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Geta's eyes are clear to you even with the distance between you, swaying in the entryway, and the golden throne he sits upon beside his brother, Caracalla.
You stumble forward, the blood slicked blade in your hand clattering to the polished floor to join the crimson footprints and haphazard spatters you've left in your wake.
"Intruders…" Your voice sounds far away even to you, like a memory of sound rather than the noise itself. "In the gardens."
The entire hall is silent for the span of two breaths before it erupts.
You don't even flinch amongst the flurry of guards and Praetorians alike— purple, steel, and leather flashing around you faster than you can process. You take a few more steps toward the thrones before your knees give out from under you. Your hands, blood caked nails and all, are what save you from fully collapsing.
Geta is suddenly on his knees beside you, hands grasping either side of your face as he examines you.
He's speaking, eyes frantic and mouth moving too quickly for you to read his lips through the cotton in your ears. You belatedly realize that cotton is your pulse.
You've never seen your husband like this: annoyed, enraged, amused, even pleased, but his eyes are wide, face pale even under the powder he wears, and he looks lost. It reminds you of the looks you've seen on the faces of gladiators who realize their next breath relies on the turn of your husband's hand.
You have the inane thought to ask him what has him so scared.
“Geta…” You can barely get your mouth to form his name. Talking feels foreign— your tongue too heavy, lips that won't obey, and the sharp taste of metal you can't swallow away.
"Who has done this to you?" he demands, the words cutting through the fog of your mind. "Point them out to me, and I shall ensure that they will know the wrath of Rome."
Your gaze slides away from Geta's frenzied eyes, beyond the laurels sitting crooked on his head, to find Caracalla fidgeting behind him, looking stricken and digging his hands in his frazzled ginger hair. You blink slowly, and despite Geta's hold on you, your eyes lower to the floor.
The sound of your name wrenched from Geta's throat refocuses you on your husband.
"My sandal," you say, just realizing several straps of one have snapped or frayed and the other is gone entirely. A huff of air— a ridiculous clench of your diaphragm— tilts one side of your lips up for half a heartbeat. "I've lost a sandal, Geta."
You barely feel the tear that clears a path through the blood on your face.
Geta watches it like it's a knife sliding between his ribs.
"Speak to me!" Geta implores.
The look on his face flares an ache in your chest that has your brows furrowing. You reach for him to sooth him out of instinct, but when you see the stark contrast of your bloodied hand against the pallor of his skin, you freeze before you can touch him.
He quickly takes your raised hand in one of his— unflinching, even with the blood— and grips it like it will anchor you both. "My love," he says, softer this time, more restrained, "what happened?"
You hadn't noticed anything amiss at first.
Geta had allowed— after a handful of arguments, a thrown goblet of wine, and a lengthy tour of the palace where you pointed out every single stationed guard who would be near enough wherever you went— for you to move freely through the palace without the shadow of guards at your heels.
So when you retreated to the quiet of the palace gardens, alone and waiting for Geta's meeting with the Senate to finish, it was not a surprise to find that you were alone under the blazing afternoon sun. While many retreated to the many shaded rooms of the palace, you blossomed under the sun.
It's the scuff of a sandal against the smooth stones by one of the pools that lifts your head from the book you were engrossed in.
It's a man. A stranger.
His bearded face is dirty, hair disheveled like he's run his hands through it several times. You glance down and see the dirt that coats the bottom of his sandals, and catalogue the threadbare and tattered state of his clothes.
Then you see the gleam of steel. You follow the length of the blade with your eyes that widen when you see the way he readjusts his trembling grip to be more secure. It’s a short sword, about the length of your forearm— similar to what you've seen used in the arena while seated at Geta's side. You don't need to have used one to know that even if it's not as honed as the ones provided in the sport, it will still wound, dismember, and end your life just the same.
You both stare, breaths quiet as though making sound will mean you've both truly been seen.
