enjoy.... XD
Truth be told...When Lepidus followed Caligula into the Circus Maximus, he was still unsure.The initial surge of bravery he'd felt while chasing after the boy now seemed fragile—easily shattered by the overwhelming reality of his situation.He didn’t know what he would say if he managed to get close.If he could get close.And he didn’t know what to do once he was near.If he could even get near.It was all obstacles. One after another.Could he really just show up unannounced and speak to Caligula as if it were the most natural thing in the world?Could he?"That's..." He slowed, doubt creeping in as he neared the entrance. "...That's being shameless. I suppose."He didn’t want Caligula’s friends—especially Asprenas, the silver-eyed boy—to look down on him.No, worse. He didn’t want them to look down on Caligula for speaking to someone like him.He knew they’d lift their brows. Just one glance, and they’d know.Tattered cape. Dirty tunic. Sand-worn leather sandals.And the smell. S
It had been a while since Asprenas and his two classmates had entered the Circus Maximus.They’d weaved through the throng of sweaty, noisy bodies with the ease of experts until they reached their designated seats.The rest of their classmates were already there, mingling with noble boys and girls Asprenas recognized.Then, his attention snapped to the arena—drawn instantly to the fight between the murmillo and the thracian—both gladiators—as he sat down.The air reverberated with a deafening crash as the two gladiators’ weapons collided, the sound of shattering steel echoing through the arena.BOOM BOOM BOOMHe couldn’t help but shout—momentarily forgetting Caligula, who was supposed to be trailing behind them.Asprenas cheered, immediately joining the roaring crowd.His blood surged with excitement.Then the fast-moving thracian stepped back, danced around the heavy, sturdy shield of the murmillo, looking for a way to attack.“Gracchus! Gracchus!” The well-built murmillo roared in re
The dimly lit tabernae, tucked deep in the heart of Rome, was a haven for those seeking refuge from the scorching sun—and from the law.The room was cold and bare, not a place for pleasantries—only secrets and threats.No torches lined the walls. Only a small oil lamp flickered on the table, casting shadows that danced like ghosts.The air was thick with the smell of wine and sweat, and the sounds of raucous laughter and clinking glasses filled the atmosphere.Outside, Volcanalia still raged, but inside, it felt as though the world had stopped.Arminius, disguised as an old beggar, limped toward the entrance.Cloaked, hooded, tall—his back stooped, his step uneven. Yet his posture remained deliberate, coiled, like a wolf pretending to be weak.He scanned the room, his gaze meeting the eyes of those inside. Conversations faltered; people measured the beggar who had entered.He ignored them.Only one person mattered.Sejanus. The snake.He had sent him a message earlier, once he stepped
August 31, 23 AD-Caligula's birthday party.The air was thick with the kind of laughter that only comes when people are trying far too hard.'Too hard.' Plancina thought. Pretending at grace. Playing at power.Antonia's villa urbana sprawled across the Palatine with the smug quiet of power—close enough to hear the forum's echoing debates drift up on the wind, but distant enough that no uninvited footsteps ever reached its gates.Her hortus had been transformed.Lyres and flutes echoed through the air.Garlands of roses were draped over every surface, their sharp perfume slicing through the honeyed scent of spilled wine and ripe figs.Citrus trees in painted pots lined the paths like sentries—their branches heavy with fruit, straining under too much sweetness.Even the statues—Venus, Minerva, a slightly too-smirking Apollo—seemed to disapprove, their marble gazes cool and aloof, as though the whole affair were far too extravagant for their taste.It was too much—especially for a child,
Caligula sat at the center of the wide hortus, blank-faced.Guests arrived, one after another. He felt uncomfortable.They brought gifts.A miniature bronze dagger, a carved wooden horse, scrolls tied with ribbon, and delicacies from all over the Roman Empire.He nodded. Thanked them.Forgot their presence the moment they turned away.Blurry. Black and white.He couldn't even tell the color of their robes.But truly—he was relieved.The sun was finally setting.'I can finally get out of here...' Caligula sighed.The orange glow nearly gone—though to him, it was nothing but a very bright, stabbing white that hurt his eyes.He could finally stop squinting now. Sighing again, he looked around.Still hazy. Still gray.'I'm tired of it...' he thought.Caligula felt like a statue on his own birthday.His detailed wooden chair, although comfortable, made him feel uneasy inside.Guests greeted him and then passed by. Their voices came too softly.He could feel them staring at him.Maybe smilin
The sun had gone down.But Lepidus’s eyes, trained to see in the dark, still picked out the rocky path without a torch.He already memorized this road, a dozen, no, a hundred times.He jogged uphill toward the gates of Antonia’s villa urbana, his worn saccus bouncing against his back with every step.Scrolls rustled inside. Ink, charcoal. His drawing materials.Although there is one scroll that was already finished, mixed among them.More important than the rest.A portrait.His best yet. Of him. His goddess.The handprint on his cheek had almost faded completely, save for a small patch of a bruise too faint to see easily.Only if one looked closely. His body, too, was almost healed.He tugged at the frayed strap of the saccus, grimacing.He should’ve left the other scrolls behind, carried only that one drawing—the one he’d poured his time, his breath, his heart into.His gift.But he thought, ‘What if Caligula didn't like it? And asked him to draw another?’The patched leather dug int
