Being the first born surely meant something — after your father, Septimus Severus, who had been Emperor after Commodus, had begged you to keep an eye on your younger brothers after his death. You were supposed to be the one in power.

Yes, but it wasn’t without the fact that you didn’t want to. Power meant enemies and enemies meant death — and surely, you didn’t want to die.

So when Geta and Caracalla became the Emperors of Rome, you let them. You stayed by their sides, giving your opinions and help when it was needed; because they were still your younger brothers and you loved them, no matter what could happen.

Sure, you didn’t approve of their ways of ruling — and they both knew that; you didn’t approve of the Colisseum’s games and all those people dying. You didn’t approve of the war on other cities, nor of the treason and death lingering around.

And yet, you couldn’t find yourself to betray your brothers; for they were the only family you had left.

You broke out of your thoughts when you heard the clapping echoing in the room; the demonstration of Macrinus’ new potential gladiator to your brothers and your entourage. Geta talked; you didn’t listen until he came back to his seat, next to Caracalla and you.

His head turned to your side, his brown eyes seemed to search for you; for the way you felt. “What are you thinking about, mh? You didn’t like the show?” he asked you quietly. Geta had always been your closest brother.

“I thought it was impressive — it cured me of my boredom. You should be more attentive, I’m sure it would amuse you.” he finished, grabbing his golden cup of wine.