He seems to be waiting for you to scream, to call for someone, so he steals glances around the space. Your blood chills as you watch him realize you two are alone.
"Empress."
Though you know your title well and have heard it spoken too many times to count— with endearment, respect, even edged with sarcasm— the way he says it settles in you like a condemnation.
You can only think to run. You're no fighter; you've only ever seen combat from your plush seat of the Emperor's shaded balcony.
You scramble to your feet when you see the tick in his jaw as he steels himself, your book left open and forgotten. Your only advantage is that you know the area better than him, that you know where the guards are stationed.
You skirt around a few hedges, take a left at the statue of the woman reaching down as thought to pluck a bloom from a nearby bush, and you see the arch of the entryway looming further ahead.
"Guards! Guards-"
Your hope dies on your lips when a hand twists into the back of your gown and pulls. You're thrown backward, feet catching on your dress and your sandal scuffing roughly in the gravel as the ground rises and slams into your shoulder.
You look up in time to catch him stalking toward you, the blade arching down brutally.
It strikes the stones where you were before you rolled.
Your dress tears as you stagger to your feet but you barely hear it over the sound of your pulse in your ears.
He swings for you again, aiming to cut you across the stomach now that you're a standing target, but you step back just enough to avoid the sharp tip of the blade.
You prepare for another attack when the sword flies from his hand toward one of the shallow pools.
His hands must be sweating near as much as yours.
Without glancing back at him you make a mad run for the sword, only to feel his arms wrap around your waist from behind. He lifts you, your feet kicking wildly and an arm still reaching for that shining steel.
A cry tears out from behind your teeth as your squirm in his grasp, twisting and turning and clawing at his forearms and any skin you can reach to loosen his hold.
The sword gets further away.
He tries to adjust you in his arms— your feet hit the ground and it's all the leverage you need to face him fully. You push at his chest trying to break free with sheer force, but he drags you with him even as you dig your frantic heels into the ground. His breath smells like stale wine, and the smell of his sweat pushes you to recoil further from him.
The hand you raise and aim for his eyes is caught inches from its target, and he wrenches your arm away with so much force that the gold band at your wrist comes off and rolls into the foliage nearby. You glance back at where the sword still lies waiting to be an extension of death.
The man's hand fists the front of your dress at the same time you bring your knee up between his legs.
He backhands you before his knees give out, the force of it sending you to the ground.
Shaking away the harsh sting that raced from your cheek through to your eye, you reorient yourself and catch the glint of the sword once more. You scramble on your stomach, using your arms to drag you forward toward the fallen blade. He curses somewhere behind you, and the back of your neck prickles at the proximity of the sound.
You put your legs to your task.
His footfalls are in step with your heartbeat when your fingers find the hilt of the blade. The metal is warm in your grasp, like it too is reaching for you. The man surges down, his frustrated cry ringing through the open space as he goes for your neck. Through luck rather than skill, you twist onto your back and lift the borrowed blade in time to have it sink into his abdomen with a slick, muted sound.
You're not sure who looks more surprised— you, who caused the wound, or the man suffering it above you.
When the initial shock leaches from the man's face, when the spark of fury returns to his eyes, you find that it's fear that keeps momentum and urgency in your hands. There is no other explanation for the way your breaths shatter out of you in quick succession and the uncontrollable shake of your limbs.
You try to drag the blade up, and it catches— something cracks— and then the steel gives way and slides up toward his chest before you lose the strength to do more.
Hot, pungent blood floods from the wound, immediately soaking through into your gown and onto the stones beneath you. Your hands are slick with the dark fluid and ripped flesh.
The man above you sputters, speckles of blood flying from his gasping mouth to splash across your face as you flinch away. He can't even manage a scream— just a curdled sound of despair that bubbles on his lips— as he looks down at the damage and tries to staunch where his lifeblood flows out of him.
Something lands on your stomach with a wet sound you know your mind will never let you forget. You grimace at the weight, your face blanching while you try to swallow down the bile rising quick and burning in the back of your throat.
