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“The priests suggest that our nuptials should be delayed until the third week of Juno. Would that please you?”
You huffed. Stuck out your left hand with the gaudy gold gilt ring. A cold, steel glower— your father’s stare— marred the softness of your otherwise beautiful features.
“I am to wait so long to have my husband?” You snapped.
“It would be an auspicious month.” Geta replied, pulling you in closer to his side, “It will bode well for our union, and encourage further good omens to come.”
A gentle cough erupted from your throat, causing you to clear it. The shawl of gold and purple damask around your shoulders slipped to reveal your pink linen stola.
“Did they not read our stars?” You asked, “What of our alignments? Surely that would be auspicious enough to warrant a disregard of my illness.”
Geta laughed, readjusting your silken shawl to keep you warm.
“They certainly have read our stars.” He laughed, “We are apparently quite the… difficult match.”
He recalled the grave face of the augury when he came before the senate and the co-emperor. As predicted, the augury did indeed suggest that Geta and you wait until your current illness abated, to prevent such an omen from destroying the impending marriage.
“His majesty would do well to wait until the third week of the month of Juno to commence the marriage proceedings.” Said the old priest, “We have read both the stars of the future empress and his majesty, though… I must express my concern.”
“What is your concern?” Geta had asked, his amber eyes narrowing in anger.
“Sire… the future empress is born under the stars of Proserpina.” Said the augury, “And your excellency was born under the stars of Catamitus. The Virgin and the Cupbearer of the gods are not the… traditional match one would assume.”
“To hell with tradition.” He had snapped, “I want my wife.”
There was much whispering and dissent among the members of the senate. Half wanted to call the whole thing off, for fear of the calamity such a match would bring. Yet there was a majority outcry against delaying the marriage. You were the senate’s last hope for the reclamation of the people’s favor. They looked to make you into a beacon of hope, one that would soothe the imperator’s wrath at being denied an adoption into Lucilla Domina’s line of succession.
As her child, your mother’s shining reputation had yet made you the successor, where Geta and his brother were yet still the empire’s pariahs. By reputation alone, you would change the tides of history. While your future husband would be the head of the empire, the senate sought to make you the neck: that you might turn Geta any way they so wished.
“But excellency… you must consider the potential disharmony from an unbalanced match.”
“And what is this disharmony?!” Demanded a member of the senate.
“Well…” said the old man, until he was interrupted by his young acolyte.
“His majesty would consider that those under Proserpina’s stars are not weak willed women.” Said the younger acolyte.
The augury attempted to speak, but Geta held up his hand to silence him.
“You.” He said, pointing to the young acolyte, “Continue.”
Riding the high of commanding the attention of the room, the young man puffed his chest out before he continued.
“Proserpina’s women are driven by logic and stability, constant and reliable as the changing of the seasons.” Said the young man, “The sons born under Catamitus-…”
The augury tried to cut in, laying his hand against the bulla of his student.
“Catamitus’ stars encourage independence and nonconformity. The antithesis to Proserpina’s proclivity to order and stability.”
“And that is true.” agreed the young acolyte, “However, it is irresponsible and inconsiderate to the imperator’s marriage to assume that logic cannot coexist with independence!”
“So you believe,” he began, “That these attributes can coexist and… what? Compliment one another?”
“My lord.” Said the acolyte, “Should Catamitus and Proserpina intersect, their union would be unstoppable.”
He spread out the well cared for charts on the marble altar, along with notations and omens that had been discovered.
“Logic and nonconformity may be to the ignorant eye a combination of oil at water,” said the young acolyte, “Yet we must not deny that those ruled by logic and reason hold the key to doors previously bolted by a warding lock.”
The young man had seemed to argue in favor of the arrangement. While Catamitus may have compelled Geta in the pursuit of pleasure and freedom, Proserpina’s stars were apparently the path that would lead you both to prosperity. It was argued that such a conjunction of strong wills could move mountains.
“Yet sire… please consider…” begged the augury, “Proserpina’s children are stubborn and unyielding. Women who will not yield to their husband’s will can only cause misfortune. The driven nature of the astrological signs are as different as the elements. Earth and air… it is unthinkable! Imbalanced.”
