7.
October 8, 2025 at 5:32 AM
Late in the evening, when the palace should have been cloaked in darkness and silence, we convened a clandestine meeting in the imperial study. Only four of us were present: I, sprawled in an oversized chair that dwarfed my frame; Caracalla, perched casually on the broad armrest beside me; Quintus, who had rushed to answer my summons; and… Macrinus. My brother had insisted on inviting him, and I chose not to argue. Despite my distaste for the slaver, I knew his cunning and intellect could serve us well at this moment.
"…And so, the question remains: what do we do?" I asked, having laid out the dire situation we faced.
"Deploying the Praetorians against Acacius's army would be futile," Quintus mused, scratching his bald head thoughtfully.
"Why's that?" Caracalla interjected, his grasp of military strategy as flimsy as ever. I could have silenced him, but I let it pass.
"Six thousand against five thousand isn't much of an advantage, my lord," Quintus replied. "Acacius's legions are better trained. At best, we'd only delay them."
"If we pit the legions against the Praetorians, we'll gut Rome's military strength," Macrinus added. "The moment barbarians strike, we'd collapse like a house of straw in a gale."
I leaned forward, my mind racing. "But we have reserves. The army that fought in Numidia, now marching on Rome, is loyal to Acacius. The reserves, however, don't care who they follow—Quintus, you, or him. To them, you're both commanders of equal standing."
"What are you suggesting, Emperor?" Quintus's eyes lit up with curiosity.
"You'll ride to the nearby provinces and rally the uncommitted legions," I said firmly.
"That'll take time," Quintus countered, his tone skeptical. "Acacius's army is already on the move. I won't make it in time…"
I raised a hand, cutting him off. "We'll position the Praetorians at Rome's outskirts. We won't win, but we'll buy you the time to muster the troops and strike their legions from the rear."
"The losses will be catastrophic, Emperor," Macrinus cautioned, his voice laced with unease. "And blockading the roads to Rome will choke the city. No food, no water—famine will follow."
A heavy silence descended. Caracalla stared at the ceiling, his expression a mix of confusion and boredom. Quintus kept scratching his head, Macrinus drummed his fingers against the wall, and I let out a weary sigh. I still felt wretched—beyond wretched, if I was honest.
"Let's try a different angle," I said, breaking the quiet. "Can we avoid a clash with Acacius's legions altogether?"
Quintus and Macrinus shook their heads. Caracalla, slouching with one leg crossed over the other, stared at the floor. I'd expected as much.
"Then it doesn't matter where we fight—outside Rome or within it," I concluded. "If we let them into the city, it's over. We have no other choice."
"There is one, if I may, my lord," Macrinus ventured. I gestured for him to continue. "If we eliminate the ring's owner, there's no need for war."
"Do you have any leads on finding them?" I asked, my tone dripping with skepticism.
"We have Acacius."
"His duel with your Numidian barbarian is set for tomorrow, as agreed," I nodded. "But what's the point? Even if we tortured Acacius with hot irons, he'd never reveal who his wife gave the ring to."
"If we issue an ultimatum, my lord—"
"No," I cut him off, waving a hand. "They'd die for Rome—damn it all—before betraying Lucilla's son."
Caracalla, who had been silent and disinterested, suddenly turned to me with a grin. "I like your plan, brother. Execute Acacius, deploy the Praetorians. Why are we even debating this?"
His opinion carried little weight, but I appreciated the support, however naive. It warmed something in me, even if just for a moment.
"We're making a mistake," Quintus said grimly.
"Got a better idea?" Caracalla snapped, his voice sharp with irritation, signaling he'd already made up his mind.
"No, my lord. My apologies," Quintus muttered, deflating instantly.
"Macrinus?" I turned to the slaver.
"I am your servant, Emperor," he replied evasively.
Perhaps we were wrong, and Macrinus's grim predictions would come to pass. But the situation demanded swift, decisive action, leaving no room for alternatives. None of us could escape the risks—least of all me.
I hesitated for a moment before declaring the meeting adjourned.
As soon as I returned to my chambers, exhaustion and illness overwhelmed me. I collapsed onto the bed, plagued by doubts and a gnawing sense that something was amiss. It wasn't just Acacius, the looming famine, or my failing health. My instincts screamed that I'd overlooked something crucial. I could have driven myself mad trying to pinpoint it, but no answers came. All my scheming had led to was stress and sickness. I had no strength left to fight the tides of fate; I was ready to raise my hand and surrender, like a cowardly gladiator begging for the gods' mercy.