Ropes of intestines— shiny, viscous, and twitching— spill from the man's stomach as you shove him off of you using the sword as leverage. It slips from your grip as the man lands on his back beside you, limbs loose and remnants of breath clenching in his chest. You feel tacky and warm, his blood coating your hands, arms, anywhere you have skin.
The smell nearly does you in— thick, hot, a wave of something distinctly fecal mixed sharply with iron that has your own stomach squirming within you like it wants to escape up your throat.
Your fingers ache from gripping the hilt like a lifeline. You stand on legs you're not sure will support you just to add a modicum of distance between the man's body and your own.
As you turn, a sound you've never had cause to make before whines out of you, and you almost let your knees give and bring you back to the blood soaked ground.
There are more.
You count three men— dressed in similar standing to the one slaughtered at your feet, even down to the dirt on their sandals— all with sweaty, desperate faces that shift as they take in the scene before them.
They don't move at first, even though it takes you two tries to yank the sword from the man's chest when your wet fingers lose purchase. Your breaths are ragged, tearing through your throat, and though your arms shake, you lift the blade with both hands.
Armor surges past you toward the other intruders.
The realization that the cry of the man before you drove a sword through him must've alerted the other guards is muted. When they meet the armed strangers, there are stunted shouts and sprays of blood that you turn your back on.
You don’t walk through the halls so much as haunt them— passing through entryways and stalking past rooms without truly noticing the servants and guests alike who gasp or exclaim at your appearance.
The freed strands of hair sticking to your neck, the wet cling of your dress to your legs, the scrape of the sword as it dips in your grasp, the pulsing ache in your cheek where you were struck: none of it registers.
What guards you encounter are just as shocked, and you can’t bring yourself to answer them beyond muttering the word "garden" as your feet carry you toward the throne room where you know your husband will be.
Geta bathes you himself.
Hearing him dismiss the maids and the other servants from the room makes you pause. When he turns back and sees that you're still dressed, he approaches you in the same way he does when Caracalla has one of his bad days.
"I didn't think you'd want more hands on you after…" His jaw ticks when he bites down on the rest of his words. You watch him settle— a slow breath, a flex of his hands. "Come, carissima," he says, "let us make you a queen again."
When you nod, his hand reaches for the knot of fabric at your hip. He looks at you, raising his brows when he hears the way your breath hitches. You nod again and Geta's fingers slowly work the knot loose until your dress is limp and slips from your shoulders.
Geta slowly peels the stained cloth from your body. You duck away from his gaze, something kin to embarrassment making you tremble when the dress collects around your feet and you're left bare.
Fingers at your jaw pull your attention back to your husband's face, but your eyes skirt away from his, unable to bear their full weight.
"The water will be warm."
He takes your hand gently, like he's encouraging a skittish horse to its stall, and walks by your side to the bath. Geta maintains his hold as you step into the steaming, opaque water with sprigs of lavender scattered on the surface, his dark eyes locked on your face.
You try not to compare the heat seeping into your skin with the way the man's blood washed over you.
Geta perches on the edge of the stone bath and pretends not to notice the way the water instantly turns pink around you.
He reaches for you, a spare cloth in his hand, and his sleeve drags into the stained water.
“Your clothes-"
“Never you mind.”
He cleans your face first while cupping your chin in the palm of his free hand. When the angry red mark on your cheek doesn't wash away with the rest of the blood, his ministrations stall. He drops the cloth in the water and slowly tilts your face to the side. Geta brushes his fingertips as gently as he can along its shape, immediately pulling back when you wince an infinitesimal amount.
You can see the tremble in his fingers as he lets you go, and you can feel the restraint coming off of him like heat.
Geta busies his hands with a small, shallow bowl instead of re-killing the man you struck down. He dips it in the water and ushers you to look to the ceiling with the touch of a few fingers under your chin. His hand moves to shield your eyes— his rings cool against your forehead— as he methodically rinses your hair.
