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 into his shoulder. He kept adjusting them.
Poor-boy's gear.
It made his shoulders feel heavier than the contents.
But this is his chance. To follow up on what happened to Caligula in the Circus Maximus.
They haven't really talked there do they? They just stare at each other.
A silent comfort. And it's bugging him that Asprenas hands have touched Caligula.
He sighed then he looked up.
He can hear the music coming from there. Then suddenly it stopped.
"Should've snagged father's," he muttered, not thinking of why the music from above has stopped.
Instead he is thinking of his father's new saccus in his cubiculum.
If it hadn't been for his sister's hawk-like eyes earlier he would have 'borrowed' it.
"You worry too much," Lucius said beside him, jogging, breathless but grinning. "No one's looking at your saccus, Lepidus."
"They might, we never know.." Lepidus muttered, brushing dust from his most proper and clean blue tunic. "It's his birthday. I'm late."
Late, because he couldn't stop drawing. Because he had to make this one right. Perfect.
Marcus hadn't come. Said he had something to do.
And Lucius actually volunteered to accompany him.
He's grateful. He doesn't want to be alone just in case he was unable to see Caligula..
Or if this is all just a dream. 'No this is not a dream..' He convinced himself.
They rounded the final curve.
The hedgework that was acting as the villa's walls was unnaturally neat.
Two tall torches on each side of the entrance greeted them, their light washing gold all over the area.
The scent of roses floated up from the garden.
Then it happened.
A scream.
High. Piercing. Human.
Lepidus froze.
It wasn't the kind of scream you hear in children's games. It was the kind that made the skin at the back of your neck go cold.
He felt something twist in his gut.
'Caligula!'
He didn't think—he ran.
Not along the path, but straight through the hedge, thorns clawing at his arms and sleeves, opening a seam at his shoulder.
"Lepidus!" Lucius shouted behind him, startled. "Wait up!"
He vaulted over a bush, then another, ignoring Lucius's startled shout behind him.
The hortus opened up in front of him like a scene carved out of myth—unnatural.
Torchlight. Movement. Chaos.
People were running. Someone dropped a wine jug.
A senator shouted. A slave sobbed into their hands.
At the center of the hortus—a boy, seated, alone, frozen.
Caligula.
And in front of him—a body. Not moving.
Drusus the Younger.
He was crumpled like a discarded doll, his mouth black and wet. His eyes stared open, with a look that made them seem ready to burst from their sockets.
A silver goblet lay on his side.
The blood—if it was blood from his mouth—soaked into the rough marble like ink.
Lepidus stumbled to a halt. Lucius came crashing through the hedges behind him, out of breath.
"What's going on—?" he gasped, then saw the scene. His words died in his throat.
Lepidus didn't answer. He dropped the saccus to the ground and moved forward, fast and low.
He knelt in front of Caligula, shielding the younger boy's view from the dead body.
Not caring if anybody saw him. This is more important than any reputation right now.
An emergency.
His eyes flicked upward behind the boy—Caligula's grandmother was still standing stiff.
Agrippina's mouth was pressed into a hard, white line, her eyes moving from the dead body to Livia, who was like a candle that was slowly melting.
Their attention is not on them.
Then Lepidus' attention came back to Caligula who looked like he wasn't breathing.
"Hey," Lepidus said gently, crouching close. "Look at me."
Caligula's eyes flicked to him, unfocused. Pale as stone. His hands still held a golden goblet, full of sweet wine.
"Breathe in," Lepidus said. "Come on. Like this—breathe in. Good. Now out."
He took the breaths with him, slow and exaggerated, until Caligula shakily mirrored him.
"That's it. That's good." He slowly pried the golden goblet and put it down beside the wooden chair, to his sandal clad feet.
Caligula's hands trembled in his lap, still curled as if holding something.
Lepidus looked around again.
The scene was cracking—servants rushing forward, guests whispering in urgent little knots.
Someone even vomited in the corner.
The statues watched in silence. Keeping the secrets.
He stood slowly, keeping a hand on Caligula's shoulder. "We're leaving."