It was as Geta had suspected. He asserted that he knew you were not a weak willed woman. You were every bit cunning and calculating as he had suspected you to be since your first introductions.
You were a challenge, a gamble. An obstacle.
It would be pleasing to Geta to break or make you.
“Your opinion is astute, old man.” Geta said, “And yet, I am afraid your opinion has only further stoked the flames of my passions. Perhaps it is the thrill of the hunt, or perhaps it is the thrill of having an empress that will not yield. A challenge… a gamble, if I may. I fail to see the consequences of two different elements.”
“Imperator!” He begged, “I beg of you to reconsider. Such a union would not ensure a prosperous bloodline.”
“She is the heir of Commodus, is she not?”
“Yes but…! Unification between you and the heir would bode disastrous! One would always have to yield to the other for harmony, creating conflict and strife. Matters of ego will tear the heart asunder!”
“And what would be the impediments to a harmonious unification?” Asked Geta.
“The frequent clashing of wills shall burn the empire to the ground!” Cried the augury, “You will find your wife’s overbearing arrogance a thorn in your side, and she will find your domination an affront to her vanity!”
The acolyte had snorted. His impatience with the old man wearing thin, the young man banged his fist against the marble altar.
“But consider the unification’s origin!” said his acolyte, “Their connection was, as predicted, instantaneous and deep. One would know the thoughts of the other, their collaborations in matters of state would bring the favor of the people back to the empire!”
Ruminating against the scours of papyrus and wax tablets, the youth began to make countless arguments against his teacher. Evidently, a veritable trove of good omens had been given by the gods for your impending union. Such blessings could only be bested by the fates themselves emerging from the heavens to sing prophecies at the reception after the nuptial rituals.
“Consider the omens at hand: the woman is of noble birth and pure blood, already the people look favorably upon her piety and reputation derived from the mother. The flight patterns of the swifts were also analyzed during her auspicious birth. They were trending high, a favorable omen. And…! Upon the annunciation of the imperator’s engagement, a lightning storm took place in the easternmost part of the empire. A blessing!” exclaimed the acolyte, “In reality, these nightmarish foretellings of their clash of egos are naught more than seed tilled in secret to sow doubt.”
“Foolish boy!” exclaimed the elder augury, “You do not answer the imperator’s questions, you simply seek to defend your point!”
Geta watched the two begin to argue in morbid fascination. Captivated by their arguments as though they were butchers cleaving one another to pieces. It had taken his roar to call the two to order, demanding further details of the match and why the augury was so hell bent on breaking the engagement…
“Enough…”
You waved your hand, as though you could wave away the wine tinged words of the emperor. The more he spoke of the dissenting argument that had taken place before the senate, echoing the consequences of your union, the more your stomach began to churn.
With a grimace, you pulled your shawl tighter over your chest. A shuddering sigh escaped you, and you began to retreat into some secret place within your own thoughts as your gaze lowered to the garden floor.
“My lady…” Geta probed gently, his fingertips touching your cheek, “Have I displeased you with my tale?”
“That will be enough.” You groused, trying not to cry.
Geta’s arms tightened around you possessively. There was nothing more you could do except lay there on him, your own stubborn nature trying to keep your body language lax. As if by this microaggression, you were able to rebel against he who would be your husband.
“Love…” Geta whispered, “Have the words of the augury displeased you?”
“No.” You said, nodding your head as if trying to banish the welling in your eyes, “No, why should it displease me? These things come from the gods themselves, do they not? Obviously my own ego and vanity should act as a fine shield against their poisoned barbs.”
“Is that so?”
You nodded ruefully. The circumstances of your tragic life from birth until now weighing heavily on your heart. Rejected by your mother, who saw you as a grim reminder of a traumatic conception and the loss of her son, it was as if a curse had marred your life. Venus seemed to hold her grudges, but you could not understand your transgression. Instead she punished you. Withheld love until you went looking in dark places for it.
And now, it seemed because of the stars you were born under, you would not be able to find happiness even within an engagement to the debauched and disgraced emperor.
