Pompa Funebris

20AD, around early January, Palatine Hill..

It's raining...

PITTER-PATTER

'Is it possible for the sky to mourn?'

PITTER-PATTER

Lepidus wondered, tilting his head toward the endless expanse of darkness above.

Raindrops pelted down, drenching his black hair, tracing cold paths down his pale skin.

Goosebumps popping up.

He squinted against the downpour, his eyes swollen and red-rimmed from crying.

'The air smells of damp earth…' He sniffled.

His chest ached, tightening with an invisible force. 'The sky is dark… and it's weeping.'

Slowly, he pressed a trembling hand to his chest, as if the pressure could dull the pain inside.

The pitter-pattering of the rain drummed against the cobblestones, each drop a lonely note in the melancholic melody that echoed his sorrow.

SPLOSH SPLOSH 

Barefoot, shivering, Lepidus stood alone in the rain-soaked streets of Rome.

Citizens hurried past him—merchants, slaves, nobles—each too absorbed in their own lives to notice the small, trembling figure in the storm.

His red tunica, dirtied with the city's grime, clung to his thin frame. His brown, tattered cape was useless against the relentless rain.

Lepidus' teeth chattered. His lips trembled.

"The sky is crying like me" He whispered.

And for a while, he simply stood there, welcoming the sky's tears as if they could wash away his own.

Eventually, he wiped his face with a small, rain-soaked hand, smearing away water, tears, and snot in one motion.

Then, without another word, he turned and began to walk, sploshing the accumulated rain water on the side of the road.

Lepidus's thoughts drifted toward his mother.

Her warm touch. Her gentle voice. The way her eyes sparkled—even in death.

A fresh wave of tears welled up, blurring his vision. He wiped them away with the back of his hand, but they kept falling.

"I'll always be with you, my sweet son…"

He could still hear her voice, soft and comforting, a promise whispered countless times.

SLOSH SLOSH

Whenever his father's wives got their hands on him, when his mother wasn't around to shield him…

He would close his eyes and wait. Wait for the blows to land.

But his mother always came in time.

"He's just a child—hurt me instead!" She would plead, desperation lacing her voice.

And they would.

Kicks. Slaps. Hair ripped from her scalp.

Still, she never stopped protecting him.

Afterward, she would crawl to where he hid, huddled in the corner, sobbing.

She would cup his face, her own bruised and bloodied, and offer him the same, unwavering smile.

"It's okay now, my son. It's alright now…"

Lepidus stopped walking. His breath caught as his vision blurred with tears.

"Liar," he whispered bitterly.

He rubbed his eyes with his sleeve, but the pain wouldn't go away.

"You should have at least wiped the blood off your face before saying that… hic… hic…"

And now, she was gone.

She had died last night.

Leaving him alone. Vulnerable.

Lepidus shivered, his breath hitching. "Mother is truly gone," he sniffled, his voice barely above a whisper.

But then, a thought surfaced—one that brought a bittersweet comfort.

'No, not really gone… She's in the afterlife. With the gods.'

A fragile smile flickered across his lips, despite the weight crushing his chest.

But his knees buckled.

His body betrayed him.

He barely caught himself, hands grasping the cold stone wall beside him, fingers trembling. His legs threatened to give out, but he held on.

And then, he wept. 

The rain wept with him.

Yet even as grief swallowed him whole, his father's reaction when her mother died, cut just as deep.

"Take care of it."

That was all he had said. As if the woman who had died wasn't once the love of his life.

Lepidus sniffled, his hands clenching into fists. 'Well… he did love her at first.'

'Who wouldnt? His mother is so beautiful!'

She's got a quarter of a nubian descent. An exotic beauty that he always paraded in the city.

Until his father found out the truth.

Until he learned how the Cornelii family had deceived him.

Tricked into marrying a woman of slave descent—just because the family had no suitable daughters to offer but still craved power.

Greedy people.

His relatives. The Corneliis.

When his father learned of the deception, his love curdled into hatred. Overnight, he became a stranger to her.

"Do you know what you've done?" Lepidus still remembered the rage in his father's voice. "You've made me the laughingstock of Rome!"

That anger never faded.

Lepidus's stomach twisted, his father's final, cruel words echoing in his mind:

"The only son I have is a half-ling! Vae! A son of a dirty slave!"

The sting of those words seeped into his bones, deeper than the cold of the rain.

'Father, why do you hate her so much?'

The question burned in his mind, though he knew he'd never have the courage to say it aloud.

'It's not like she chose to be born a slave.'

His hands clenched into fists. His father would never listen. Never care.

