Chapter Text
The Dreamer. The Muse. Aurelia. Between the completed military parade and the games in honor of General Acacius’s victory, she would be a welcome diversion. She was fascinating in a way that Geta found distracting.
Her voice. When she’d performed in the throne room, he’d felt the touch of Apollo. He’d already marked her beauty when Sulla, the flattering fool, and his entourage arrived, like a single blooming rose amidst the thorn bush. But then her voice had filled the palace with a sound of bittersweet longing that cut out all others but her. And her song sharpened his eyes to the light that shined in the tendrils of her hair, to her face that was art, to the curves of her body that seemed to be formed by Venus herself. She was a goddess hidden behind a slave’s chains. He thought of the seduction, the corruption of Proserpina and wanted her in his loins and his heart and his guts.
He'd forced his touch into the smooth bare clench of the heat between her legs, and she’d fought him like a gladiator. It had shocked and delighted him. She had answered his prods and jests with verity and grace, and without shame. She was no slave, no prostitute, no concubine. She was noble blood, full of pride and intelligence.
And she belonged to him. How delicious.
He’d given her quarters the connected directly to his. Past Caesars had used the room for spouses, mistresses, eunuchs, lovers, concubines. It was outrageous to give to a slave… but fitting for a Muse.
A slave he could take. No one would stop him. He could have had her already… several times. But a Muse… A Muse would be wooed. A Muse would be pleased. And did not Proserpina fall into the arms of Dis by means of a pomegranate?
Her skin would be kissed with silk. She would be bathed with perfume. She would taste sweetness and wine. She would know the pleasures of the palace. And how he would show her then… How he would show her. But to draw her out. Slowly. Like a blade. Like a lyre string. He wanted her flushed. He wanted her panting. He wanted her lost and slick and shameless… and his. Only his.
Aurelia entered the Emperor’s chamber through the adjoining door to her room. It opened a secret, unmarked door in the wall just at the head of his bed. From the interior of his room, the door was painted to match the rest of the wall, camouflaged but for a small brass loop that turned the latch.
Her quarters on the other side of that door were opulent, larger even than the childhood room she remembered in Aquitania. And the furnishings, the luxuries within were only slightly less than the Emperor himself. There was even another slave, Faustina, a woman slightly younger than herself, who tidied her room. It was exorbitant and unseemly. But pushing boundaries seemed to be the realm of the Emperors. She’d seen that already. She could not fathom the game Geta was playing.
She held her lyre before her like a shield. Beyond wondering what kind of affair she was walking into after being summoned, she lyre gave her comfort and cover, given the revealing nature of her dress. Faustina had brought a gown to her for the day. Apparently it was chosen by Geta himself. It was a shade of a rosy, pink silk that she found lovely and far finer than anything she’d ever worn. It was a tunic, of course, with small brass clasps that closed at each shoulder. But when she was fitted with it, it was then that she noticed the sheerness of the silk. It was not fully transparent, but the outline of her legs, the shape of her breasts was easily distinguished.
She found Geta seated at his desk. It was laden with drawings, maps, scrolls. He was pouring over a map of the Parthian Empire. There was a heaping bowl of strawberries, a golden goblet, and carafe of wine on the table next to the map. His golden laurel crown lay beside the bowl. It looked as if he’d taken it off and forgotten it. A large white cape, gilded in gold thread was draped over the back of his chair.
His tunic was also trimmed in gold and was immaculately white if not thin. It must have been what he’d worn under his golden armor during the parade for General Acacius. She’d seen him from a distance at the top of the palace steps, ready to greet the handsome general with his carrion-bird brother. The armor was long gone now, probably ushered away by slaves earlier. His legs, she noticed were shapely, well-formed, and peppered with hair the same copper shade as that on his head. It occurred to her that this was the first time she’d seen his legs up close. He looked smaller like this, less a peacock and more a man.
He hadn’t turned toward her when she entered. He seemed too lost in study. She take her time in her appraisal of him. She took in his hands, his perfectly shaped nails, his rings, the golden cuffs at his wrists. He was still wearing his face chalk, hardly needed when his skin was already so fair. His eyes were lined in kohl and red ochre, even as he furrowed his brow over the map. She was again struck by the alien beauty of him. He seemed part Apollo, part Dis, the sun and the darkness in one. He attracted and frightened her in equal measure.
