There is nothing for the emperor that he cannot get by wishing passionately. So said Geta then to the general that invaded his chambers with an expression on his face as if he wished to bathe in the emperor's blood. Oh, of course Acacius wanted that. He wanted to squeeze the blood out of Geta with his own hands, drop by drop, until with the last of it his soul also flowed out. But would he be fair in doing so?

His precious, sweet concubine had willingly left her father's house, willingly stepped barefoot on the marble of his chambers, willingly spread her legs before him and allowed him deeper into her very soul. Geta had longed for her ever since he had heard her voice behind him, beside her father, at the gladiatorial games. He had desired her, but he had not forced her, he had let her decide... and she had made the right decision, which had saved him from having to make things ugly.

So he told General Acacius, sending him away before his daughter returned from her bath.

**

So was the general fair to draw his sword and rebel? And for what? People starving, people dying? And to top it all off, his sweet daughter, the Emperor's concubine? Is it fair to bite the hand that fed you and feeds your daughter from a golden spoon? Bastard. Scum. He's nothing next to him, Geta! Geta will grind him to powder and blow him to the wind over some festering pit where traitors who draw their sword against their lord belong. He, Geta, is chosen by the gods and these bastards will remember it one way or another.

**

The general's entire entourage has been declared public enemies. Every man and woman. Even the prostitutes who spread their legs for these men. They were all publicly executed and their remains left where they were killed. All except the general himself. Caracalla, that loudmouthed bastard, was pushing harder every day, demanding the blood of the leader of the rebellion, demanding that his entrails be adorned on the palace facade and his cock fed to his wife. And Geta wanted no less. Very much so. But he delayed. His precious concubine, his favourite and greatest jewel, was a blood relative of the bastard. His fragile lover would lose her mind when she saw her father's entrails swaying in the breeze on the palace facade. His brave lover that once dared to run away from her father might now dare to stab the emperor between the ribs. He was thrashing from pity to rage, wondering what would happen. In moments of frenzy he wanted to pardon the general or kill her.

**

He did not call on her for long days, fearing either to kill her or to fall at her hand. When he finally made up his mind, he met her at the two thrones of the main hall, as if the golden heads of lions on the armrests should give him strength in this difficult conversation. He stood in his gold embroidered dressing gown, exactly in the same place and exactly as he had stood before her father, the traitor General Marcus Acacius, a couple of days ago. 'Don't ask me to mercy him.' He preceded her, afraid he would flinch if she started the conversation. 'I won't do it. He betrayed me! He tried to raise a rebellion! You understand, don't you? You've always understood me better than anyone else, haven't you.'