And I Repeat

Caracalla sat beside me, habitually holding my hand. He was engrossed in the fight, but I didn't care. He bounced in his seat, laughed, fidgeted, and his hand twitched from the inertia. I was preoccupied with thoughts about next week's dinner. Suddenly, Caracalla jumped up and ran to the railing. Jufus' gladiators had lost. The next fight was the poet's, the gladiator Macrinus', with my fighter. Sorry, brother, but your favorite has no chance.   "Brother, it's the poet!" Caracalla exclaimed, pointing to the arena. "I'll be rooting for him, will you?"   I squinted, peered at his figure, and didn't see a shadow of what the Numidian had so endeared himself to my brother.   "I think there are no options here."   "Weeell, you're such a bore!" Caracalla mumbled and returned to his seat.   The fight was interesting and dynamic, but I couldn't sit still. I wanted the poet to finally be killed and rid me of the extra headache. Everything was so simple for Caracalla. And I was going crazy from palace intrigues, gossip, and conspiracies. My brother had no idea how much I had to think about; solve problems with the Senate, which was showing more and more disobedience every day; get up at the crack of dawn to listen to the dry and useless report of Acacia's man about Macrinus. And my brother's main concern was to persuade me to share a bed with this barbarian. But I was used to it. Almost.   "He disappointed me. What do you say, brother?" Caracalla's voice brought me out of my thoughts. My fighter stood over the defeated poet, awaiting my decision.   "Kill him, I suppose. Lucilla?" I turned and looked at Acacia's wife. Lately, she had been as quiet as a mouse, like her husband. I decided that they were mourning their father and were not yet used to obeying my brother and me. I didn't attach much importance to their strangeness.   "Spare him," she answered quietly but firmly.   "Well, what about you, Caracalla?" I knew the Numidian had to be killed. This question was more of a courtesy.   "Hmm..." my brother thought. "I still like the way he moves. You remember my plans for him?"   "I was hoping I made myself clear then," I answered sternly.   Caracalla understood everything instantly. He jumped up and, pushing me back, stretched out his hand, pointing his finger up. Before I could react, the Numidian shouted something about not needing Roman mercy.   A couple of moments later, the fighter lay in a pool of his own blood. I rolled my eyes. My brother had ruined everything again.   "And what was that?" I turned to Caracalla when he sat back down.   "You wanted to decide everything for me again! You always do that! Why can't I even determine the fate of a slave?!" he shouted indignantly.   I realized that if I didn't stop this avalanche of emotions, Acacius and Lucilla would learn what they didn't need to know.   "We'll talk later," I cut him off, sighing wearily. How many problems can be created out of nothing.   Caracalla wanted to say something else, but I gave him such a look that any madman like my brother would understand that it was better to keep silent. We rode to the palace in silence, if, of course, the streets of Rome are ever quiet.   ***   As soon as we entered, Caracalla gave vent to his feelings. He took off his wreath and threw it somewhere to the side. Then he turned to the servant and ordered her to bring the Numidian to his chambers. I, apparently, was assigned the role of observer.   "I'm so tired of this! I'm so tired of all of you!" Caracalla shouted. "First, our father with his moralizing and comparisons: be like Geta, do like Geta, Geta-Geta-Geta! We rule Rome together, Geta! Not you alone! And if I want a poet, I'll get him! And you know why? Because I have the same rights as you!" he hurled the last sentence in my face.   "Caracalla…" I began, but my brother couldn't be stopped. I knew how this would end. He would say that I am nothing without him, knock something over, leave, and apologize in the evening.   "No, now you listen to me! I'm always in the second role — and I don't mind. But don't tell me what to do with my own body. You took control of the senate, but they love you because of me. You look good in contrast to me, don't you? Just don't forget that without me, you are nothing. No. Thing." He came close to me again, emphasizing each syllable. He didn't understand that this didn't offend me.   I spread my hands.   "Okay. Fine. As you say. Have fun with your poet as much as you want."   Or did it offend me?   I continued.   "But when I step aside, you'll deal with everything yourself. If you're not going to be useful, at least don't get in the way."   