She moved closer and he turned to her at last. When his dark eyes found her, the furrow in his brow melted and a playful smile painted his face.
“Aurelia!” he said, magnanimously.
The corners of her mouth curled helplessly. She curtsied. “You summoned me, your Majesty,” she said.
“Indeed,” he replied. “I have much on my mind of late.” He gestured to the maps. “My plans for the empire, the affairs of state can be quite… taxing.” He smirked, but there was a darkness behind his eyes. “I require the respite of art, the talent of my musician to soothe me.” He turned to the few slaves in the corners of the room. “Leave us,” he ordered. They slipped away silently.
Geta leaned back in his chair. His eyes moved over her in their way, a lazily thorough examination. “You look beautiful,” he said. His voice was soft. “It’s silk for you or nothing at all.” He smirked at her blush. “Come, Dreamer,” he said, raising an inviting hand. “Sing me a song.” He lowered his voice to a breath. “I long for something soft.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Aurelia replied.
His appraisal of her, his playful smirk, the alien beauty of him had sped her heart, but the prospect of song calmed her. Music was comfort. Music was home. She began the notes of a familiar song, she closed her eyes and began to sing.
When the blazing sun hangs low in the western sky,
when the wind dies away on the mountain,
when the song of the meadowlark turns still,
when the field locust clicks no more in the field,
and the sea foam sleeps like a maiden at rest,
and twilight touches the shape of the wandering earth,
I turn home.
Through blue shadows and purple woods,
I turn home.
I turn to the place that I was born,
to the mother who bore me and the father who taught me,
long ago, long ago, long ago.
Alone am l now, lost and alone, in a far, wide, wandering world.
Yet still when the blazing sun hangs low,
when the wind dies away and the sea foam sleeps,
and twilight touches the wandering earth,
I turn home.
She opened her eyes at the end of her song, and found his eyes on hers again, large and black. There was a depth there that took her breath a moment, profound and yet predatory. His was the peacock, true, but he was also a jungle cat, sleek and beautiful and dangerous. She feared him almost as much as she wanted to touch him.
“The gods favor you,” he said, almost a whisper. The playfulness of him was gone. There was a look on his face she could not place. “You have the divine within you.”
Aurelia swallowed. “Your Majesty is too kind.”
“I am nothing of the sort,” he said. He held her eyes a long moment and then a low slow deadly smirk slithered over his mouth. “I wonder,” he began, “have you ever had a strawberry?”
It seemed a strange and sudden question. Aurelia looked at the bowl on the table. It was piled high with red berries, ripe and glistening. They looked almost too perfect. “It has been a very long time, Highness,” she said. “I can’t remember…”
“Ah,” he replied, nodding. He stood from his chair and moved close to her. Aurelia thought again of the jungle cat as he moved slowly and lithely. “A pity.” He crossed her shoulder, brushing against her, moving behind her. “They say,” he started. His voice was a breath, his mouth close enough to the shell of her ear that she could almost feel his lips. Her heart was a fluttering thing. Gooseflesh glittered over her arms. “They say that strawberries belong to Venus.” He moved to speak against her opposite ear. She could feel the heat of him so close to her. She drew in a breath that wanted to fight her. Her nipples stiffened against the softness of her silk gown. She could feel the throb of her heartbeat in her sex. “Their color, the shape like a heart, the sweetness…” He spoke this last word against her earlobe and trapped it for a tiny moment between his lips. Aurelia sucked in breath, and he chuckled through his nose. “Come,” he said. He moved around her nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t touched her at all and reached for the bowl. He took one of the ripe red berries in his fingers and held it out to her. “Have a taste.”
Aurelia took the berry, brushing his warm fingers with hers as she plucked it from him. He smirked again as he ran his eyes over her. He took the lyre carefully from her other hand and laid it on the table almost reverently. He pulled his chair close to her, terribly close, and lowered himself into the seat. He was so near her, he had to move his knees on either side of her legs.
“Please,” he said, nodding to the fruit.
Aurelia raised the strawberry to her lips by the green stem and bit deep. The juicy sweetness was a revelation, the taste of home and childhood. She could have wept. Geta watched her intently as she ate, and gazed as she licked her lips when she finished.
“Have another,” he said. He was almost panting.