You almost offer to simply dunk your head under to make it easier, and as if he can see into your mind he says, "Let me. Just be still."
So you let him.
You're focused on your fingers, using the discarded cloth to try and clear the blood from under and around your nails when something tugs hard enough at your memory to loosen your tongue. “They weren’t wearing armor…”
Geta pauses with a handful of your hair sliding across his palm, barely catching your mumbled comment. “What was that?”
You turn your head, eyes lagging until they slowly lift past Geta’s jaw. “They weren’t wearing any armor. They were just… people. Our people.”
"Our people would not have dared. With what we have given them, they should be grateful. Kneeling at your feet, not-" He blinks, but you catch the memory of your appearance in the throne room replaying in his eyes anyway. “You…” Geta swallows as though this whispered truth is harder to dole out than death sentences or crucifixions. “You frightened me.”
Your stare drifts to his mouth—it’s easier to look at than the shine of his held back tears or the flame of terror you can see heating the brown of his eyes, even if it trembles as he speaks.
“I’m sor-"
Geta shakes his head sharply, cutting you off, He cups your cheek with one hand, shaping his palm against your skin. You can feel his fingers trembling, and you grip his wrist as a shard of apprehension slides between your ribs. Not toward him, not that he’ll do something to you, but that what happened to you has brought him to his knees beside your bloodstained bath with tears in his eyes and fear in his throat.
“I do not want you to apologize.” He says it carefully, measuring his tone, but the words still shake. “You have made no error.”
“I killed our people.”
“No, you- those animals—vermin, refuse—were not our people.”
Your brow furrows slightly. "But, Geta-"
“I don’t care that you killed him. They broke in, those beasts aimed to kill you— their Empress — their goddess among men.”
Your eyes flick up and actually meet his. You know Geta loves you, practically lays offerings at your feet and worships you as he would any of the true gods, but he’s never laid it out so plainly before. Your fingers around his wrist tighten enough that he looks down, surprised, you imagine, from your physical reply.
He leans closer, his other hand cradling your jaw like you’re a sacrosanct artifact lost from time. “It will not happen again. I swear it. The Praetorians are already sweeping the streets, quelling any other insurrectionists, and watching every entrance into this palace. I will keep you safe.”
You lean into his hand on your cheek. “Don’t punish them.”
Geta blinks, thrown off. “Well, no. The Praetorians haven’t-"
“The people,” you clarify. You see his expression shift from focused concern to aghast.
“The people are exactly who need to be punished,” he insists.
“The guilty party has already been dealt with, Geta. I saw to that.” It comes out sounding like a damnation. You take a deep breath before adding, “The guards saw to the rest.”
“They breached our walls!”
Water splashes around you as you stand to face him at equal height. “And they’re dead. The people outside our walls did nothing. Dragging them through the streets will only incite them, make someone bold and angry enough to try again.” You lean forward and rest your forehead against his. “Call them off.”
“You know I can’t-"
“Just this once—for me."
You see something in Geta's face break— a crack beneath the laurels— at your request.
"Take their bodies away, present them how you see fit, make them an example— whatever you need, but don't punish the masses for their actions. No more bloodshed today.”
Geta opens his mouth, his brow quirked in the way you know means he’s about to apologize for refusing you.
You squeeze your eyes shut, pulling his hand to your mouth so you can press your plea to his knuckles. “Please, husband.” You kiss the back of his hand. “Emperor.” Another brush of your lips, this time to the rings on his fingers. “Caesar.”
You don’t realize you’re crying until he sweeps the bead from under your eye. When you look at him once more, you’re met with Geta’s torn expression.
He cannot allow what happened to be met with silence, and you know he wants to rage. You also know what you’re asking of him—to go back on an imperial order, to temper himself, to think when his mind is rampant with vengeance. You've gotten him to tamp down his temper before, gotten him to listen, but that wasn't without it's own struggle. Caracalla tells him— more often than he used to— that you've made him soft.
