The first sliver of dawn pierced the cracks in Lepidus's cubiculum wall, dragging him from a restless sleep.
Caligula's unexpected invitation clung to him like the lingering scent of myrrh he remembered from the day before—sharp, sweet, unsettling.
One week.
The thought sent a jolt of nervous energy through his still-slumbering limbs.
'Can I wait that long?' He pondered. Last night he wanted to run and just stand outside Caligula's family villa urbana.
So the answer is clear...
'No, I don't think so..'
A grin tugged at his lips as he stretched lazily before sitting up, his back protesting against the hard floor.
Determination fueled his body.
His cot—a makeshift bed, barely bedding at all—was little more than a scratchy wool blanket tossed over old straw.
The pillow was worse, stuffed with rough cloth, maybe even sand or small stones.
His sisters' idea of a cruel joke.
'Brats.'
A loud clatter from the culina—kitchen—rattled through the thin walls, disrupting his thoughts.
The servi was already awake, scrubbing the hearth and preparing breakfast.
Damp clay and smoke filled the air, dragging him back at the most pressing matters at hand.
'I have to clean myself if I were to show up on his grandmother's estate, unannounced.'
"I don't want to look more pathetic than I already have in front of him.." He quietly said.
He turned his head around to look for his meager hygiene kit.
As his gaze scanned the room—his room—this cramped cubiculum wedged between the kitchen and servant quarters—he couldn't help but feel a bit sentimental—it was the only home he'd ever known.
A glorified storage space with walls so thin he could hear every muttered conversation, every pot slammed onto stone.
'Well, it's perfect for gathering information through gossip,' he mused internally.
Too noble for the slave quarters. Too low-born for the villa's grand halls.
Always in-between—like his name, like his blood.
It had been his and his mother's for years. Ever since his father abandoned her.
Lepidus ran a hand over his face, fingers pressing at his temple.
'No. Not now.' It was too early for those thoughts.
He sighed, casting his gaze across the dim room.
Straw littered the floor. Damp seeped through the walls. He may have been born here.
Lepidus pushed himself to his feet, rolling his shoulders until his neck gave a satisfying pop.
Still bare, the cool morning air prickled his skin.
His garments lay crumpled at the foot of the cot.
He pulled them on carelessly, then snatched up a chew stick and a small pouch of tooth powder—borrowed (stolen) from his father's cubiculum during his last reckless visit.
Along with a few scrolls. Not that Aemilius had noticed.
Outside, the morning light was pale and shifting. He went straight to the fountain.
The water was clear, mirroring the soft pinks and grays of dawn.
He tugged his tunic down to his waist, exposing the lean lines of his chest, and splashed the cold liquid onto his face.
A poor substitute for proper hygiene and a real bath, but he had little choice.
It was no bathhouse. No steaming pools beneath marble arches. Just stone and chill and necessity.
His father's estate had a shared latrine, but the luxury of a real bathhouse was reserved for men of status—citizens with the means to recline in steaming pools beneath grand vaulted ceilings.
He was neither noble nor slave, an in-between, unworthy of such indulgence.
Lepidus scrubbed his face, the cold water chasing away the stiffness of sleep. Then he realized—
The memory of Caligula's fragrance has been erased with water.
He tried to sniff it but.... Nothing. Only damp stone and cool air.
Gone. Caligula's scent was gone.
A sharp pang of longing bloomed in his chest. He inhaled deeply.
He clenched his jaw, palms pressed to the edge of the fountain.
'What was happening to him?'
Why couldn't he shake this feverish desperation, this gnawing hunger clawing at him from the inside?
His mind returned to the hidden corner of his room—the pile of scrolls covered in sketches. His only treasure.
Drawings of Caligula. Every angle, every mood, all done from memory.
Now, the idea of drawing him again—with Caligula's knowledge—made his fingers twitch.
'What had possessed him?'
What if he drew him too well?
Won't he doubt why he drew him so well?
What if Caligula realized how often he'd watched him?
He dunked his head in the fountain, hoping to wash away the thought.
Then the realization struck, sharp as a slap.
He hadn't even given his full name. No title. Just Lepidus.
Not that he had a proper title to give.