Aurelia looked to the bowl and reached out to take another strawberry. When she reached her hand for the fruit, she felt Geta reach up to her right shoulder. With exquisite speed and exquisite softness, his fingers found the brass clasp that held the right side of her tunic. The clasp parted under his touch. Aurelia gasped and stiffened. She met Geta’s eyes below her in the chair. She did not move her gaze from his as he lowered the silk, grazing his fingertips over her skin like a feather, exposing her right breast. Her nipple was a tight peak of dark pink. Geta’s eyes fell to it as he sucked his full lower lip into his mouth, wetting it, pinking it. “Pleasure,” he drawled. “One sweet fruit for another.” His eyes flicked to the strawberry in her hand. “Eat.”
Aurelia drew the strawberry to her mouth and at the same time Geta brought his mouth to her breast. He ran his bottom lip over her nipple, watching her eyes all the while. The taste of the strawberry combined with the feel of his lips could have stopped her heart. Geta closed his eyes and then laved his tongue over the stiff tip of her breast and Aurelia’s breath caught. The throb in her sex was now a screaming ache. He closed his mouth over her and sucked her nipple into his mouth. Aurelia made a sound, a kind of breathy whimper that made Geta laugh against her, and the vibration of it caused her to drop the strawberry stem and bury her hands in the shine of his copper hair. He wrapped both arms around her waist above him, pulling her tighter to him. He circled his tongue over her even as he suckled her. And then she felt the brush of his teeth. Aurelia felt her hips surge forward against him, almost independent of her will.
His mouth finally released her. He flicked his tongue over her wet reddened nipple one last time before he looked up at her. He smirked, darkly. “A sweeter fruit than even the gods could offer.” Aurelia was struggling for breath, unsure of what to say, afraid to move. “My muse,” he said. “My Dreamer.” He released her. “Perhaps that is enough of a lesson for today.” She audibly panted and he chuckled again. “I take it the lesson was well received.”
“Sire,…” she tried.
“There will be more,” he interrupted. His smile was one of dark promise. He lifted the side of her tunic and reattached the clasp at her shoulder with a softness and care she would never have thought him capable of. Her nipples were daggers against the pink silk. “I have never been a keener tutor,” he said. Geta’s gaze rolled to the bowl of strawberries again. “Perhaps you should take the rest of the fruit,” he said. “They’ll never satisfy me now.”
Aurelia had played her lyre in the palace for days, entertainment for visiting dignitaries, courtiers and the like. And every time that she felt Geta’s eyes on her across the room, she felt the rush of blood to her skin. He was…
He was corrupt. He was wicked. He bent to the whims of flattery of sycophants. The affairs of state he oversaw were self-serving. His punishments were swift and cruel. Even so, he was a far more accomplished leader than his brother, who seemed barely able to dress himself, he was so often in his cups. But Geta was a poor emperor. Aurelia knew this.
Still…
His eyes. His voice. The wicked power of him. The wicked power he seemed to have over her, regardless of her belonging to him, regardless of his ownership. Aurelia found herself wishing that he would summon her to his chambers again, for her education, as he called it, that Faustina would say he had called for her, had demanded her.
Though he had tried his best not to hurt her, Dumenian had taken her virginity the way a small child eats a honey cake, all at once in the excitement of the taste. But Geta seemed intent to draw her out rather than take what he wanted. He seemed curious to find her pleasure. It was a dance, a seduction, and it was driving her mad. The thought of his arms around her, of his mouth on her again. She’d brought a hand between her legs on more than one occasion in her quarters at night at the thought of him. It seemed her dignity was a foreign thing now. When sycophants reached for him, Aurelia wanted to push them away. When his eyes fell on hers, or he gave her his knowing smirk, she only wanted him more. This must have been the way of Medusa and Neptune. Her want of him was making her monstrous.
It was in the cool of an evening when a pair of Praetorian guards finally collected her from her chambers. Geta, it seemed, had called for her and asked for her lyre. Rather than bringing her again through the hidden door to his room, however, they led her down a back passage in the palace, down to the balnea.
The palace had its own baths, of course, for the emperors and honored guests only. Staff and imperial slaves used the public thermae as other citizens did.
The Praetorian led her into the fragrant steam of the caldarium, the hot bath. It was a wide pool set into the floor, heated by a furnace beneath the palace, and was one of three baths there (all in separate rooms), including the tepidarium (the warm bath) and the frigidarium (the cold bath). In this room, the heat was not only in the caldarium, but in the air. Where the palace was usually blessedly cool, here it felt like a garden at noon. And there, half-submerged and leaning back against the stone walls of the bath, was the Emperor Geta, the copper of his hair now ruddy from the water. The guards showed her to a bench opposite the bath facing him and turned to leave without a word.
