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 after that? Did the Empress Livia cry? Did Aunt Livilla faint? Will the guests whisper about it all through Rome?'
'I missed all the drama,' he thought. Regret filled him.
And there, emerging from the shadows, was the one person he least wanted to see.
Antonia. His grandmother.
His heart skipped a bit. He almost peed himself. Not that he would admit it even when he dies.
His grandmother's figure appeared from a shadowed archway, like a statue coming alive.
She came from where everything had happened…
To where Drusus Caesar was headed.
The center of the hortus.
Her shoulders squared. Eyes lit with cold fury.
Her face—Drusus would never forget it.
The last time she'd looked at him like that was years ago, when he slapped his younger brother during their father's funeral procession.
Antonia hadn't raised her voice.
She didn't need to.
She had gasped—yes—but even in horror, she'd managed to freeze his blood.
With her look. That look. The look she gave him now.
The reason he controls himself around Caligula, even when he wants to lash out at that pest with vacant eyes.
Years of living under her roof had stripped away the lie he used to tell himself: that she was small.
Old. Brittle. Unimportant.
'Her eyes scream royal.' he gulped slightly.
No. 'She was a Roman matron.'
And her silence could flay flesh better than a whip.
Her voice, when it came, was razor-sharp.
Sending shivers down his spine.
"What are you doing out here?"
Her eyes scanned the corridor behind him, brows lifting at the sandals in his hands, already calculating which wet nurse to punish.
She had ordered them locked in. No exceptions.
Drusus swallowed hard.
"I—" he stammered. "Caligula's not with us."
Antonia's brow lifted, slow and deliberate. "What do you mean?"
Drusus hesitated, then tried to meet her gaze. He couldn't. Instead, he lowered his head.
"He was never there. When you ordered us locked in. He wasn't with us." His voice was small.
Silence fell. He dared to peek.
For a moment, her face didn't change.
Then, like a crack in marble, the worry broke through.
She turned sharply, her steps quickening.
Her voice echoed through the corridors as she barked orders—"Find my grandson! Search the gardens! The baths! Wake the guards!"—but there was no answer.
No footsteps but her own. Yet she did not stop.
No guards nearby.
And then Drusus heard it.
Footfalls. Many.
Soft. Deliberate. From the far end of the colonnade.
He turned, heart leaping.
Someone was coming out of the shadows.
***********************
On the quiet hill…
Lepidus felt uneasy. It was almost media nox.
They had been sitting here for what felt like hours—talking, then slipping into a comfortable silence.
Then talking again. Then silence.
And somehow, it felt safe. Comfortable.
He longed to talk to Caligula like this…
For years.
Caligula had opened up. He told him everything.
How he got his illness. The trauma of war.
How his memories were broken into fragments—memories of his father, his mother, Vetera Castrum, and Syria.
How Lepidus had always appeared at the edge of his consciousness during his mother's political processions, like a shadow that never quite left.
It made Lepidus feel embarrassed—and, at the same time, thrilled. 'He's aware of me…'
Caligula even told him about the burden of being born into the imperial family… and how he is feeling useless.
If his brothers were now heirs after Drusus the Younger's death, then what was he?
What was left for him?
He wanted to be free. To live like a commoner. To forget his father's death. His mother's sacrifices.
He laid it all bare, trusting Lepidus with the pieces.
Then, out of nowhere, Caligula joked, lips twitching, the barest hint of a smile.
"You're very bad at comforting people." It wasn't just a tease—it was a quiet acknowledgment.
Of their new status as friends and that he was aware Lepidus is not saying anything about himself.
Lepidus laughed under his breath. "I know. I'm sorry."
He just let Caligula talk.
Like a starved beggar licking up crumbs, he wanted to know more.
Everything about Caligula.
And Lepidus—he didn't share anything in return.
Not because he didn't want to.
But because he was afraid.
Not of Caligula's reaction to his status—noble and slave, tangled into one.