“Yes. I suppose it is true, is it not? Air and earth are two very different things, indeed. Birds are content to take wing upon the air to pursue freedom, what more does the earth below do for them? They crash upon it and die, and should their nest fall, the eggs cradled inside do not survive the impact either. Fitting, I suppose, that the gods would make my love life a farce…”
Though your words were biting and spiteful, Geta knew the declaration of the augury had cut deep. Your false smile contrasted against the tears you shook free from your eyes, trembling shoulders giving away the fact that your stone heart was crumbling into pieces.
Geta could not stand to see you in such pain. There were already countless bitter poisons poured into your cup, handed vinegar rather than wine in the form of emotional disconnect from your mother, a stepfather that was constantly away on campaign in the name of the co-imperators. Behind it all, like the miasma that made you ill, was the looming shadow of the man who had sired you; a yoke too heavy to bear alone thrown over your shoulders.
You did not deserve vinegar.
You did not deserve this pain.
“Look at the ring I have given you.” Geta demanded suddenly.
Your laugh was bitter.
“I suppose it would make sense you would wish to call off the wedding.” You said, making to pull off the golden band, “Here, let me give it back-…”
“Hold your tongue, impudent woman. Your emperor has commanded you to look upon the band, not take it off.”
You huffed, holding it up to the sunlight– the solar rays filtered through the interstice, created by the leaves of your stepfather’s laurel tree.
“Do you know the stone setting in the band?” Geta asked, his cadence soft, almost sweet.
“It is amethyst.” You deadpanned.
“Your observation is incorrect, my lady.” Geta said smugly.
“And you are a blind fool.” You snarled, “What other stone is purple aside from amethyst?!”
“Hold your serpent’s tongue, before I order it carved out, love. Look closer.”
You reluctantly obeyed, seeing nothing more than the deep purple of the stone. The ring was the same as the day Geta had gifted it to you: a thick golden band on the second to last finger of your left hand, carved with intricate embellishments. The not-amethyst was surrounded by miniature diamonds, a rare and lovely ring that symbolized your betrothal to you opulent fiance. When your eyes drifted down along the cabochon, you noticed at one point the stone had begun to change color: an ombré of violet and indigo yielding to golden tangerine.
“What is this?!” You exclaimed, “The stone is of poor quality?!”
Geta laughed. Laughed so hard he nearly had a coughing fit trying to compose himself.
“Careful love, your acucity in the matter of precious gems will have you casting pearls before swine.” He teased, “That is not a flawed amethyst. It is something else entirely. Something that only you and I will possess.”
His large hand overlayed with yours, a matching ring containing an obnoxiously cut chunk of the same gem on his own engagement hand. The larger stone he owned captured the stark difference far more perfectly than your diminutive cut. From purple to orange, the polished cabochon gleamed like a wet, juicy grape in the sunlight next to yours.
“During one of many campaigns, my generals had bestowed upon me various rare gifts from those whose lands I have claimed for my empire.” Geta said, his free arm wrapping around your body.
“This stone was one of many curios brought to me; a spoil of war that had great significance to the ruler whose head was cleaved from his shoulders. It is not amethyst, but something else of an entirely different make. The captives of this conquered land called it ‘ametrine’.”
“Ametrine?”
He nodded.
“It is a sacred stone. An amalgamation of two entirely different rare stones: amethyst and citrine. No other mine in the world contains such a stone, and perhaps there are no more, other than the specimen that made these cabochons.”
His lips caressed the skin of your cheek. Legs curling up in pleasure, you closed your eyes as you inhaled his spiced scent of mulled wine and patchouli.
“They are cut from the same stone, my love. And are they not a perfect symbol of two different attributes? Gold and purple, purity and passion, domination and submission.”
His kisses were growing heated, tongue lathing gently upon your neck.
“It is a perfect representation for what our love will offer the other, do you not agree?” He whispered, tongue running along the length of your carotid artery, “Beauty in the joining of opposites, a prize that no one else in the world possesses, save for you and I. Our will and ego will clash spectacularly, as they already do, but does our passion not burn all the brighter?”
You shivered. His affections became more intimate, a ringed hand scraping gems over the soft skin of your breast and nipple as he reached possessively into your stola.
“We are not alike, in many ways this is true.” Geta observed, “Yet our differences complement one another, and our love is perfect.”
“… a joining of opposites, and perfect love…” you echoed.