“My dreamer,” Geta said, warmly. “My heart hungers for music. I pray you. Feed me.” He smiled, wickedly amused as he reached for the wine goblet next to him over the lip of the bath and drank deep.
“As you wish, sire,” she said, and began to play.
There were half a dozen slaves here, male and female. They were all only dressed in subligaculum, the women with their breasts wrapped in linen bandages. They were silent, awaiting a call or a demand.
Geta kept his hungry eyes on her as she played. It was the first time she’d ever seen him without his makeup. He looked older this way, less alien, but still beautiful. The heat of the caldarium had flushed the pale skin of his face, of his throat and upper chest, and she could see the beaded drops of water and sweat there. His full lips were pink with wine.
“Titus. Marcia,” he called. His eyes never left Aurelia and her lyre. Without warning, he stood from the bath and stepped out, dripping, onto the warm stones. He turned to face Aurelia again and stretched out his arms on either side of his body.
The Emperor Geta was naked before her, rivulets of water running down his flushed alabaster skin, and he was letting her see all of him. The notes of her lyre song faltered a moment, and she quickly resumed her song by muscle memory. Praise the gods that the song was in her hands, for her mind could not find the music.
Two slaves (Titus and Marcia) stepped forward, and began smoothing olive oil over his skin, his arms, his legs, his torso. And still Geta’s eyes were on her.
She moved her eyes over his body. He was a sculpture. There were subtle lines of muscle in his arms, his chest and stomach, his thighs. His manhood hung in a light dusting of copper hair. Even his feet were elegant. And when Aurelia moved her eyes again to the root of him, she noticed it thickening before her. She met Geta’s eyes and saw a desire in them that matched her own. It felt hotter here in the caldarium than when she’d first entered. There was a drumbeat of need in the tips of her breasts, in her womanhood.
When the slaves had coated him in a sheen of oil, they each retrieved a bronze strigil and began rasping the oil from his skin, and wiping the strigils clean with a linen towel. They said nothing. Whether they noticed the tension coiling between Geta and Aurelia or not, they made no sign. And when they had finished his strigiling, Geta took a clean towel from Titus and swiped it over his body, removing any remnants of the oil, taking his time.
He stood still again, letting Aurelia look. He smirked at her and tucked his bottom lip between his teeth a moment. At last, he took a larger towel from Marcia and wrapped it around his waist.
“This heat,” he said. “The caldarium is too much for me this evening. I go to the frigidarium.” He nodded to Aurelia. “Thank you for the music, my Muse,” he said. “But I will go on in silence. You may return to your quarters… if it please you.” He must have seen the disappointment in her eyes, for he smiled wickedly. “Goodnight, Aurelia.”
He passed by her and out of the caldarium, followed by the other slaves, and Aurelia wondered again if he were Dis himself.
Carracalla was impressed with all the luxuries on offer at the home of Senator Thraex. There was wine by the barrel, exotic fruits, a cadre of musicians. Roasted game by the pound, even a rhinoceros head from which horn dust could be scraped. There were honey cakes laced with cannabis, and Carracalla immediately accepted a crucible of burning opium, despite Geta’s attempts at protestation. Carracalla announced loudly that Thraex had created for them a paradise.
Geta was less impressed. It was true that Thraex had spent an obvious fortune on this party, and had, of course, offered them every luxury possible. But Geta could not look Thraex in the painted face and not think of Aurelia, of how he groomed her like a brood mare for his degenerate son and then sold her to Sulla when the deed was done.
“Where is your son, Senator Thraex?” Geta asked. His smile did not reach his kohl-painted eyes. “Dumenian is his name, I believe.”
Thraex looked confused. “He is in Capri, Your Majesty,” he replied. “But I know he is disappointed not to have seen your Highnesses in person.”
“Ah,” Geta said. “It is a pity he could not join us.” He sipped his wine. “Still,” he said, “Capri is a good place. Healthy. Restful. May his stay be a long one.”
Thraex now looked concerned as well as confused. “Thank you, sire.” It was almost a question.
Geta offered him a small smile that was little more than a sneer of disgust.