"But—"
"It's okay." His voice was quiet but certain. "You're okay. Just walk with me."
He guided Caligula away from the center of the storm, one hand steady at the boy's back.
Caligula's legs moved stiffly, like he wasn't sure he still owned them.
"It's okay," Lepidus repeated, over and over, like a prayer. "I've got you."
Behind them, Drusus lay still.
Darkness has already spread out. No moon yet, not even stars.
And the garden no longer smelled of roses.
**********************************
Everything had happened too fast.
Too fast for thought. Too fast for fear.
Drusus the Younger was on the ground, his mouth open, black liquid trailing down his chin like some terrible parody of wine.
He lay graceless, his fine tunic twisted like it no longer belonged to him.
Agrippina didn't move her body at first.
She couldn't. Only her head and her eyes. She's alternately looking at Drusus' body and Livia, the empress.
The weight in her stola—her poison, still unopened, still wrapped in waxed linen—pressed cold and accusing against her ribs.
Someone had beaten her to it.
Her eyes slowly widened.
Her lips curled upward.
Then, slowly, softly—she began to laugh.
A single exhale at first. Then a breath. Then another.
"Ha."
Her shoulders shook.
"Ha… ha…"
She clutched her side, trembling, as the laughter came—shrill, sudden, unstoppable.
"Ha… hahahaha… hahahahahahaha!"
A few heads turned. A few guests stepped back.
The sound was unnatural. Not of grief. Not of madness. Something worse.
'Irony.'
It wasn't mourning. It was the bitter, perfect hilarity of fate.
Of plans unraveled by someone quicker, crueler, closer.
Someone had taken her vengeance from her—and she hadn't even had the chance to try.
"Enough." A voice, sharp as flint.
Antonia.
She moved beside her daughter-in-law with cold grace, a steadying hand pressing gently against Agrippina's shoulder. "Hush."
Agrippina's laughter died in her throat, shuddering into quiet gasps.
Her eyes were glassy, her mouth still shaped in a grin.
Antonia could see her shaking.
She had always known Agrippina was made of iron—but iron could warp under enough heat.
And this heat was searing.
Antonia looked past her.
The guests had begun to shift, forming uncertain knots of murmuring worry and whispered accusation.
Some had already fled—cowards. Traitors. She looked at Livia. It looks like her soul just got out of her body.
Then to her daughter Livilla. Drusus' wife. She was now slowly walking towards Drusus.
Looking at her husband with pure horror.
Antonia's jaw tightened.
Good.
"Find the murderer," she told the nearest praetorian. "Protect the Empress. Take back all the guests. Watch the rest. No one leaves."
Her voice was calm, low—not needing to shout to be obeyed.
To her slaves: "Search the estate. Every chamber, every corridor. Every servant's hand. There was more than one plan in motion tonight."
She turned to another servant, a nursemaid clutching a toddler. "My grandchildren—take them to their cubiculi. Lock the doors."
The woman nodded and vanished into the side hall.
Then Antonia turned her gaze downward.
Drusus.
Her son-in-law by marriage. Her daughter's husband. He had once been golden—a soldier, an heir, a man too pleased with himself to imagine an early death.
Now he lay sprawled down her hortus.
Livilla knelt beside him now, pale and unmoving. She wasn't crying. She didn't speak. Her hands rested in her lap, as if in prayer.
Antonia studied her daughter's face.
Nothing.
That was, perhaps, the worst sign of all. She recovered quickly from her horror.
Her eyes tracked away—to the far edge of the hortus. A glimpse of movement, vanishing down a hallway.
Her gaze swept the whole scene.
Guests. A body. Whispers. Questions.
She stood in the center of it all, calm and unblinking.
Antonia Minor—daughter of Mark Antony, niece of Augustus, mother of Germanicus—and now the only one left in control.
**********************************
FUN FACT:
Despite being a direct niece of Emperor Augustus and the grandmother of the infamous Caligula, Antonia Minor was highly respected for her wisdom, virtue, and independence, even after the deaths of her powerful relatives. She often acted as a moral compass within the imperial family and wasn't afraid to stand up for her beliefs, even against emperors.
What a woman!