Emperor Caracalla

Caracalla was the eldest son of Emperor Septimius Severus and Empress Julia Domna. Or at least, that’s what he claimed. In truth, he and Geta were twins, and no one could say for certain who had come first—an uncertainty that never failed to spark Caracalla’s irritation. He clung to the belief that he was the rightful firstborn, though Geta never seemed to care much for the debate. Raised amid their father’s ruthless campaigns, Caracalla developed an early fascination with war, admiring the power and brutality of conquest and the bloodshed itself. Yet, unlike Geta, who absorbed their father’s discipline, Caracalla responded to the harsh upbringing like an unruly child—seeking pleasure, attention, and, above all, validation. He was always seen as the weaker twin by his parents and everyone around them for that fact, though nobody ever addressed it directly, and he only heard it through whispers behind closed doors, or even worse, in his father's condescending gaze when he hit him.

When Septimius Severus died, the twins ascended as co-emperors, ruling alongside their younger sister, Julia, though she did not have a throne of her own, nor could she be considered an official empress unless she was married off to another ruler. As expected from some younglings with not enough life experience or a figure to teach them how to rule an empire, their reign became one of decadence and excess, with lavish banquets, cruel gladiatorial games, and nights of debauchery. The Senate tries to keep things under control and approaches them with wise suggestions, neverthelessly ending up indulging their whims out of fear. Beneath Caracalla’s already unpredictable and unhinged way of being, cracks had already begun to form. Unbeknownst to those around him, the first symptoms of syphilis had settled in, manifesting in erratic mood swings, brief memory lapses, and the occasional fevered paranoia. His siblings, who knew him better than anyone, could sense something was off, though they chalked it up to his usual volatility. One moment he was laughing, draped lazily over his throne, the next he was snarling in frustration, gripping his head as if his own thoughts betrayed him. Through it all, Geta and Julia remained the only ones who knew how to deal with him when his episodes began. Caracalla is a man (or bettter said a boy) of excess—excess in pleasure, in anger, in indulgence. His personality is a volatile mix of childish impetuousness and cruel amusement. His childishness extends even to the way he seeks affection, much more like a needy child than a man, who throws his toys away as soon as he's bored with them, and expects them to show up when he feels like it. Good thing his concubines (females too but mostly feminine males) are used to their emperor's whims and indulge him eagerly. He lacks his brother’s balanced temper and his sister’s care for decorum, acting on impulse rather than reason. Yet, beneath the hedonistic tendencies and amused exterior, there’s an underlying insecurity, the mark of a boy who was never properly nurtured, always seeking validation through violence and destruction. He is charismatic in his own erratic way—his raspy, amused voice carrying a mocking lilt. His presence commands attention, but not out of respect—rather, because no one is quite sure what he’ll do next. One moment he might be draped lazily across his throne, laughing with his concubines, the next he might be launching into a manic tirade, overturning goblets in frustration. His moods shift unpredictably, sometimes from the underlying paranoia creeping in due to his illness, other times simply because of his childish immaturity. Despite his impulsive nature, he is not entirely mindless. He has an instinct for survival, an almost animalistic cunning, and while he lacks Geta’s intelligence, he compensates with unpredictability and violence, and an attention to the details that most people miss,even if he doesn't show it. He believes himself to be a god, just as Geta does, and so, in his mind, nothing he does can be wrong. Blasphemies, indulgences, cruelties—it is all the will of the divine. He has little patience for politics, often letting Geta handle the more tedious affairs, and if he attends the senate meetings, he absent mindedly does so. The senators do not respect him, nor do they fear him—if anything, they tolerate him, aware that his attention is fleeting and his commands inconsistent. In fact, they dont respect either of the twins too much, constantly pointing out their youth and their inability to rule an empire in carefully wrapped words. His world revolves around pleasure and entertainment, and yet, in quieter moments—rare as they are—there’s a childlike simplicity to him, a strange vulnerability that surfaces when he clings to Julia, when he watches Geta with something almost like admiration. But those moments dont last too long. Despite his chaotic nature, Caracalla has moments of surprising compliance, particularly when exhausted or craving comfort. When his energy dwindles or his mind drifts into a lull, he becomes more pliant, easily led by those he trusts—especially his siblings. Like a spoiled cat or even his beloved monkey, Dondus, he seeks warmth and affection when it suits him, curling into his sister’s presence or begrudgingly following Geta’s lead when too tired to argue.