You watched as your fingers slotted between his on both of your left hands. The band on your hand had been made in such a way that when you held hands with your beloved, your engagement ring meshed seamlessly with the gaudy gold band and large cabochon he wore. Such care and attention to detail had been taken in the creation of the wedding bands, that it looked as though the stones had not been parted at all.
It was a testament to his decadence and arrogance… but it was so like him, to have the same attention to detail that you did.
“It is fitting, isn’t it?” You asked, cuddling in closer, “The cunning and debauched emperor of Catamitus joining forces with his pious, brooding empress of Proserpina.”
“Indeed it is, my darling.” He murmured, “We are in many ways alike, wouldn’t you say? Trapped in our own individual prisons, seeking something that the other alone cannot provide…”
“I fear for the empire.” You laughed, squeezing his palm, “For I can only imagine what horrors our combined traits would produce in heirs.”
Geta’s laughter was cruel, and ugly as he held you tighter, the hand at your breast moving to touch your warm stomach.
“You are right to be afraid, my love.” He grinned, “We shall produce heirs that are not fit for this world. Ones that are both cunning and earnest, pious and debauched-…”
“A debauched, power hungry army of sons and daughters, who would have both the drive to seek power and pleasure, and the intelligence to retain it for a thousand years.” you laughed, “By the gods, Geta. Our heirs would burn the world up, and then turn the torch upon one another.”
He could see it himself. At least ten children, decuplets, perhaps half daughters, half sons. Squabbling in your womb for the right to be first conceived. Biting and constricting one another with the umbilicus until they emerged punching and kicking each other out of the womb. Throwing their toys and baubles at one another, punching and kicking until they came of age, old enough to command legions of their own to do battle on the very empire they stood to inherit.
“That they would, my love.” Geta laughed, his mind still on his nightmarish brood, “They would turn the world to ash, and use their own royal blood to slake their thirst when the lake of sanguine of their creation at last runs dry.”
“Gods have mercy.” You laughed.
Both of your shared peals of laughter echoed in the garden, an evil sound to others. But to the both of you, the sound was full of warmth and joy.
“But… but!” Geta wheezed, untangling his hand from yours as he wrapped your entire torso in his embrace, “There is yet a sweetness in the destruction.”
“A sweetness?” You laughed, looking at his flushed cheeks, “You are drunk, Geta.”
The imperator cackled again, the spicy scent of mulled wine still evident on his lips.
“Perhaps, but still consider the following: from the ashes of our children’s destruction, we can yet find potential for creation and renewal. An endless cycle of destruction and chaos from our heirs would only further occupy their time away from us.” He said.
He was barking mad. Stark raving, his senses had completely left him.
“So we would let our hell spawn burn down the world. While you and I argue, make love, clash with our egos, and generally mishandle and act like idiots?” You asked, the giggle still caught in your throat, “What of the empire? Would it not suffer?”
“Who cares? We wouldn’t be alive to see it fall, anyways.”
For a moment, there was a bit of hesitation. Sure the world had torn your heart asunder, left you alone and destitute, your heart empty of every emotion save for apathy, misanthropy, and the rare spurts of love you felt for Geta. But did the world really deserve to be turned to ash? Just because it had nearly killed you with trials and tribulations, did you really need to be flaunting your mismatched love so blatantly in front of the gods…? Surely, you thought, you should be sober and martyr yourself like your mother. Dreaming of an ideal of peace and harmony rather that discord and destruction.
But then you looked up. You saw the ash and kohl lined eyes of Geta as he grinned down at you, the mixture of white marl and cerussa crumbling in some places on his face, revealing the flush drunk cheeks underneath. His golden laurels were askew on his tangerine locks, and the pupils of his amber eyes were dilated.
You glanced down at the silk shawl you wore. Tyrian purple. The silk skeins had been a wedding gift from Geta, crates upon crates of spun silk for you to work on the warp of your loom. Already you had completed your wedding trousseau. The lack of sleep and neglect of your health was caused directly by the desire to work the skeins into something lovely.
Orange and purple. His tangerine curls, your tyrian purple shawl.
You were reminded of the ametrine ring on your finger.
A combination of two different stones.
Complementary colors.
A perfect love.
“The hell with it all.” You laughed, tossing your head back carelessly, “Let the stars of Proserpina and Catamitus create a chaotic, beautiful world.”