The gods… laughable. I'd never revered them. Their myths and rituals were nothing but a facade for true belief. My faith lay in the haze of fine wine and the sharpness of cunning. Master those, I'd thought, and you'd never falter. Yet now, I saw how my ideals had betrayed me. I was lost.
If I could become someone else, I swear I would. The old Emperor Geta was mired in deceit and treachery—lying to Macrinus's daughter, my brother, the senators; orchestrating my parents' deaths; indulging in forbidden desires. I hadn't cared how it corrupted my soul.
On the outside, I was young, even handsome, or so the women said. But within, I was rotting, a pristine shell masking decay. What could I do about it now? Turn virtuous? Nonsense. A conspiracy was brewing, and I had to stop it at any cost. If it meant sacrificing my honor, so be it. To hell with the gods, to hell with the Senate. The dream I'd chased for so long was slipping through my fingers. I had to be ready to sacrifice something to keep it alive—it was all I had left.
In this midnight delirium, my thoughts drifted to Caracalla. Not as a piece of my life, but as his own man. Everything I'd done, I'd done for us. But had he ever wanted it? I'd never stopped to consider if he'd have been happier with me alone on the throne, or with our parents still alive. Did he hate me now? If I'd ruined his life, perhaps I deserved to fall by Macrinus's hand without resistance. Yet something held me back. I realized, with sudden clarity, that I didn't want to die so easily.
Before I could spiral further into useless introspection, I sank into sleep.
Morning began with my bed shaking. Caracalla, ever concerned for my health, had come at dawn, seizing the chance to lounge in my bed. As I woke, it was clear my condition hadn't improved. But today was Acacius's fight with the Numidian barbarian in the Colosseum. Leaving such a critical event to my brother's care was unthinkable.
"I can barely breathe, Caracalla. Get off," I groaned weakly as he sprawled across my chest—his favorite spot.
"Still feeling bad, brother?" he asked, rolling onto the pillow beside me, his voice tinged with worry. "Are those useless physicians doing anything?"
"I feel awful," I said curtly.
"What about Acacius and the games? You're not going?" Caracalla looked crestfallen.
"Maybe I'll feel better by afternoon," I murmured, burrowing deeper into the soft blankets. "For now, I need more sleep."
"Am I bothering you?" His voice was small, almost defeated.
"No," I said firmly. "It's not that. I just don't have the strength to talk."
He sighed, rolled onto his back, and ruffled my hair gently. "Anything I can do?" he asked after a brief pause.
"Make sure everything's ready for the battle with Acacius's army," I said, poking my head out from the pile of blankets.
"It's all set, brother," Caracalla said, his mood brightening. "The Praetorians are stationed at Rome's outskirts, as you wanted. Quintus left for the provinces last night. Don't worry so much. You know I've got this."
His last words, oddly, made me worry more.
"Who's commanding the Praetorians outside the city?" I asked.
"Flavius, I think," he said, pausing to recall. "You know him?"
"Tall, young, dark hair? The one with the lisp?" I tried to picture him.
"Yeah, that's him," Caracalla confirmed. "Quintus recommended him. He's on the field now, but scouts say Acacius's army hasn't reached Rome yet. Why are they delaying?"
It was obvious to me, but I explained it for my brother's sake. "They're waiting for the games to start. We'll be too distracted to make quick tactical decisions, and the Praetorians will be cut off from us. Plus, I wouldn't rule out a riot in the streets after Acacius's execution."
"A riot?" Caracalla frowned, clearly struggling to follow. "What are you getting at?"
"We'd have to crush it if we don't want to die some gruesome death," I said. "The Praetorians will be fighting his army, leaving the city defenseless. I don't know if Acacius's legions know their commander's fate, but rumors spread fast."
"All this trouble over one damn ring!" Caracalla growled, punching a nearby pillow. "And your illness…"
I managed a weak smile. "I'll be fine. Go, prepare for the games. I'll come as soon as I'm better."
Caracalla, about to rise, gave me a once-over and chuckled. "You look like a snail, brother."
I said nothing, closing my eyes. His damp lips brushed my feverish forehead, and soon after, I heard the grating creak of the door. All I could do was pray for a miracle to get through this day.