After these words, Caracalla overturned a vase that happened to be at hand and lunged at me with a shard in his hand. Due to the difference in height and strength, he did not achieve the desired success. I snatched the shard, put my brother on the floor, and pinned him down with my own weight. He waved his arms helplessly, squealing loudly.   "I wanted to do this for us!" he shouted, gasping for air. "I… I wanted the three of us… Why?! Why don't you listen to me!"   I got off him, making sure there were no sharp objects nearby.   "Caracalla, there is no ‘three of us’, there is us, and there are the others. When you understand this, you will understand why I try so hard to preserve this fragile world. Everything could be so beautiful…" I tried to catch my breath. "And you ruin everything with stupid ideas."   "Why are they stupid?" it seemed that true incomprehension of the essence of the problem could be read in his eyes. And I was just jealous. Perhaps there really was nothing stupid about this idea with the gladiator. Perhaps I made it up.   "Because…" I began, not knowing what to say. Suddenly, the servant entered, and Caracalla instantly turned around.   "Master, the Numidian is waiting for you in your bedroom," she said and, correctly assessing the situation, immediately left.   We exchanged glances.   "So why is the idea stupid?" Caracalla seemed to have lost interest in the coveted toy. At least he was ready to listen to me — and that didn't happen often.   "Because all the previous years you had gladiators, slaves, and concubines. But you didn't have me. We dreamed that someday we would be alone, that we wouldn't hide from our parents, that we would become free. But permissiveness corrupts you, you don't know how to stop. Look at me. I'm here, with you. And you attacked me with a shard with the intention to kill. You know that I love you. No one else loves you, but I do. But you don't appreciate it. You appreciate momentary whims."   Caracalla blushed. Perhaps, just perhaps, for the first time in his life, he was truly ashamed.   "You'll drive me crazy," he breathed out. His fit of rage began to subside.   "You'll do it sooner," I grinned.   "I'm sorry. I didn't understand. I don't know what came over me, I'm like in a fog. As if I'm not me, and you're someone else. I let you down again…" Caracalla buried his forehead in his knees, sitting on the floor. "But let's at least try. Once. If you don't like it, we'll stop immediately. I promise."   I had nothing to counter this with. After all, I'm no saint either. The idea of possessing the Numidian, who a couple of hours ago was insulting Rome, attracted me. I loved to break people who didn't want to submit. And with a slave—what scope for creativity. I didn't know how to be gentle. With anyone except Caracalla. The gentle Emperor Geta... It even sounds ridiculous.   On the other hand — to give in? To allow Caracalla to satisfy his whims? Just like that? I insisted so much that this poet wasn't necessary for him. That we didn't need him. But something was burning inside me; I felt a familiar itch. Similar to the one when my father took me to interrogations where prisoners were tortured. For some reason, Caracalla wasn't interested in this — he preferred instant death.   "Alright. Let's go. Let's have some fun," I resolutely stood up from the floor and gave my brother my hand, calling out to the servants. "Bring hot coals to the bedroom."   ***   Caracalla lay on my chest and sometimes said "thump-thump"—in time with my heartbeat. I stroked my brother's red hair, which had tangled into mats after a hard day. The makeup on his face was smeared, as was mine. My twin smelled of sweat and some kind of massage oil—combined, they smelled so intoxicating that my head spun. The bed was covered in grease and dried semen, but I felt no disgust—we did this even when our parents were still alive. Now we could simply have sex whenever and with whomever we wanted. Even with each other. Father wouldn't have liked that. I imagined his sullen face and laughed.   My brother had less luck with paternal love. What was forgiven for me was not forgiven for him. But he grew up guileless. Of course, he wasn't kind and welcoming, mostly because of his illness. But I knew that Caracalla was more moral than me. He wasn't as cruel. Not as selfish. Where I manipulated the concepts of love, he took everything at face value. And after each of our quarrels, I knew he was sorry. And the most important thing for me was to not let him leave. And if I needed to hate my father for not allowing us intimacy, I would hate him. If I needed to burn Rome, destroy the empire, so as not to compete for power, I was ready to do that too. The only problem was that I lacked the courage.   