Thraex, desperate to ingratiate himself and escape whatever poor exchange was happening here, raised his voice. “My Emperors.” He bowed low and swept his hands, ushering them over to the small group of scantily clad and painted youths at the corner of the room. “I have procured… companions for you for the occasion. Please. The choice is yours.”
Carracalla grinned and tittered. He singled out not one but three topless painted boys for himself, who grinned lasciviously and curled themselves around him.
Geta looked over the others. Lovely, smooth, and painted they were, but none stood out to him. He would not let himself reflect on what the reason why might be. That is, until he saw one girl with the others. She was wearing a crimson tunic, nearly transparent and belted in a fashion that left her bare from ankle to shoulder on the right side of her body. Her right breast was exposed, and her nipple was painted in gold… in the shape of a strawberry.
“Her,” Geta said. “What is your name?”
“Her name is Penelope, Highness,” Thraex answered for her.
“She’ll do.”
“Stand back! Stand back!” Thraex cried, clapping. He bowed to Geta and Carracalla deeply. “My emperors,” he announced, “Lords, ladies and gentlemen, and senators. For your entertainment, the art of combat! May I present the barbarian versus, from my own stable, the mighty Vichek!”
Applause broke out as Thraex’s gladiator, Vichek, a huge brute of a man dressed in yellow entered the room from one side, while a smaller gladiator (though still powerful looking) entered from the opposite side. This one was younger, handsomer, newer.
“This is your gladiator?” Geta asked Marcus Macrinus who stood beside him on the dais.”
“It is,” Macrinus replied.
Outmatched, Geta thought, dejectedly. A pity. A loss for Thraex would be delightful.
“Three rounds,” Thraex said. “Hand to hand.”
“Swords!” Carracalla cried, nearly falling off his chais. “We want swords! A fight to the death.” He patted the face of the boy at his feet. “No quarter to be offered or given. Fight now!” Carracalla looked to Geta and saw confusion there.
Geta would not contradict his brother before the guests and senators, but the opium was a mistake.
Still the fight began, and to Geta’s amused surprise, Macrinus’s barbarian was holding his own against the much large Vichek. Thraex’s horse was on the defensive.
Blood lust rose in Geta and without realizing, he pulled the female hand that had been caressing his neck down over his heart. It was only when he looked down at the hand that he noticed the painted nails. This was not the graceful hand he wished for, the hand that belonged to the woman who would have loved to see Thraex fail. He tossed her hand away, and Penelope contented herself with caressing his neck and shoulder again.
Broken furniture. Blood on the floor. Grunts and screams and cheers. And in a flash, the barbarian had buried his sword in Vichek’s gut. Shocked cried echoed in the room. Geta looked to Thraex and saw his face fall in disappointment and anxiety. Geta grinned and applauded loudly.
“Remarkable!” he cried, jumping from the dais. “Remarkable!” He seized Thraex by one arm and whispered in his ear. “Thraex, he looked expensive.”
Thraex laughed without mirth.
I hope he was, Geta thought. Enjoy your defeat, buffoon.
“Congratulations,” Geta offered Macrinus. “Remarkable,” he repeated as he approached the barbarian.
He’d thought this gladiator looked newer. And upon closer inspection, noted that they must have been nearly the same age. “From where do you hail?” he asked.
The barbarian said nothing, but he did not bow or look away from Geta. Not born a slave.
Like Aurelia.
“Speak,” Geta said. Nothing. “I said speak.”
“He is from the colonies, Your Majesty. His native tongue is all he understands,” Macrinus offered.
The barbarian at last opened his mouth and began to speak. “The gates of Hell are open night and day,” he said. “Smooth is the descent and easy is the way.” The barbarian laughed at this. A feeling of cold fell over Geta. Had he heard these words before? “But to come back from Hell and view the cheerful skies, in this the task and mighty labor lies.”
Silence followed his words for a moment and Geta’s thoughts again returned to Aurelia. And to Prosperina. And to Dis.
“Virgil, Your Majesty,” Macrinus said.
“Poetry!” Carracalla cried. He stumbled from the chais. “Very clever Macrinus! I’ve grown so bored, but you surprise me.” He was slurring badly.
“To amuse you is my only wish,” Macrinus replied.
“We are amused. We are amused,” Geta said to Macrinus. He turned back to the barbarian with the eyes full of pride. Like hers. “We are amused,” he repeated. “And we all look forward to seeing your poet perform in the arena.”
Amo, ergo sum, he thought. So you are a poet as well.