrando os dentes por aí, todo sorriso que dedica a alguém certamente é genuíno. no mais, é um homem fiel à quem ama e admira — coisa que já lhe causou bastante problema, e ele nunca aprende.

the sky you see above won't always be blue, people won't always be kind to you.

sendo o segundo filho nascido estadunidense em uma família coreana que imigrara para tentar a vida no ocidente ao abrir um restaurante pequeno em uma rua estreita em morningside heights, a educação de hajun (ou william, como sempre preferiu ser chamado) fora priorizada, assim como quase toda família asiática do bairro fazia. ainda, de todas as palavras as quais poderiam descrever sua infância e pré-adolescência, "sufocante" seria a qual atualmente escolheria para fazê-lo, tendo em vista o que acontecera após ter sido descoberto por um olheiro enquanto jogava baseball com o time infantil da escolinha pública que frequentava. a família de william era grande; ele, seus avós, seus pais, seus tios, suas irmãs e seu primo moraram todos juntos por um bom tempo em um sobrado numa rua mais tranquila e modesta na divisa do bairro com o harlem, majoritariamente composta por famílias asiáticas na década de noventa. a aquisição do lar fora principalmente subsidiada pelas economias de mirae e jihoon, seus avós paternos, que pouco tempo depois encontraram uma outra casa em upper west side para curtirem as vantagens da terceira idade, deixando com os filhos e noras a escritura da casa para que a dividissem. dessa forma, tocavam juntos o restaurante coreano e repartiam os lucros que o estabelecimento gerava, mesmo em tempos de crise.

mal sabia o jovem garotinho de sete anos que sua vida mudaria no momento em que bill harbor, produtor de um seriado infantil em uma emissora de tv conhecida, o descobrisse no maldito jogo de baseball. encantado pela performance calculista do menino e pelo estereótipo de criança asiática inteligente que queria utilizar na época, bill convenceu aos pais e ao próprio garoto de que seria uma grande oportunidade para a criança, e que isso iria abrir portas no futuro para projetos maiores. william ainda lembra do que lhe fora prometido e o que houvera lhe animado para que aceitasse entrar para o show business. uma simples luva e um taco de baseball novo. ele não reclamava, pra ser honesto. sempre sentira que seria ingratidão se o fizesse. a série em que atuava como o adorável pianista asiático e genial de uma turma de cinco crianças em uma escola de música lhe trazia sucesso, dinheiro, paparicos e fama. ao mesmo tempo, trazia responsabilidades enormes para um menino. aulas de piano e violão por intermináveis horas durante às quartas e quintas, aulas de teatro segundas e terças, baseball todo fim de semana, fora os projetos de publicidade, caridade ou os eventos do próprio canal, contratos estes que seus pais faziam questão de assinar todos - afinal, a fonte de dinheiro pra investir em novos restaurantes não podia secar tão cedo. ainda assim, william estava sempre exausto. de todas as suas aulas e compromissos, nunca pensou que seriam as aulas de defesa pessoal que o salvariam de um colapso.

ele começara a praticar artes marciais devido a um desenvolvimento inesperado no plot do personagem que fazia na série. toda sexta-feira, o kang entrava com o pé direito no estúdio, deixando fora do tatame todo o cansaço e a solidão que sentia. a sensação de liberdade e do alívio de realmente exercer alguma função que gostava era o único sopro de paz que o garoto de doze anos tivera durante os cinco anos que passara gravando a série. tentara um pouco de tudo, mas encontrara no muay thai uma forma especial de desopilar. sempre muito fechado, william só conseguira realmente fazer amigos na academia de luta, pois a comunicação sempre fora mais física e direta. não precisavam de tantas palavras como sempre lhe exigiam no trabalho, apenas de confiança, força e movimento. pra ele, sempre bastara. entretanto, sua saúde mental e sua felicidade não realmente foram suficientes para seus pais quando dividira com eles sobre sua vontade de permanecer lutando mesmo ao final da série. quase fora demonizado, como se pudesse causar a destruição da família inteira. um garotinho, coreano, que ficaria sem dinheiro (já que não queria mais atuar!) e lutador, com seu lindo rosto todo arrebentado. o que fariam se william simplesmente perdesse toda a graça e a beleza que tinha? o choque da falta de apoio familiar o machucou por muito tempo, afinal, encontrara algo que fazia seus olhos brilharem toda vez que falava sobre. cinco anos de técnicas desenvolvidas e absorvidas foram postas de lado quando sua mãe cancelara as aulas, assim como o fizera aceitar um outro papel degradante baseado num estereótipo ridículo que lhe ofereceram na emissora. sua autoestima fora destruída ao passar pela puberdade tão exposto e ridicularizado, e isso aconteceu até o cancelamento da série dois anos depois, por falta de audiência.

