Chapter Text
Speech comes slow to Caracalla, walking, feeding himself, every milestone. Caracalla knows this, remembers this, because the household around him talk about it constantly.
"He's never been right," they tell each other, half in whispers, half in the open. "Too slow. And no wonder. That horrible birth: took his mother, nearly took him."
And still now Caracalla does not know how to be right. He can speak now, he can walk now, he can do everything. Geta and he have a teacher now, lessons. Age six and Geta can read his own name, can write it. Caracalla cannot.
Their teacher gets exasperated, smacks Caracalla to get him to pay attention, and then gets annoyed when Caracalla wails.
"He doesn't understand," Geta explains. "He doesn't mean it."
"Then he must say so," is the teacher's response.
"He does," says Geta, "but you don't listen." It is Geta's turn to be hit and to wail.
Their Father is told of the incident later so he can show his own displeasure.
"You don't try hard enough," says Geta that evening in bed. Caracalla has a thumb in his mouth and the sleeve of Geta's tunic in his fist. "You get us into trouble."
Caracalla removes the thumb from his mouth. "You try too hard," he declares.
"And you need to speak more clearly. They don't understand you."
"I am..." Caracalla takes a deep breath so he can shout as hard as he can. "....Trying! I. Am. Trying!"
"It would be easier," says Geta, "if you weren't so stupid."
Caracalla hits him for that, on the shoulder, on the face, and Geta is hitting him back, a barrage of palms. Caracalla screws his eyes shut and pushes at Geta, but Geta is larger, heavier, and rolls his weight onto Caracalla, pinning him down.
Caracalla bites him on the arm.
Geta hisses, but doesn't cry. Caracalla is glad. If they make too much noise their father will arrive.
"Let go!" says Caracalla. "Let me go! I am not a toy!"
With a huff, Geta retreats. He returns to lying on his side. Caracalla climbs into his arms and clenches a fist in Geta's tunic sleeve again.
"I'm not stupid," says Caracalla. "They are."
"Who's they?" asks Geta.
"Everyone," is the response.
Geta laughs, seemingly delighted by this. "They are," he says.
Caracalla smiles up at him.
"Am I stupid too?" asks Geta.
Caracalla's smile turns into a grin. "The stupidest."
Geta laughs again, rolls with it.
The twins are seven years old when they stop being dressed in matching outfits. Caracalla is responsible for that triumph. The day comes when he realises he doesn't have to put up with it anymore, and he shouts and he stomps and he refuses to get dressed.
"Don't you want to look nice, young master?" the slaves tell him. "Look at your brother and how well he behaves; don't you want to look smart like him?"
"But I am not him!" Caracalla pulls the tunic from the nearest slave's hands, throws it on the floor and kicks it. "I'm me! I'm me!"
Geta watches him silently, but there is a smirk on his face.
Eventually the slaves stop trying to coax Caracalla and they give in, allowing him to pick out his own tunic and robes: blue, the exact opposite of the yellow Geta is wearing.
For the rest of the day Caracalla can't stop looking at his clothes. Lifting them up and letting them fall down; spinning around to watch them flare out.
"You're too happy," Geta accuses, and for a moment Caracalla can't tell why, but then Caracalla looks up and sees that their father has arrived.
Caracalla lets the robes in his hands fall. He can hear Geta's fast breathing.
"Willful boy," says their father, but there is a small smile on his face as he says it. He passes on his way.
When he's gone, Geta pushes Caracalla hard enough to make him stumble.
"Don't," Caracalla says.
At the age of eight the boys are taken to the Colosseum for the first time. Caracalla doesn't like it. There are so many people: the noise of them, the stench of them. They jostle and shout around him, limbs flailing, and Caracalla wants to push them away and shout at them to give him some space.
But Geta is looking at him and that keeps Caracalla quiet. Caracalla knows this look: it means that there will be consequences if Caracalla doesn't behave. Geta is very good at predicting consequences in a way that Caracalla has never been able to master.
Caracalla calms when Geta's hand is offered to him to hold. The thumb of Caracalla's other hand is put into his mouth.
"We shouldn't be here with the rabble," Geta says. "We're nobleman's sons."