But I had enough courage to protect my brother. I took all the care of him upon myself. There was one issue I couldn't solve — the Senate. People saw that Caracalla wasn't right in the head. They didn't listen to him, they laughed at him behind his back. And I had to defend his honor, but instead, I only strengthened my own position. I didn't tolerate open mockery and attacks on Caracalla. But I was perfectly aware that he was sick, and the Senate needed someone to look up to. There had to be a strong leader. If my brother had his way, he would appoint Macrinus as consul and some other useless ape he'd brought from Africa. He was detached from reality, and I wasn't helping him stand on his own two feet at all. After the incident with the poet, I realized that, in fact, I was only indulging his desires.   A quiet snore distracted me from my thoughts. Caracalla had fallen asleep in my arms.   I liked to imagine that he was mine now. I replayed the scenes in my head with relish: how he obediently knelt before me; how he looked into my eyes while sucking my cock; how he moaned when he was close; and how he moved his hips towards me when I took him from behind.  Undoubtedly, his body was made for sex. It accepted me like no other. If Caracalla hadn't wasted his time on slaves and had at least once turned to experienced priestesses, he would have discovered a lot for himself. But he wasn't interested in girls. Those concubines he had ended up crucified after a week or two. He was capricious; he liked muscular, strong men. For some reason, he liked to subjugate them. I noticed this when I watched him fuck the poet. But only with me was he on the bottom. And I… I enjoyed being special.   Speaking of the poet. He screamed amusingly when Caracalla entered him without preparation. I was an observer again, my brother did everything himself. He branded him, shackled him, tamed the wild beast. At first, the Numidian didn't like it. But in the end, I'm sure his moans were heard throughout the palace. He didn't cum because even before I allowed intimacy, Caracalla ordered his entire groin to be clamped. My brother said he wanted to impress me. Poor poet. But now he has an event to write a whole poem about. Caracalla released his anger while whipping his back, burning his nipples. I said that my brother wasn't that cruel, but I must make a correction: that's true, as long as it doesn't involve sex with slaves. As I watched the proud Numidian submit through unbearable pain, I felt an erection. Caracalla only satisfied me after he smeared the poet's ass with semen mixed with blood. He seemed pleased with himself as the maid led the tortured and humiliated gladiator away. I wonder what Macrinus will say about this? It's his slave, after all. Although, I think, nothing. He won't dare.   The way my brother fucked the Numidian was completely different from the way I fuck Caracalla. For me, he is such a fragile treasure that I'm afraid to hurt him. I know Caracalla won't admit it and will remain silent. Only a particularly loud moan will betray his feelings. I choose the angles of penetration, I make sure my cock is lubricated. I don't take him by force if he's not in the mood. I invent new preludes with the imagination of the ancients when they named the constellations. I try to be gentle with him. If someone like me can be gentle at all.   I surveyed the bedroom with a critical eye. It definitely needed cleaning. But while Caracalla was sleeping and hearing the beat of my heart through his sleep, I couldn't disturb him. Deep down, I hoped that my brother had had enough fun, and I wouldn't see the barbarian poet again. Unless it was in the arena of the Colosseum. I wonder how soon he'll be able to walk, considering Caracalla made every effort to ensure that wouldn't happen in the next couple of weeks.   ***   I woke up in my bed. More precisely, I was awakened by a servant to be notified of the arrival of a man from the Acacius' legion. I didn't know his name, but the information he reported was of even less value. The only thing that had changed this time was that Macrinus had a daughter he had been hiding. She didn't live in his house, didn't see him regularly, but the Acacia people somehow established a connection between them. Imagine my surprise when I was told that she had red hair coupled with a sickly thinness. I was hoping it was just a coincidence, because her name wasn't really known — Macrinus always called her some ridiculous pet name.   The servant ushered the informant out as soon as I started putting this whole mosaic together in my head. If Macrinus's daughter is Alturia, Alferia or whatever-her-name-is, then this is terrible It was understandable why she didn't want wealth or life in the palace. But I still hoped that these were just guesses. In my eyes, the slave owner had become even more dangerous.   