But the Cornelii…

A dark promise bloomed in his chest.

'One day… I will return all this pain to you.'

A new strength surged through him, pushing back the weakness in his limbs. He forced himself to stand.

The rain still fell, relentless, mirroring the weight in his heart.

As he walked through the city, something felt... off.

Rome, always alive with voices, was eerily silent.

The usual chaos—the shouts of merchants, the chatter of passersby—was muted, swallowed by the steady rhythm of the rain.

Shadows loomed over empty streets.

People lingered, standing still. Watching. Waiting.

Even the thermopolia, the bustling food stalls where the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine usually filled the air, were closed.

Lepidus frowned. 'Unusual...'

His chest tightened at the memory of those stalls—of the times he and his mother had walked here together, following the mouthwatering scent of warm meals.

He stopped in his tracks, eyes drifting shut as he let himself imagine it.

Her laughter. Her warmth beside him. The way she would buy him something small even when they had little to spare.

A faint smile flickered on his lips.

'Those days… they feel like a lifetime ago.'

His stomach growled, breaking the moment.

Lepidus hadn't eaten since last night.

He had been too busy holding her hand, watching the life slip from her eyes.

"Be strong, my son. You'll be on your own now... but I will always be watching over you."

Her final words.

Her final smile.

Her body had grown cold in his arms, her fingers limp in his grasp.

If the vilici—a slave— hadn't come to take her away, he might still be sitting there, lost.

Lepidus looked down at his hands. Still filthy. His nails caked in mud.

The same hands that had buried her that morning.

He flexed his fingers, rain pooling in his open palm.

But no matter how tightly he held them together—

The water slipped right through.

The rain washed away the last remnants of mud from his hands, revealing the raw, torn skin beneath.

He winced. His palms stung. His nails were jagged, filled with dirt.

'Just like me…'

A broken, ruined mess.

His expressive green eyes shimmered with fresh tears. It was cold—so cold he could feel it seep into his bones.

And yet, inside, he burned.

The contradiction unsettled him, as if his body couldn't decide whether to freeze or burn alive.

'Why?'

'Why did Mother have to die?'

'Why was she born the daughter of a slave?'

'And what does that make me? A slave, too?'

His breath hitched. His thoughts spiraled.

'I'm neither patrician nor plebeian. Then what am I? What will happen to me now?'

The weight of his uncertain future pressed down on him, suffocating.

He felt like drowning.

'Someone…'

'Please…'

'Save me…'

But his silent cry was swallowed by the empty streets, lost beneath the lingering whispers of rain.

His knees buckled.

This time, he collapsed.

Pain flared through his scraped skin, but it was nothing compared to the ache twisting inside him.

People passed by, throwing fleeting glances his way.

No one stopped.

No one cared.

A twelve-year-old boy, kneeling on the wet streets of Rome, shattered and alone.

The city did not weep for him.

Then, the distant sound of wheels and hooves cut through the silence.

Chariots. Horses.

The rain had begun to slow.

And fate—whether cruel or kind—was approaching.

TRUDGE TRUDGE

The sudden cessation of rain left behind an eerie stillness.

Heavy with sorrow, the dark sky began to lighten, its deep gray giving way to a muted dawn.

A strange scent drifted through the damp air—incense and wet stone.

Low murmurs rippled through the gathered crowd.

Lepidus, still kneeling, lifted his head.

For a moment, he had forgotten where he was, lost in his own grief.

Now, reality pressed in once more.

He followed the crowd's gaze, eyes scanning the sea of somber faces. The people around him were silent, their heads bowed, dressed in mourning.

And then—

A name.

A single word spoken in hushed reverence.

"Germanicus."

Lepidus stiffened.

He had heard that name many nights ago.

One of his father's wives had been lashing him, the sting of the whip biting into his back.

In the next room, his father had spoken in low, serious tones.

"Germanicus has finally died."

Lepidus had barely processed the words then. His mother had been too ill to stand, her fevered form curled in bed, unaware of the world around her.

But now, the weight of that statement settled upon him.

Germanicus. The beloved general. Adored by nobles and commoners alike.

A man who had won Rome's heart, only to be sent east—Antioch, they said—to secure diplomacy in the provinces.

He never returned.

And today, his family was bringing home his ashes.

The very air seemed to mourn him.

The rhythmic sound of hooves against the rain-slicked stones filled the silence.

TRUDGE TRUDGE

A luxurious chariot passed, drawn by two black horses.

Lepidus's gaze locked onto the woman riding it..

Her face was hollow with grief, her expression bordering on madness as she clutched an ornate urn.

