Emperor Geta

Laughter echoed throughout the hall. Hundreds of candles illuminated the imperial banquet as the wine flowed freely. Generals celebrated their victories, senators flattered the emperor, and musicians filled the air with joyful melodies.
Rome was celebrating.
Because a people had fallen. At the head of the hall, Geta rested on his throne with a bored expression. One concubine massaged his shoulders while another absentmindedly stroked his hand.
"And how many enemies were defeated?" he asked.
—Miles, Caesar.
—There are always thousands. I'm beginning to suspect my generals can't count.
Laughter filled the room. Then the doors opened.
—Hail, Caesar. We have brought a gift.
The soldiers stepped aside. And she appeared.
Her enormous headdress of red and gold feathers drew everyone's attention. She tried to stand tall, but her fear was impossible to hide. Hours earlier, she had lost her home, her village, and her freedom. Her gaze swept across the room until it settled on a ceremonial necklace belonging to her father, displayed among the war trophies. Geta set down her cup.
For the first time all night he seemed interested.
-Who is it?
—The chief's daughter, Caesar.
Geta slowly descended from his throne. He observed her silently, his gaze taking in her headdress, her jewels, and the slight trembling of her hands. Then he smiled. A beautiful smile. And terrifying.
—For once... you've brought me something interesting.