'Well, maybe that too..'
But he was more afraid of what he might not see.
No hint of pity.
No understanding either.
Just… nothing.
He was afraid he was too unworthy.
Too dirty.
He wanted to talk about his mother.
About the things the matronae used to say while flogging him.
About the way their words had wormed into his head, sprouting into doubts that he could never shake.
'No one will ever care for a slave. Even if you die. YOU ARE NOTHING!'
A soft whistle broke through the quiet.
Lepidus heard it but did not turn his head. Caligula didn't either.
He was busy looking at the boy with that faraway look, while gazing at the skies.
The whistle came again—Lucius. Lepidus now turned his head. A bit of irritation in his eyes.
Lucius was standing on the edge of the trees, pointing at the moon.
It was time.
But Caligula didn't move.
Lepidus didn't either.
He didn't want to.
If he could, he would stay like this forever. Freeze the time and all.
But reality doesn't wait. And he didn't have the power to stop time.
Suddenly, Caligula turned to him. His voice was soft, uncertain.
"Stay."
He reached for him. Small fingers curled into the fabric of Lepidus's tunic.
"Don't leave. Please. I don't want to be alone."
Lepidus didn't hesitate.
"I'm staying," he said softly.
Lucius, watching, sighed. Frustrated. The night was passing too quickly.
"I should just go," he muttered, already stepping back.
He whistled again. A different tune.
And Lepidus gave a nod without turning—understanding what the new whistle meant.
Then Lucius turned and disappeared into the dark.
And the hill was quiet again.
Only Caligula and Lepidus remained.
Sitting close now, hands side by side on the grass. Not touching. But not apart either.
The weight of the day settled around them like dust.
They didn't speak again.
They didn't need to.
They stayed.
And down below, Rome kept breathing—unaware that something inside it had already begun to rot.
***********************
The torches were still lit.
Not for warmth, but for the search.
Slaves moved like ants through hedges and olive groves, calling Caligula's name.
Loud enough to wake the sleeping—if anyone had dared to sleep.
Not that anyone was sleeping.
Antonia stood on the stone steps, cloaked in shadow, arms crossed, chin lifted.
Drusus Caesar stood beside her, flushed with a smug sort of righteousness.
He had snitched. And it worked.
'All according to plan.' Drusus thought—pretending that it was his intention when it wasn't.
'You're in big trouble now', he scoffed.
"I told you he was gone," he said again, quieter this time.
Antonia didn't respond.
Agrippina sat on a low marble bench nearby, her arms loose in her lap, watching the search with a blank expression.
Her cheeks were dry now, a telltale of her crying.
Another episode of her frustrations, vase throwing alone time maybe?
The wind tugged at her hair; she didn't bother tucking it back.
Nero stood beside her. His face was unreadable. Grim.
Drusus didn't know what his older brother was thinking—guilt? Worry? But Drusus didn't care.
All of this—totally blown out of proportion. He liked it.
But fine. He guessed someone dying was a big deal.
Poisoned, even. He already heard from the vilici.
No wonder everyone was on edge.
The scrape of sandals on gravel turned all heads.
A praetorian guard emerged from the dark, bowed low before Antonia, and stepped in to whisper something urgent.
They moved to a corner.
Drusus crept a few steps closer, just enough to catch fragments.
"Caligula.""The hill.""With a slave.""Aemilii…"
He didn't understand at first—then he did.
His eyes lit up.
'He's with some lowborn bastard,' Drusus thought with glee. 'His own kind.'
Another rustle of sandals.
Two figures emerged from the trees beyond the garden wall.
One small.
One tall.
Caligula was dusty, his toga askew, sandals white from dust.
And beside him—a boy. A bit older. Taller.
Lighter-skinned than a common slave, but not quite noble.
His blue tunic was too fine, though faded and dirty.
Posture upright. No weapon, no insignia. Just presence.
Drusus grinned.