But the servant who has brought them just shushes him. And then the trumpets begin to sound.
That day Caracalla sees three men beheaded. A woman is mauled by a bear. The bear is beset by dogs.
It cries out in pain by the end, the bear. Caracalla is fascinated. Do bears feel fear? Do women? When blood sprays into the air, the droplets shine like garnets in the bright afternoon sun.
Geta's palm in his is sticky with sweat, and Geta's fingers tighten as Caracalla tries to jump down into the row below, hoping to go onwards to the rows below that, desperate for a closer view. Caracalla is dragged back against the warmth of Geta's tunic.
"No no no." Geta says, holding Caracalla close. "You stay here with us. You're so small. The crowd will crush you."
Caracalla struggles for a moment but sags in defeat when he realises he won't win against his brother's superior strength.
"Be good," says Geta into Caracalla's hair.
Their father gets angrier as they get older. Angrier and angrier, and outbursts which could be predicted before become less predictable now. It reaches such a point that Caracalla hides whenever their father enters the room, which confusingly only seems to make their father angrier still.
Sometimes he is angry enough to find Caracalla and drag him out into the open; sometimes he is not. Geta, if he is there, never tells their father where Caracalla has gone. Caracalla from his hiding place will hear Geta breathing fast, will see sometimes Geta's legs trembling, but Geta always stands firm. In these instances, it is not Caracalla who is dragged across the room to be taught a lesson but Geta.
Caracalla flinches from each blow as if it is his own.
But this turmoil and turbulence from their father signifies something greater. When the boys reach the age of ten, their villa grows frantic with comings and goings, with hurried meetings and a marshalling of arms.
Then their father becomes Emperor of Rome.
Everything changes on an instant. The household leaves the villa and removes to the Imperial Palace and the twins are no longer nobleman's sons but Princes.
Their clothes become finer. They are dressed in jewels. They are paraded across Rome like trophies.
The crowds cheer. Geta leans close to Caracalla upon the balcony. "They are cheering for us, brother," Geta says. "Wave at them."
Caracalla does, surprised at the noise that greets him in return. He turns to Geta, who gives him one of the widest smiles Caracalla has ever seen.
"They love us," Geta says.
The boys' father makes much of them and shows them off whenever he can.
"Small wonder that he does," the slaves say as the boys are being dressed one morning. "The people are comforted by a strong line of succession. And what stronger than two boys?"
That word is used a lot these days: succession. Caracalla does not know what it means. He asks Geta, who does not know either. But for a while, it is all anyone can ever say when the boys are present.
Eventually it becomes clear. Geta comes running into the room, his feet skidding on the floor. He is breathless, eyes wide and excited.
"I know what they are talking about," he says as he stops in front of where Caracalla plays on the floor. Geta drops to his hands and knees. "Succession is who becomes Emperor next."
"When the old Emperor is killed," says Caracalla.
"When the old Emperor dies," clarifies Geta, "however it happens."
"Who then?" asks Caracalla. "Is it Maximus?" Maximus is Caracalla's favourite Gladiator, even though Maximus died two years previously. Maximus is still the best. He could hurt so many people; and even now in the afterlife he is probably hurting people.
"Don't be stupid," says Geta. "Dead people can't be Emperor."
Caracalla snorts. "Then I don't care."
"Of course you do." Geta crawls closer. His eyes are very wide. "It's us."
"What?"
"The next Emperor," says Geta, "will be us."
Caracalla frowns. "Do you mean you? Or me?"
"Us," says Geta forcefully. "Us. Both of us. Together."
"But there's only one Emperor."
"There doesn't have to be," is Geta's response. "That's what they're saying. Because we're the same age, it can be both of us."
"I am older."
"No you're not, and it doesn't matter." Geta laughs. He flops onto his side and rolls on the floor and giggles.
Caracalla giggles too, though he's not sure why. It doesn't matter. It's enough that Geta's laughter is infectious. Caracalla leans down and tickles him until Geta squirms and goes red-faced and fights Caracalla's hands away.
Geta's chest rises and falls. Caracalla watches him, half-looking for an opportunity to tickle him again. "Will you like being Emperor?" Caracalla asks.
