A Wife's Grief

'Hhhhnnnnnnnnnn..' A silent cry is being suppressed. It's caught in her throat. Trapped.

Afraid to release it. She's barely hanging on with her sanity.

Barely aware of what's going on around her.

She's not even aware that her son Drusus Caesar has just slapped his younger brother Caligula, earlier.

No.

She's lost in her own little world.

Her calceus-clad feet sank into the damp, rain-soaked grass, soft and yielding beneath her weight.

The earth still held the memory of the recent downpour, puddles forming in its uneven embrace.

SWISH SWISH

Each step was sluggish, her long dark stola dragging through the wet ground, its hem absorbing mud and moisture until it grew heavy, a burden mirroring the weight in her chest.

Her face was empty. Her eyes, vacant. But inside—

'Hhhhnnnnnnnnnn...'

The sound was hers alone, a silent wail curling in her soul.

She carried the urn close, its cold ceramic surface pressing against her chest as she trudged forward, her mind unable to form a single coherent thought.

The grass clung to her feet, mud sucking at her soles.

Each step was harder than the last. It's uncomfortable.

'Hhhhnnnnnnnnnn...' But she ignored it.

Grief consumed her. It gnawed at her insides, hollowing her with every breath.

Consuming her whole being.

SWISH SWISH

A hidden rock caught her foot. She stumbled.

But even as she pitched forward, her arms tightened around the urn.

She would fall before she let it slip from her grasp.

Strong hands caught her from behind, steadying her.

Claudius.

Her husband's cousin. Another of Augustus's adopted grandsons through his sister, Octavia.

His gaze was serious, filled with understanding.

"Agrippina..." He murmured.

She flinched.

Her name on his lips felt foreign, unwelcome.

She struggled against his hold, desperate to be free. His touch burned, searing against her frozen skin.

She did not want another man's hands on her. She loathe it.

Her eyes blazed with silent hatred.

Claudius studied her—a slight hesitation—then sighed, shook his head, and released her without another word.

'She's gone beyond mad...'

SWISH SWISH

She regained her footing and moved forward.

Resuming her walk. The silent cry still echoing within her.

Her children, Antonia, and Claudius trailed behind.

The mourners from the earlier procession lingered in the distance, their solemn presence adding to the weight of the moment.

SWISH SWISH SPLAT

She halted. A shadow loomed over her path. Looking up.

The Mausoleum Augusti stood before her, a towering structure of travertine limestone, wreathed by cypress trees.

Statues of gods and goddesses stood watch around it. Their faces, as if in pain.

She felt nothing as she gaze at it.

On any other day, she might have marveled at its grandeur. But today? Nothing.

She might be unable to appreciate anything from now on.

The winter wind stirred the hem of her stola, teasing strands of her almost white hair.

She clutched the urn tighter. She felt the cold. But she's been cold ever since she left Syria.

'Hhhhnnnnnnnnnn...' She cried inwardly.

'Ever since he left me...' Her first coherent thought.

She never said dead. Never gone.

Just left.

She hugged the urn, her chest tightening.

'Ever since he left me... my heart stopped beating.'

She moved, but she was a ship on a restless tide, drifting aimlessly.

Her gaze fell to her feet, caked in mud.

'Move.'

Her legs trembled.

She looked down at the urn. As if remembering what it was. Who it was...

A tear fell. Then another. And another.

"It's raining..." She mumbled. Her throat dry.

Her vision blurred.

Her body betrayed her.

She opened her mouth, and at last, the scream tore free.

"Aaaaaahhhhhh!!!"

"Waaaaaaaahhhhhh!!!"

Her knees buckled, and she collapsed into the wet earth.

THUD.

"Hhhhnnnnnnnn! Aaaahhhhhhh!!!" She howled like a dying animal, gripping the urn as if it were the last piece of him she had left.

"Why?! Why?! Why?!" She asked, not waiting for an answer.

"Oh, gods—why?!" The statues gazed down at her.

"Hhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!"

Her body trembled. Her cries ripped through the silent graveyard of her ancestors.

She wept without shame. Without restraint.

Snot and tears in her face. And yet even when she cry like this, nobody laughed.

Time lost meaning. The world faded, leaving only her agony.

Her black stola clung to her, drenched in rain, mud, and grief.

Her children stood motionless, watching their mother sob for the first time since their father's death. Sniffling. Their eyes started to tear.

Even the mourners, silent in the background, felt the weight of her sorrow.

It's radiating off her body.

Agrippina was no longer just grieving.

It's like Agrippina is grief itself.

The morning sun retreated behind the clouds, shrouding them in gloom.

Her cries softened, her body spent.

A hesitant touch on her shoulder.

"Mother... let's go." Nero Caesar's voice cracked, thick with unshed tears. "Let father rest now."

She did not respond immediately. Shook her head. Then sobbed again.

"Hhhhnnnnnnnn..."

After a moment has passed.. she lifted her hand.

Claudius moved to help, but Drusus Caesar was faster, rushing to his mother's side.

Julia, just four years old, also run to her mother, clinging to her mother's legs.

Not caring that she's now dirty and wet.

As if she feared losing her, too.

The sobs had drained her, leaving her mind empty, hollow.

Sounds crept back in—the murmuring of mourners, the rustling of fabric.

Slowly, her eyes drifted across the faces around her, unfocused.

Her children. Nero Caesar. Drusus. Julia—.until they landed on Caligula.

Blood. A faint smear against his cheek. His eyes vacant. She blinked at it, feeling nothing.

Not even curiosity.

Registering the injury without emotion, before moving on to Drusilla and little Livilla.

Her gaze found Antonia, who mirrored her grief.

Then Claudius.

She glanced at the mourners, their sorrowful eyes watching her in silence.

She can hear them murmuring. Whisper of something. Making her eyes twitch.