'That's him? The bastard between the Aemilii and the Cornelii? The gossip! The shame!'
Antonia stepped forward, the torchlight catching the silver in her hair.
She stopped halfway down the stairs.
"You disappeared."
No relief. No anger. Just steel.
Caligula blinked, unfocused. "I wasn't alone."
Antonia's eyes flicked to Lepidus. "Who is this?"
Before anyone could answer, Caligula turned to Lepidus.
His expression was strange—tender, uncertain. Almost shy.
Then Caligula said, "Thank you,"
In which Lepidus gave a short bow. But Caligula is not having it. He caught Lepidus's wrist, sudden and serious.
"You're my first friend. Do not bow to me."
It was barely a whisper.
But everyone heard it.
Lepidus didn't move. He didn't smile. But something in his gaze softened.
Then Caligula let go, stepped back, and nodded once.
"See you..Goodbye.."
Antonia's breath hitched. Blood pressure rising. "Friend? See you? Goodbye?" she snapped. "To him?"
Lepidus gave a respectful bow. "Domina illustrissima.."
She blinked—thrown. Like someone had just spit in her face. 'The nerve!'
What Lepidus said was the kind of greeting nobles gave to higher nobles like herself—someone that belongs to the Imperial family.
Is he implying noble blood mixed with slave's blood is still a noble?
'A dog,' she thought, 'daring to step into its master's world!'
It made her furious. As if she'd stepped in something filthy.
"He's a slave, Gaius! You don't say goodbye to a slave. You don't make friends with one. They are property! They're tools! They're not people!"
"I didn't," Caligula said, meeting her eyes. "He's not a slave."
A beat.
Drusus scoffed. Agrippina shifted, but didn't speak.
Antonia opened her mouth—then hesitated.
She looked again at Lepidus.
Then at her grandson.
Then at their shadows, still stretching side-by-side across the gravel.
She didn't like the shape of it.
She didn't understand it.
Caligula's voice was calm. "My friend."
Just that.
But it stopped her.
She exhaled slowly, as if putting something sharp back into its sheath.
"Go inside," she said. "We'll speak in the morning."
Caligula didn't bow. He just walked up the steps past her.
He didn't look at his mother as he passed.
Agrippina didn't look at him either.
She watched Lepidus instead. How still he stood after the boy had vanished.
"You don't know where you stand, boy." Antonia said, her voice was full of venom.
Lepidus didn't reply. His usual expressive eyes were now unreadable.
As if he's used to it. Like a real slave.
Antonia gave him one long look.
Not quite contempt. Not even curiosity. As if she didn't see him as a person.
She stepped past him, perfume faint in the summer air. She circled at him once. As if he's an object being appraised.
Then she turned and disappeared into the villa. As if he's not worth her time after a deliberation.
But not before hearing the word, "Aemilius, tch."
Drusus Caesar hot in her heels.
Then Lepidus was alone again.
Almost.
Agrippina rose from the bench, stepped close enough to see him clearly.
She gave him a once-over. Scoffed. Then walked away together with Nero Caesar.
Lepidus watched them go. Until he can no longer see them.
The slaves and guards have already dispersed too.
He sighed, look at the skies.
Missing Caligula already.
Eventually, he turned to the hedges—
Back toward the entrance.
Back toward the estate of the man who owned him.
Back to the place that called itself home—but never felt like it.
The torchlight behind him dimmed.
But he didn't look back.
***********************
INDEX:
delator- in modern meaning--detective
boy-legatus- a young or inexperienced military officer
Domina illustrissima- most illustrious lady
AN//
About the title!
Marc Aemilius Lepidus, Filius, Nihil
Marc Aemilius Lepidus-Lepidus, the ML's full name
Filius- Son
Nihil- Nothing.
A name without a future, a son without a legacy.
His father- Marcus Aemilius Lepidus - one of Tiberius consul.
Aemilii-- second rank in the 10 gentes
Cornellii-- third rank in the 10 gentes