"Of course." Geta frowns. "Why wouldn't I? It'll be fun. To rule the world. To tell everyone what to do."
"Father is not having fun," says Caracalla.
Geta shrugs, as if this is easy to explain. "That's because he is him," says Geta. His bright eyes meet Caracalla's. "But we are us."
It is not long afterwards that Caracalla and Geta officially become heirs. Yet the succession does not seem as simple as Geta had made it sound. Or, at least, the inhabitants of the Palace do not think so.
"Why make it both boys?" Caracalla hears them say. "Why not just the one? You know he will be a liability."
"Be quiet," says the other. "He's just over there. He could be listening."
"Don't worry. He doesn't understand," is the flippant reply.
But Caracalla does understand. He understands enough to know that he is still, as he has always been, wrong. Golden boy Geta he is not.
Soon Geta starts receiving more lessons, more instruction: this is how an heir behaves; this is what an Emperor does.
Caracalla is invited to these lessons half-heartedly. The teachers don't care for him and he doesn't care for them. They do not take the time to ensure that Caracalla can keep up; they go too fast. And it is restrictive and boring, and Geta shines so brightly when he knows he is besting his brother.
More often than not, Caracalla wanders off: heads to the servants' quarters of the Palace where the rat-catcher lets loose his dog and Caracalla is allowed to watch the carnage. He learns more from this than he learns from the teachers, and they never come to find him anyway.
And yet it seems that Caracalla's father truly is making both of his sons joint heirs. To stifle the naysayers, their father gives Caracalla a new name, a regal name: the name of the last loved Emperor. No-one can doubt Caracalla's suitability now.
Geta doesn't get a new name. Caracalla thrives on his brother's jealousy for a month.
Not once does Geta call Caracalla by his new name. But then neither does anyone else; not even their father. He is still just Caracalla, known only by his nickname. But officially Caracalla's name is royal and proper. Better than Geta; as it should be, for Caracalla is still the eldest.
Sometimes when Caracalla is good and observant and doesn't get in the way, the ratcatcher will leave a dead rat for Caracalla to play with.
Caracalla takes to it with his little knife: makes cuts and incisions and pulls apart this once living thing.
He carries the remains to the classroom the first time, to show to Geta, but before Caracalla can even bring them inside, the teacher is beating Caracalla for dirtiness: for getting blood on his hands, on his clothes.
Geta is interested though and the next week Caracalla finds that Geta has left the lesson to come and find him.
"Look." Caracalla squints up at his brother, for the sun is directly behind Geta.
The rat has had every leg removed and placed beside it.
Geta's eyes are wide and fascinated. He crouches down and picks up a leg, flops it back and forth between his fingers.
"If you get them from the dog's mouth soon enough," Caracalla tells him excitedly, "sometimes they're still breathing."
Shortly after Caracalla is given his new name, Caracalla and Geta are given separate rooms to sleep in. There is space enough in the Palace for it, after all. But it is also risky for their father to have his two heirs in only one bed.
"They think..." This afternoon Geta is lying on his front on his new bed, his skinny ankles waving in the air. He is getting taller in a way that Caracalla is not, yet. "... that we might be at risk of assassination if we sleep in the same bed."
Caracalla, lying next to him, pokes him in the shoulder. "Speak clearly."
Geta turns to him. "Murder," he says dramatically.
Caracalla giggles.
"It's too risky," Geta says matter-of-factly, "if we're in the same bed at night."
"What is risky?"
Geta looks at him like he's stupid. "If they kill us both at the same time, then Father has no heirs at all."
Caracalla's stomach goes hard and cold. "They won't."
"Of course not." Geta rolls over onto his side to look at Caracalla better. "There are guards everywhere. We are safer here than anywhere in the world." His gaze falls. "But Father worries still."
"Father worries about too many things," Caracalla agrees. Geta's confidence in their safety is reassuring. But the hard, cold lump in Caracalla's stomach hasn't gone away. He finds himself blinking away tears, and then sobbing, and then Geta's arms are around him.
"Why are you crying when I said we are safe?" asks Geta.
