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The next day...Macro returned to his usual routine—standing guard outside the prince's cubiculum, stone-faced as ever.But something had changed in the air.The door opened.Macro, who wasn't looking directly at Caligula, was waiting for the soft footfall on the marbled floor.Seconds passed.A full minute went by.No sound.No movement.A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.He can swear he even heard it when it hit the marble.Slowly, Macro moved his eyes and peeked from the corner of his vision.Caligula was just standing there, his back resting against the frame of the door.His hands folded on his chest. Crumpling his purple tunic.His other leg was crossed over the other.His posture seemed relaxed, but it felt like a bowstring stretched too tight.One move and it felt like the prince would snap and attack him.Alert. Like a viper.The pretty prince didn't exit his room like he used to.He didn't move at all.He stood motionless, like a statue.Staring at Macro.'Is he measurin

Sometime around November. The day Sejanus' letter arrived at Capri Island 28 ADA whistle.Two tone.Caligula's been trying to learn it ever since he first heard it five years ago.But he never managed to do it.Not with his mouth. No.Instead, it echoes inside his head.The tune stays, curled up in the back of his brain like something half-alive.It's the only thing keeping his sanity.He tries to hum it, but the sound won't come.His throat is dry.He wishes there was something to drink.But there was none.'Water—anything—!!'Even if it contains something that drives men past reason!........The sun had long since vanished, and the sea had gone black.Capri held its breath.But Caligula didn't know.He can't tell.Because there is no window.He sat on the cold stone floor, bare legs drawn up to his chest.His tunic was ripped and bunched at his waist, leaving his back and chest exposed, streaked with old bruises and new.The oil lamp flickered weakly against the far wall.Just a fl

Sometime Around October 28 AD, Germania Inferior, Marshland East of the Rhine"Hmmmmm..."A low thrum stirred the stillness before dawn.It grew.A deep, resonant drone—heavy with numbers, thick with intent.A barritus.The battle-cry of Germania.Then came the tendrils of grey, snaking upward through the thinning branches of the forest—Smoke.Grey. Acrid. Hungry.The Germania tribe had returned.And at their forefront—Arminius.This was no petty rebellion.He did not rally for kingship.It was a reckoning.He rallied for vengeance—raw and untamed, pulsed in the air.A bitter memory surfaced in Arminius's mind, sharp as a shattered glass.Sejanus.The snake.Yes, it had been Arminius who first approached him—believing that Sejanus’ ambition might be bargained with.He had offered something of value, hoping to secure his family’s safety.And in return, once part of the promise was fulfilled, Sejanus would reveal their location.But in the end, the nature of the serpent does not change

Tiberius sat slumped beneath the statue of Augustus, like a man worn down by time, shadowed in black robes.He could hear footsteps.Slow.Deliberate.It was getting near.Then murmurs.He did not look up at first, even when it grew increasingly loud.Like the annoying buzzing of a hornet.When he did look up, his eyes were red.His face sagged.Hollow.His son had just died.And Agrippina had come to talk politics.Senators hot on her heels.As if she owned the place.His palace.The foolish senators stopped on their tracks, looked between them—suddenly trapped between thunder and lightning.The buzzing stopped.Only Agrippina moved forward. Then stopped right in front of Tiberius.Silence stretched on.Agrippina's hazel eyes were trained on Tiberius's old, tired eyes.They measured each other.Then Tiberius raised one trembling hand."Leave us."The senators bowed and scattered like leaves in a storm.All that enthusiasm on the way from Curia Julia was gone in an instant.'Spineless

Agrippina rose before the sun.As if she hadn't cried.As if she hadn't hurled a vase at the wall last night—because of Antonia's words.Her pride had been scratched.All night she lay motionless, waiting for sleep that never arrived.But no one could tell. No trace remained.A bath.A female slave braided her hair in silence.The scent of something floral folded into her dress.Rituals. Armor.Outside, Rome stirred with a hangover.But not her.She stood before the mirror—her speculum—and stared herself down without blinking.The reflection was thinner than she remembered.Older. Sharper.Gone was the old Agrippina.Something had burned away in her this past year.Or maybe it had only just become visible.Drusus the Younger was dead.And Tiberius had not come.Her mouth twitched.'You hide in your palatium while your son dies choking on roses. Just as you hid when you had my husband murdered.'She pressed a pearl pin into her black stola, twisting it with the precision of a blade.Th

Lucius was out of breath.It was vigilia tertia.Third watch.Late enough for the bakers, early enough for secrets.Lucius, a plebeian’s son—born to ash and bread—ran without stopping.He didn’t pause to wipe the sweat from his brow. Didn’t slow to catch his breath.He ran like he was being chased by a pack of wolves.From Antonia’s villa, down the winding alleys of the Palatine.Through night fog that curled around shuttered stalls and broken lamps—until the scent of ash, fig, and fresh dough told him he was close.His father’s thermopolium was still open.Always was—especially after dark, when the real customers came.He ducked under the worn awning of the bakery—or the front of it, anyway—and pushed through the wooden door.Inside, the warmth of the ovens wrapped around him.Bread. Honey. Smoke. Burnt flour.Comforting. Safe, in theory.But his legs still shook. He stumbled.His tunic was wet, sticky. Not from rain—it was summer.It was his own sweat.His father—Publius, the baker