Her agony was raw, unmistakable.

TRUDGE TRUDGE

As the solemn procession moved forward, more people joined, forming a long, winding path toward the Mausoleum of Augustus—where all the imperial family laid to rest.

Pompa funebris... or a funeral procession.

Lepidus stood still, watching, the weight of grief—his own and the city's—settling heavily upon his young shoulders.

The procession's slow, deliberate pace matched the weight in Lepidus's chest.

The world was unfair.

When his mother died, there had been no grand mourning, no procession, no weeping crowds.

It had been just him, his mother, and the man who dug her grave. 

That person is not even mourning, it's only Lepidus. The man just stood there and watched him cry. Why would he?

Nobody had cared for the daughter of a slave.

Yes a slave, the one at the bottom of the social hierarchy. They have no rights. No freedom. No nothing.

A pang of bitterness twisted in his gut as he watched the mourners pass.

Germanicus, the great general, had the entire city grieving him.

Yet his mother had been laid to rest in silence, her existence already fading from the world.

TRUDGE TRUDGE

Lepidus clenched his fists. 

Why did Germanicus deserve such sorrow while his own mother's death was met with indifference?

'We're both the same. We're both people! Why is there even statuses?'

'The world is so unfair…'

His gaze drifted, skimming the people riding in the grand chariots.

A group of children followed the mourning woman riding a wider and bigger chariot, their presence almost ghostly in its silence.

One young girl stood out.

She was about his age—no, maybe younger.

Her beauty was striking.

Golden waves of hair framed her delicate face, and her piercing blue eyes seemed almost too bright, too clear, as if they belonged to something beyond this world.

'A goddess.'

A shiver ran down his spine.

TRUDGE TRUDGE

She was mesmerizing. Yet, it was not just her beauty that unnerved him. It was the emptiness in her gaze.

She looked like a statue—perfect, lifeless.

TRUDGE TRUDGE

Lepidus scoffed, shaking off the strange feeling.

'So what if she's that pretty?' He thought. 'I've seen better—my mother was the most beautiful of them all.'

With that thought, he turned away, ready to leave the scene behind.

"Rome has lost its brightest star."

"A hero… gone too soon."

"Even the gods weep for him…"

He heard the people murmured as he step to leave.

Those words cut deep.

No one had whispered for his mother. No one had mourned her loss but him.

When she died, the world did not pause. There were no crowds. No processions. No incense burned in her honor.

Just a grave. A hole in the earth.

Just him, kneeling in the dirt, alone.

His fingers curled into fists.

'Why?'

'Why did Germanicus receive all of this? The mourning, the love, the reverence?'

Because he was powerful.

Because he was important.

And his mother?

She had been nothing. A woman of slave descent. A discarded wife. A stain on a noble name.

So, the world moved on.

Lepidus' chest burned, a fury unlike anything he had ever known unfurling in his gut.

'Power… power decides everything.'

Who is mourned.

Who is forgotten.

Who suffers.

Who thrives.

His breath came out shaky, his heart pounding against his ribs.

"If I had power…" His voice was barely a whisper, but the weight of the words made it feel heavier than any scream.

If he had power, his mother's death wouldn't have been ignored.

If he had power, she wouldn't have suffered in the first place.

If he had power, his father wouldn't have looked at him with disgust.

Power.

That was the only thing that mattered in this world.

Then, a sound stopped him in his tracks. and his thoughts.

A voice.

Soft. Melancholic.

Singing.

The sound wove through the air like a ghostly wail, wrapping around his heart with invisible fingers.

His breath caught. 'Who was it?'

He turned back, scanning the crowd, and his eyes landed on the girl.

The goddess.

She was singing.

It was the loneliest sound he had ever heard. It made his chest ache, as if his very soul wanted to escape his body just to follow that melody.

TRUDGE TRUDGE

The voice pulled him in.

He barely noticed when the chariot passed right by him.

His heartbeat stuttered.

THUTHUMP THUMP THUMP

Up close, she was even more breathtaking.

'Why? Why did she sing like that?'

'Did she feel it too?'

'Like the world had ended?'

The question hung in the air, unanswered.

TRUDGE TRUDGE

THUTHUMP THUMP THUMP

Without thinking, Lepidus took a step forward.

Then another.

Before he knew it, he was following the procession, his exhaustion and heartbreak momentarily forgotten.

The rhythmic march of the crowd blurred into the steady drum of his own heartbeat.

THUTHUMP THUMP

THUMP

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

INDEX:

Vae - damn

plebeian- commoner (third in the social hierarchy)

Antioch - city in Roman Syria