But Caracalla can't explain; just cries harder. He has not enjoyed getting his own room. It is fun, yes, to have a place to storm off to and hide, to escape from Geta when he's being so annoying. But he misses Geta also. So often during the day, Geta is not there, is off at his lessons, learning and being praised for it. But in bed at night he had never been their teachers' nor their father's. In bed at night Geta had only ever been Caracalla's, to rest next to, and to hold, to hear stories from.
Caracalla sobs into the neck of Geta's tunic.
"I miss you," says Caracalla snottily.
"But I am here," replies Geta, sounding confused.
"Mm," says Caracalla, not attempting to make himself understood further. It wouldn't work.
As Princes, Caracalla and Geta now get to sit in the Imperial box at the Colosseum.
Their father presides over the games in the way that a mother cat watches over a litter of kittens: benign and indulgent as they squabble and fight.
The crowd like to see their Emperor there and they like to see his twin sons almost as much. It is deafening, the cheers that they receive. Caracalla waves at the people and receives more cheers in return; he is used to this now and knows what to do.
Here in the Imperial box, their father is as indulgent with his sons as he is with the fighters below. He laughs heartily when a particularly vicious assault causes Caracalla to fling himself up to the balcony for a closer look.
Geta is up at the balcony beside his brother. Watching the games from the Imperial box is so much better than watching it from the stands. Why-ever didn't their father make them Princes sooner?
"I like to see a boy take interest in a good piece of swordsmanship," their father says to one of his generals.
Caracalla feels Geta stand up straighter beside him. Geta is smiling. Caracalla turns to see their father smiling too. But then there is a clash of metal from the arena, and Caracalla turns back to watch, too busy to hear what anyone might be saying.
When the fight is over and the gladiator asks for mercy, all eyes turn to their father.
There is a hush in the air, of several thousand people watching expectantly.
Their father turns to his sons. "What shall it be?" he asks.
"Blood!" says Caracalla.
"Mercy," says Geta.
Their father's smile is wry. "Let us see what the Gods decide," he says.
He raises his thumb.
The Gods on this occasion favour blood. Caracalla watches breathlessly as the deed is done.
Behind him, their father is laughing. A hand puts itself in Caracalla's hair, ruffles it. Caracalla flinches for a second until he recognises it for the praise it is. He smiles, yet more breathless still.
When Caracalla turns his smile to Geta, Geta is scowling.
They have been Princes for four years when Caracalla gets sick. He gets a fever of the kind that makes his whole body feel wrong and that makes the slaves talk in hushed and careful tones. Wherever Caracalla looks, Geta is there, always in his vision, always in the way. Geta's eyes are wide. There is a hand in Caracalla's own.
He is so hot and his tooth hurts so much. It is agony of the most excruciating kind and none of the medicines work until the doctor comes and plies him with opium and then the pain becomes timid and hides.
It is not to last, for the next day the pain is worse again. This time the doctor plies him with more opium and takes to him with forceps. Caracalla can't tell how many men are needed to hold him down, he can only feel an indeterminate number of hands. But afterwards a tooth clinks into a little metal bowl.
The tooth is gone but the fever remains. The world grows even hazier. Insufferable heat. The smell of incense. Geta's eyes are so big. Caracalla dreams that all his teeth fall from him, dropping from his mouth to the floor, clicking like pebbles.
Things begin to clarify. There is a gap near Caracalla's front teeth that tastes of iron, as if he is a little child again. Such a great thirst in Caracalla's throat. He calls for wine and it is brought to him eagerly.
A push to his shoulder jolts him and he turns to see Geta's pouting face beside him.
"Don't do that again," Geta grumbles.
"I didn't do anything," is Caracalla's defensive reply.
But it does happen again, for even though Caracalla's strength returns, two weeks later the doctor plies him with more opium, and there are more hands holding him down, hateful now. Caracalla sobs. But at the end of it he has a new gold tooth to replace the old.
It feels foreign, smooth. Caracalla can't stop touching it with his tongue, can't stop looking at the way it shines in a mirror. He grins at Geta, showing it off, this new piece of jewellery that Geta does not have.
Geta doesn't seem delighted though, just pouts.
"You're jealous because you don't have one," Caracalla taunts him.
Geta shakes his head. "You have no idea, do you?" he says. But when Caracalla asks what that means, Geta refuses to answer.