Under the Emperor's Gaze | Emperor Geta

The corridor outside Caracalla's chambers was still heavy with incense and silence, the kind that pressed against your chest and made every footstep feel too loud. I stood there for a moment, hands clasped before me, trying to calm the quick thrum of my heartbeat. I had done all I could — cooled his fever with poultices of willow and mint, traced the swelling on his throat, whispered soft, indifferent reassurances as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

But nothing in the Herbatorium, no salve or elixir, could mend the disquiet that had begun to swell beyond the illness. There were shadows moving beneath the surface — quiet voices, sudden glances. And now, footsteps again. Heavier. Sharper.

Two generals, both clad in armor that caught the torchlight like blades, approached down the corridor. I recognized them instantly: Gaius Severianus and Claudius Priscus. Men who had long stood at Caracalla's side, fierce in loyalty and sharp of suspicion.

"You were the last with him," Priscus said, skipping any pleasantries. His voice was clipped.

I inclined my head, keeping my voice measured. "As per order. He was feverish and struggling to breathe. I administered care — and taste-tested his food, as always."

Severianus crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. "Struggling to breathe, and yet fine only two days ago. His decline is sudden. Poison is never slow."

"Not always," I replied, careful not to sound defensive. "Some toxins rest dormant. Others only need the right moment."

That made Priscus narrow his eyes. "And you know this — how conveniently well."

There it was. Not a question but a quiet accusation.

I met his gaze without wavering. "I know it because it's my duty to understand such things. That is why I was chosen. And it is why I stay loyal."

The silence that followed was brittle. Severianus glanced at the closed door behind me, where Caracalla still lay unconscious, his breath ragged, watched over now by two silent slaves.

"You came from nothing," he said, almost gently, but not without steel. "Do not think a little favor from Geta elevates you beyond suspicion."

I bowed my head, concealing the sting of those words. "I would think only actions define suspicion. Not origins."

That was when Geta's voice rang down the hall, sudden and cutting through the tension like a blade. "That's enough."

All three of us turned. He stood at the end of the corridor, already walking toward us, expression carved from something too tightly held — anger, perhaps, but also something else. I saw his eyes flicker to mine, a trace of worry behind the imperial calm.

"She acts under my authority," he said firmly, stepping between me and the generals. "And she is not to be interrogated like a criminal."

"With all due respect, Caesar," Severianus said, not backing down, "the Emperor's condition has raised concern. If there is a traitor, we cannot overlook anyone — even her."

Geta didn't flinch. "Then investigate the kitchens. The water. The staff. Leave my food taster to her work."

There was a long pause before the generals nodded. Begrudgingly. Then they walked off in silence.

Geta didn't look at me right away. He stared after them until their armor vanished down the corridor.

When he did turn, his expression softened only slightly. "Are you alright?"

I nodded, though my stomach was knotted tight. "I am not unused to doubt. Only that it comes from your men made it harder."

He reached, not for my hand, but for my elbow, a touch gentle, grounding. "They are wrong to doubt you. But these are dangerous times. Even loyalty looks like a mask."

I met his eyes and whispered, "And what do you see when you look at me?"

For a moment, his mouth parted — but no words came. The silence between us was full again, not with suspicion, but something else. Something we would both need to name. Just not now.

He said instead, "Come. Let me walk you back to the Herbatorium. The air is heavy here."

And so we walked side by side, shadows long behind us, the storm not yet broken.

.........................................................................

The days that followed were heavy with silence and hidden eyes. I could feel them even when I didn't see them—the glances that lingered too long, the sudden hush when I entered a corridor. The walls of the palace, once a quiet observer of my movements, now seemed to lean in, recording every step, every breath I took.

Geta had spoken in my defense, that much I knew. His voice—firm, commanding—had echoed through the chamber, silencing the initial accusations like a blade drawn against idle gossip. But even an emperor's word could not fully erase suspicion once it had been sown.

The generals watched. Not all of them, but enough to make their presence known. One in particular—General Caelius—held his stare too long, his words wrapped in civility but sharp with implication. He had the eyes of a man who enjoyed war, even when it took the shape of whispers.

I noticed changes. One morning, two of my herb jars had been misplaced in the apotheca. Nothing severe, just enough to unsettle the order I held sacred. A young maid confessed, flustered, that she'd been told to clean more thoroughly, but I could tell she was frightened—likely questioned by someone who did not come to clean, but to probe.

When I walked through the halls, servants who once greeted me with warm smiles now bowed their heads too quickly. Two men in the corridor stopped speaking when I passed. I heard one of them murmur something about "influence." The word fell like a stain.

At night, I returned to my chamber with aching limbs and a mind that would not settle. I began keeping my notes locked in a small chest beneath my sleeping mat. My hands trembled more often now, not from fear of poison, but from the weight of mistrust.

And still, I did my duty.

Caracalla was improving, slowly. I watched his pulse, studied his reactions to tinctures, adjusted his diet. There was no room for error. The body of an emperor—sick or well—was sacred, and I, the taster, walked a narrow ledge between life and death.

I saw Geta less often now. His eyes, when they met mine across the atrium or during brief exchanges in the corridors, were tired. But there was still a flicker of something warmer beneath the solemn mask. A silent message that I held onto, even when I felt most alone.

One evening, after ensuring Caracalla had taken his draught, I returned to the garden. It had become my place of breath—of temporary escape. The flowers Geta had ordered to be planted bloomed in quiet strength, their scent soft in the twilight. I crouched beside them, brushing a fingertip across one delicate petal, and asked myself how I had come to be caught in the middle of so many silent wars.

The sound of footsteps made me rise. A young palace guard—nervous, new—approached with a sealed letter. I broke the seal and read:

"They are asking questions. Stay vigilant. Trust no one but your own knowledge. – G"

I folded the letter and pressed it to my chest.

That night, I made a decision.

I returned to my work not only with caution, but with purpose. I began tracking everything—each visitor to the apotheca, each shift in the ingredients I used, each dose I prepared. I catalogued meticulously, like I was building a defense no one could deny. If I was to be judged, I would be armed with truth.

I also started to listen.

In the kitchens, the servants spoke more freely than they realized. They believed I was too busy testing flavors or checking for subtle poisons to pay attention. But I heard them. Mentions of General Caelius. Of how he disliked the emperor's new circle. How he mistrusted "foreign influences."

They meant me.

One night, I left a carefully chosen leaf of wolfsbane on the general's usual tray of herbs, not enough to kill, not even enough to sicken—just enough to catch his attention. When his steward returned it to me, asking if I had made a mistake, I smiled and said, "Some herbs are not meant for every stomach."

I wanted him to know I saw him, too.