But done nothing.

She would remember this moment.

Nero Caesar tightened his grip on her arm, urging her to move.

Her face was still wet with tears, her breath ragged.

She let herself be led.

Each step toward the mausoleum made the urn feel heavier, as if Germanicus himself was anchoring her in place.

Telling her that he's there.

Then, she stopped.

She met her son's gaze.

Nero understood.

He held Drusus back as Agrippina stepped forward alone.

CLACK CLACK

The air outside smelled of grass and rain.

Inside, it reeked of incense, myrrh, and offerings.

And beneath it all—the scent of death—the musty, earthy scent of ancient stone and decay.

No matter how they attempt to hide the smell, it still comes out. Strong. Potent.

As if telling her that this is not a place for the living.

The overseer of the mausoleum bowed. She ignored him.

She moved deeper inside, her family and the mourners following her, maintaining distance, past the towering walls lined with niches.

Only the sharp click of footsteps broke the heavy silence on the marble floor.

CLACK CLACK

Each niche held a sarcophagus or an urn, silent witnesses to Rome's vanished glory.

Silence engulfed her.

She stopped before the central chamber.

Before the grand tomb of Augustus.

She barely glanced at its intricate carvings before turning to the overseer.

"Where?" Her voice, raw and hoarse.

This was the first time she had spoken to someone after her husband's death.

The man bowed and gestured toward a raised marble platform.

She stepped forward and, with shaking hands, placed the urn among the others.

Carefully. As if it would shatter any moment.

It rested on pristine white marble, its surface carved with words meant to immortalize the dead.

Agrippina stepped back, staring at it.

She whispered a silent prayer.

The mourners bowed their heads in respect.

Germanicus had found his place among his ancestors.

And Agrippina—despite being surrounded by her ancestors, her beloved in the urn, and her family—had never felt more alone.

******************************

Hours passed.

Agrippina and Claudius remained behind after the others left.

Antonia had taken the children, retreating to her family estate.

The mourners are also all gone.

Silence stretched between them.

Claudius shifted uncomfortably, glancing at her, searching for words.

But her presence was impenetrable.

He sighed, turning his gaze back to the urn.

His expression darkened.

Then, Agrippina broke the silence.

Her breaths came shallow and sharp, her chest rising and falling with the weight of her grief.

Yet beneath the sorrow, something sharper took root—rage.

She turned to Claudius, her hazel eyes burning.

"Where is your uncle?" She demanded, voice tight.

Claudius hesitated.

His fingers twitched at his sides, his gaze flickering toward the great doors as if afraid they might have ears. "...Esquiline Hill."

Agrippina’s nostrils flared.

"Does the emperor know his nephew's ashes arrived today?"

Silence. Then—

Claudius swallowed. "He knows."

"Then why was he not here?" She pressed, stepping closer.

His silence stretched too long. Agrippina’s fingers curled into fists.

When he finally spoke, it was barely more than a whisper.

"I don’t know."

She let out a sharp breath, her voice trembling but firm. "You don't?"

Agrippina's eyes burned.

Her clenched fists tightening, her voice low and full of malice.

"Does he have a hand in it?" She straightened her back, forcing him to look at her.

But he is refusing to look.

"Does he have a hand in it?" She repeated. Her voice steady and clear, weighted with accusation.

"His nephew's death?"

Her eyes were still red, the half-crazed grief still lurking there—but now, anger sharpened it.

She remembered the whispers earlier, the hushed voices that slithered through the mourners like vipers..

"It's him, right?" She hissed.

Claudius stiffened, his face twitching with some unreadable emotion. "Listen, Agrippina. You can’t say things like this."

"Why not? Because it’s true?"

But his eyes betrayed him, shifting, searching, afraid.

Once he was sure no one was there, he finally looked at her. "We do not know that," he repeated, more forcefully this time, his gaze urging her to stop.

"We do not know that." Claudius repeated.

"It is him." But she stubbornly answers. Confident even.

"Listen, you can't be saying things like this out loud". He warned her.

A sudden noise cut through the charged air—heavy footsteps echoing down the marble halls.

They stared at each other, neither speaking. Agrippina stubborn, Claudius cautious.

"Matrona! Matrona Agrippina!" A vilici's voice that Agrippina knew could be heard calling for her.

Her eyes turned sharply at the direction it was coming from.

The vilici, who entered, turned pale when he saw her matrona's angry face.

He gulped, but the urgency of his news was more important at the moment than his matrona's rage.

He hurriedly told her the news.

"The emperor had his praetorian guard arrest the governor of Syria," he said.

But Agrippina just stared, her eyebrows raising, urging the vilici to continue.

"His sin is.." he gulped, "..Poisoning the Dominus Germinacus."

It's like something exploded within her.

"What?"

******************************

INDEX:

Calceus- female footwear/a sandals (plural: calcei)

Travertine Limestone- a form of limestone often used in Roman architecture

Matrona- a Roman term for a respectable married woman similar to "madam"

Esquiline Hill- one of the famous Seven Hills of Rome

Dominus- male master/lord

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FUNFACT:

The Mausoleum of Augustus or Mausoleum August, was a popular spot... even after death (lmao). It wasn't just a tomb. It was a status symbol! Even after Augustus and Germanicus, other prominent families wanted their tombs or urns placed there, that's how important it is, for them.

And Roman funerals were... loud. Like loud loud. Especially for important people like Germanicus. There were even professional mourners (praeficae) who wailed and tore their hair, musicians, and sometimes even actors performing scenes from the deceased's life. Can you believe that? Like the famous crying ladies in modern times! Oh but in my chapter, I wanted it to be solemn so, I depicted it differently.

And Claudius, that Claudius in my story, was famously awkward and had a stutter. And later on he became an emperor! Wow.