He felt cold.Not the kind that the wind brings.The kind that lives inside you.It started in his fingertips and moved inward, curling like smoke into his chest, into his spine.It's freezing.His hands still held the goblets—no, one goblet was already on the ground.It rolled.Just one now. Golden. Still full. Sticky. Sweet.Suddenly someone was there.Kneeling in front of him. That familiar scent of mint.Shielding his eyes from the gruesome sight. Even though he couldn’t see the face of the dead.Only that, it was now drowning on a black liquid. Not moving.Drusus’ voice was echoing in his ears.. 'What was it that he said?' he tried to remember.'To twelve years of divine promise?'.It was like the voice echoing in his head was being spoken under the water.Incoherent. Like a gurgle. But loud.Suddenly, he heard a voice before he saw the face.Coherent. Pulling him back.He recognized the smell, the voice. The one he was waiting for.Lepidus."Breathe in," Lepidus said. "Come on. L
The path behind the villa urbana was narrow and winding, barely more than a trail carved between hedges and crumbling garden walls.It felt forgotten. Unkempt.A stark contrast to the boastful entrance.The air was warm—heavy with the scent of summer.No moon. No stars.At least not yet.Only torches lit along the edges of the estate, their flames flickering in the summer breeze.The world felt distant. Smaller somehow.As if all that mattered was this path.These two figures.Lepidus walked beside Caligula, not too close.Just near enough that if the boy stumbled, Lepidus could catch him.Caligula said nothing as his feet led Lepidus to the place he'd found after the chaos at the Circus Maximus—a place he now sought out for solace.He already memorized the path at heart.His footsteps were slow, dragging a little, the hem of his toga dusted from the gravel.He looked tired. Hollowed out.But not afraid. Not cold.Not anymore.The orange-golden light of the torches behind them dimmed
In Rome, military service was both duty and a currency.For plebians, it was survival—or a ladder out of obscurity.For the nobility, it was performance: a rite, a stage, proof that their bloodlines still bled for the Roman Republic, now the Roman Empire. Sons of gentes, consuls and senators were expected to serve, often beginning as tribuni militum (military tribunes) posted to the fringes of the known world to earn their scars and their stories.And the plebians? They started as a foot soldiers or miles gregarius.A Roman legion was its own city of war—five to six thousand men, split into cohorts and centuries. At the top stood the legatus legionis, a senator by rank, an emperor's man by appointment.Below him: six tribunes, drawn from both noble and equestrian stock; the praefectus castrorum, a hardened veteran who ran the camp like a machine.And the centurions—grizzled, brutal, relentless—who ruled their men with iron fists and vine staffs.But not all soldiers marched under th
Warning! This chapter includes disturbing content and may be upsetting to some readers. Please take care while reading.An epigraph:"In the crucible of cruelty, a fragile soul is remade—one scar, one sorrow, each step forging the darkness within."The time was now meridies..Caligula sat atop a high cliff, overlooking the sea.One foot dangled in the air, the other tucked beneath him, propping up his head—like a lost child.The emperor's villa loomed just a few steps behind, a presence he could feel even without turning.His eyes stayed on the cruel waves, though his mind was miles away.The wind was hot, but soft.It tousled his blond hair like fingers that didn't belong to him.He could smell the salt in the air.The sea—strong, clean, already familiar.His face was still. Quiet.But his back ached.His lip was split.One eye swollen.Turning purple.A red hand print lingered on the circle of his neck.It stung when he breathed.He remembered what happened earlier—after everyone in
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
The praetorian guards were gone. The guests too—long gone.Only the ghosts of perfume and wine lingered in the air, drifting through the night like whispers.Faint laughter, fading music—echoes of the party that had turned to horror because of his uncle Drusus the Younger's poisoning.It's so quiet.Drusus Caesar moved through the corridor, barefoot now, careful not to make a sound.In his hands, his sandals.He had already forgotten the poison he found in his mother’s cubiculum—and how he’d taken it and hidden it behind the tapestry.Now, he just regretted not moving faster.His curiosity about everything was getting in the way now.Slowing him down.If he’d slipped out of the cubiculum just a little earlier, maybe he would’ve caught a glimpse of what happened.But no—he’d tried to play the clever delator—like a boy-legatus chasing the shadow who’d planted poison in his mother’s room.As if it were some grand conspiracy.'Did his uncle really die? Who poisoned him? What happened afte