provavelmente, até hoje sua família deve pensar que william o fez de propósito — mesmo que nem personagem principal fosse. ainda assim, não descartava a hipótese. talvez ele houvesse pensado o mesmo por um tempo. talvez assim ele pudesse voltar a luta em paz, já que após o fracasso, outros papéis jamais vieram a aparecer novamente. talvez dessa forma pudesse voltar a sorrir quando entrava no ringue. quando levantara a questão novamente, a briga em casa fora feia. ninguém o entendera mais uma vez, com exceção de sua irmã mais nova, mas dessa vez, estava decidido a lutar pelo que queria. ameaçara sair de casa, e não havendo resistência por parte dos pais sobre sua permanência, tudo o que pode fazer foi recorrer aos avós, que surpreendentemente o receberam de braços abertos. william aprendera que o apoio pode vir de onde menos se espera. o laço forte com o avô sustentara sua relação distante com seu pai, bem como a situação difícil com sua mãe. ambos também alimentaram seu sonho com a luta. treinava dia e noite, rigoroso e disciplinado consigo mesmo e seus objetivos, e acostumara-se a vencer quase toda vez. aos poucos, conquistava seu espaço na luta profissional e até mesmo começara a aparecer em torneios televisionados, recebendo aplausos e vivendo o sonho americano ao chamar atenção de patrocinadores e receber propostas de viagens ao exterior. ele ganhava dinheiro fazendo o que amava. fazendo a única coisa a qual tinha certeza que sabia fazer, e que era bom – já que a vida e seus pais fizeram-no acreditar que ele poderia fracassar em todo resto.

a vida fora boa com ele por um tempo. estava entrando em seu auge ao ser cogitado receber patrocínio de uma marca famosa quando seu treinador fora acusado de comprar e vender resultados de lutas, causando um alvoroço entre ele e seus parceiros de treino que também construíam carreiras individualmente. o kang tinha vinte e três anos quando fora intimado a depor pela suspeita de participar do esquema, fazendo com que, dessa forma, sua credibilidade fosse posta em jogo e consequentemente, provocando a perda da maior parte de seus patrocinadores. as coisas jamais foram as mesmas após aquele período. o stress e a preocupação o fizeram perder peso e, com mais nenhum treinador para guia-lo – já que ainda acreditava piamente no seu e não o abandonara –, acabou entrando na modalidade de luta livre para juntar mais dinheiro. foi o maior erro de sua vida, levando em consideração o fato de que não estava preparado o suficiente para competir com profissionais experientes na categoria peso leve. sua ofensiva poderia até ser surpreendente, mas a defesa fraca lhe roubava as vitórias, e a falta de sucesso começara a minar seus pensamentos com uma negatividade tremenda. fora as dores. apanhar tanto não machucava apenas o ego e o coração, seu corpo também dava sinais em relação aos descuidos que tomava. seus ex-companheiros e amigos – que há tempos já haviam trocado de academia e de treinador – lhe aconselharam a parar antes que fosse tarde, bem como seu médico e seu fisioterapeuta, mas ele tentou mais, e o pior aconteceu.

morreu por dentro no dia em que soube seu corpo estava impondo limitações. uma fratura na tíbia o impediu de participar de torneios menores por um ano e, quando tentou voltar, estava mais esquecido do que antes. foi quando a ficha começou a cair. jamais teria a chance de ganhar um cinturão. jamais alcançaria o que um dia prometera a si mesmo, para enfim esfregar na cara da família todo o sucesso que teria. ele tinha 26 anos, uma lesão preocupante e sonhos despedaçados. esse novo episódio de sua vida lhe trouxe muitos problemas, assim como a falta de dinheiro no período em que descobriu que não poderia continuar lutando. apesar do apoio dos avós, will não teve coragem de pedir ajuda, ainda mais com a situação crítica de saúde do senhor kang, que nem mesmo um bom plano de saúde possuía pra cobrir os gastos caríssimos. william aos poucos viu-se cercado de problemas e dívidas, entrando num looping de sensações e sentimentos como fracasso, frustração, medo e rancor de si mesmo por ter estragado tudo. entregando-se aos jogos de apostas que lhe rendiam dinheiro fácil e a pequenos golpes e favores dos quais nunca se orgulhou, assim como lutas clandestinas, conseguiu um dinheiro mais rápido para custear o tratamento do avô e equilibrar suas contas até o momento em que conseguiu um emprego digno – o qual odiava, mas também o qual pelo menos lhe garantia a comida e o teto. bem, garantindo até as coisas começarem a apertar novamente.

a conta sempre chega e, devido às condutas consideravelmente ilícitas e antiéticas de will, as pessoas erradas com quem se metera iniciaram a caça às bruxas. devendo para alguns e tendo irritado outros, tudo o que o kang pôde fazer por si mesmo e pelos avós foi mudar de cidade – ou melhor, mudar até mesmo de estado. apesar da saudade, tentou, pelo menos dessa vez, enxergar o momento positivamente e pensar que talvez também fosse uma chance de recomeçar. com sorte, ninguém o reconheceria na nova cidade e, com a indicação de um colega para trabalhar em um negócio local, conseguiria se manter na cidadezinha insossa.

e talvez, quem sabe, conseguir abandonar aquela adrenalina toda da fuga de emergência pra poder descansar em paz na própria autopiedade.

#( t — about.🌙#( t — who is this searching really for?🌙

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