While the servants dressed me and applied paint to my face, I tried to peer into my own reflection in the mirror. Two insane eyes, lined with black, stared back at me. I wondered if I was as insane as my brother? Maybe it wasn't him who was going crazy, but me? How do you determine the line between dream and reality when your whole life has been just a rehearsal for the main act? It has arrived, and I'm as if playing it in an empty hall. No, this is not the greatness of the emperor. I am his pathetic semblance, and we both knew it. Caracalla didn't have to play along with me. But for some reason, he believed in me more than I did myself.   A servant approached me with a message from my brother: he was waiting for me in the meeting room on an urgent matter. I didn't postpone it and immediately headed to another part of the palace. Caracalla was already there, along with all the senators. On the agenda were the games — as we were explained, there was no money in the treasury for them. Only a week had passed out of two months; my strategically important dinner party was scheduled for tomorrow. The news in the Senate was very untimely.   Of course, the first to start complaining was my brother. He shouted that the senators were thieves, and there was no money left in the treasury because of them. I knew that the games were indeed a bad idea, but how could I convince Caracalla otherwise? The treasury was empty because our father didn't know how to manage affairs, and my brother spent the last pennies on the restoration of the Colosseum. But as usual, I had to make the decision.   Caracalla was somehow calmed down, and silence fell in the hall. All eyes were on me, and I had nothing to say. Moreover, I didn't want to say anything, because my thoughts were occupied with how to prevent a riot due to the cancellation of the games, which was where everything was heading. We had a grain reserve, we could sell it. But this is a guaranteed famine in a couple of years if we are unlucky with the weather and there is no good harvest. But what is more important - to arrange a famine for the poor or to stay on the throne? Caracalla would choose the second option, and I never cared about the poor.   "We will sell the grain reserve," I voiced my decision. "We will spend part of it on games, part on social events."   "But, Emperor—" Gracchus began, but Caracalla intervened in the conversation.   "Gracchus, you're complaining again. Do you need it more than anyone else?" my brother drawled lazily.   "With all due respect, but I am worried about the fate of Rome. This is a decision that has very serious consequences. Are the games worth it?" the senator insisted.   "Do you want to participate in the games yourself to check it out?" I asked insinuatingly. Gracchus irritated me the more he opened his mouth.   The senator fell silent.   "No, my Emperor. I just hope for your prudence, which—"   "Which my brother and I have more than enough of," I cut him off, meeting Caracalla's encouraging gaze from across the hall. "Is there anything else?"   The senators exchanged glances, whispers came from the far corners. But no one dared to object to us. As always. Caracalla rose from his seat, took his sword and began to pace around the hall, shifting the weapon from one hand to the other.   "Brother, they just want to overwhelm us with questions so that we hang ourselves out of boredom," Caracalla chuckled. "Games, Gracchus, are our way of expressing love for the people. Who else would dare to do such a thing? The greatness of Rome, which you all love to talk about so much, is in the people. And if the people are happy, isn't that a celebration for the empire? My father tried to follow the advice of the Senate. He wanted to do everything "right" and listened to a bunch of old men, that  —  to you. But the people did not love him, and attempts to appease the Senate led to the crisis of the empire. You all had power then, but times are changing."   My brother approached the senator and pointed his sword at him. Gracchus stoically remained silent, realizing that he was in the minority. Although I noticed that he was bursting with discontent, I knew (everyone knew) —  would not go against the others.   "If the questions and problems for today are exhausted, then the meeting is adjourned," I summarized, rising to my feet.   The silence became ringing, and only Caracalla's laughter broke it, adding something ominous to ournewly minted dictatorship. But I was comfortable being a villain. The main thing is that I was a villain in good company.