And now something has happened to you. Rome is its own beast— always in motion, someone to trust with a task, the Senate to handle affairs, his brother to share the burden with— but you are his. His responsibility. His treasure.
He doesn't have to listen to you, but the times when he has, where he leans in and studies your face as though he's never experienced a pleasant surprise, you wear those moments the same way you wear the bruises he sucks on your skin and the impressions of his fingers: with pride.
You pray to whichever god will deign to hear you that your husband will listen once more.
“Geta…”
He nods, a small movement you’d miss if you couldn’t feel it. “Alright,” he sighs.
You watch the weight of the crown, the city, and the Senate's expectations settle on his shoulders, and you feel a twinge of regret. Gratitude blunts its edge, and you nuzzle against his fingers to try and sooth him. “Thank you.”
“I don’t know that I’ll ever understand your heart, wife,” he says as he watches you like you’re a line from a poem he’s trying to peel away the meaning from.
“It chose you.”
That earns you a bemused smile; it’s the softest his face has been since he kissed you awake that morning. “I know.”
He leaves— lamentably and with much reluctance carved into the lines of his forehead— to deliver his new command.
When he returns, you’re dressed in something loose and standing at the balcony, staring out at the city while the sun sets. You feel his eyes on you, his stare pointed and warm on the back of your neck. You look back over your shoulder at him, the sun framing your figure and shading your face.
“Come to bed,” he says, offering his hand to you.
You think he just means you until he starts to unclasp his cape from his shoulders followed by the rest of his finery.
“You’re joining me? So early?” You ask as you settle back against the mass of pillows.
“The Praetorians have been called back, guard rotations enforced, and I see that you’ve had your fill of the plate I had sent to you.”
He comes to your side of the bed and holds your chin in his hand. Geta's dark eyes scan your face slowly, taking the time to catalogue every inch. “No banquettes tonight. No excess. Today is not a day for revelry.” He places a chaste kiss to the crown of your head and pulls the blankets up around your waist with his other hand.
Once he joins you in bed, he pulls you to his chest, a hand in your hair and the other secure at your waist. You feel his breath fan the shell of your ear when he rests his cheek against your head.
He holds you like that in silence long enough for the sun to fully dip below the horizon and the torches to be lit along the corridors. Your eyelids just begin to grow heavy when he speaks, low and quiet as if there are ears nearby he's afraid will overhear.
"I failed you today."
You stir against him when you catch the thick way the words come out. When you lift your head to look at him, Geta's fingers twitch in your hair before falling away.
Even in the dim light you don't miss the way his eyes— clear of the shading he typically wears— are red rimmed and tired.
"You couldn't know," you say, reaching up to cup his cheek. Geta only waits half a breath to lay his own hand over yours, leaning into your touch like it might help keep his heart beating.
"Yes, I could have. I am Rome, and Rome is me. As inviolable as you always are by my side, therefore you will be in this city. I will see that it is so." Geta closes his eyes and presses his forehead to yours. "No harm of any kind will touch you again."
"You mean to cage me," you say lightly, hoping to tease a smile from him just one more time before night encloses on you both.
"Not cage. Safeguard. I…" Geta's arm tightens around your waist. "Rome would not survive your loss."
You pull back, causing him to open his eyes. There is a plea plainly written in those depths that house fire, blood, and devotion.
"I am here, my heart still beats," you say, drawing his hand from his cheek to your chest so he can feel the proof for himself. You watch the way his throat moves as he swallows, eyes turning glassy.
Your hand finds the short strands of his hair at his nape, and you let your fingers burrow there. "I will do whatever is in my power to remain at your side, my love." With a slight tilt of your head, your lips become an offering to rival a slaughtered lamb on an altar. "For Rome's sake."
You swallow the shuddering, grateful breath Geta lets out as his lips meet yours.