Should he have said, 'Good day to you! I'm Lepidus, the half-ling bastard of the Aemilii and Cornellii!' As if that would help.
'Idiot.' An utter fool.
But… maybe that was his advantage. Maybe it was better this way.
Caligula didn't seem the type to care about such things.
Otherwise, why would he have spoken to him?
'Well, yes, I did stumble in front of him first… but still!'
Why would he have invited him?
The thought sent another shiver down his spine—less frantic this time.
More… intoxicating.
'I've gone mad.'
He wiped his face with the hem of his tunic, exhaling slowly.
He planned to go to Caligula's grandmother's estate. And if they questioned him?
He could pretend to deliver a message. Say Caligula left something behind.
It wasn't exactly a lie.
'He did leave something…'
'Me?' He froze. 'I'm mad. Mad, mad, mad…'
'It's the drawings!!! Not me!'
Lepidus turned away from the fountain, shaking the water from his hands—only to find himself face-to-face with Nubias, the vilici of the estate.
"Lepidus," Nubias said, his voice low and steady.
There was a trace of something in it—pity, perhaps.
Lepidus lifted a brow, waiting.
"The matronae are looking for you."
A sigh pushed past Lepidus's lips. Of course. Another day, another beating.
"What is it this time?" he asked dryly.
Nubias hesitated before answering.
"Dominus Aemilius lost his temper again," Nubias murmured. "Smashed some wares. Broke a few wooden chairs."
Lepidus frowned. "Again?"
The vilici nodded. "He was furious when he heard that Tiberius intends to retire early."
He lowered his voice, glancing around as if the walls had ears. "And that he's making his son sit on the throne... effective immediately..."
Lepidus inhaled sharply. So that's what this is about.
Rome had been relatively calm, but this… this could change everything.
His father feared Agrippina would see this as an opportunity.
If Nero Caesar was to be passed over, Agrippina would surely act.
Agrippina had been relentless, parading her sons through Rome, reminding everyone whose bloodline truly belonged on the throne.
Despite the apparent disinterest of the populace now, if Drusus the younger officially sat on the throne, all her efforts would be for nothing—or worse, she might be forced to act.
Perhaps even force the issue, stirring the city that had already forgotten into chaos once more.
"And my father?" Lepidus asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Went to the emperor's palatium at dawn," Nubias murmured. "To protest, no doubt."
Lepidus huffed, shaking his head.
His father had always been a staunch supporter of maintaining balance, of avoiding conflict where it wasn't necessary.
'A real consul.'
This, though, was a move born of fear.
He doesn't want to provoke Agrippina. Doesn't want to push her into action.
And so, his father had taken out his frustration on the wives.
And now, they would take it out on him.
Lepidus glanced at Nubias, who was watching him with something akin to sympathy.
The vilici would likely be punished in his place if he refused to go.
'Damn conscience.'
Lepidus raked a wet hand through his already messy hair. "Where are they?
"In the atrium," Nubias replied. "Waiting."
Lepidus nodded. A familiar resignation settled over him.
Caligula—and his invitation—and Lepidus plans—felt very far away.
He would deal with this first.
Then, maybe, he could allow himself to think about the week ahead.
Because it would be impossible to go find Caligula now.
Not after the matronae are done beating him.
His jaw tightened as he walked toward the atrium, each step a reluctant thud against the cool stone floor.
He kept his eyes on the worn leather of his sandals, forcing one foot in front of the other.
But then—just for a moment—the image returned.
Caligula's pale hand, reaching for a wildflower.
A fragile bloom in a brutal world.
One week.
The thought flickered like a distant, unbelievable whisper.
He rounded the corner into the vast atrium. The morning sun spilled in, casting long shadows across the mosaic floor.
His father's wives stood waiting.
Their expressions were as tight as ever. Their voices are already rising.
Lepidus braced himself.
The phantom scent of rain on marble—delicate, half-remembered—briefly dulled the edge of what was to come.
**********************************
Caligula jolted awake as the morning sun's brightness filtered through his eyelids.
He winced, turning away from the light streaming through the wide open window.
Still with his eyes closed, he tried to remember the dream he had earlier...
Instead of the usual hills that he always dreamed of...
He had dreamed about a meadow... It was still black and white though...
A boy sat on a patch of soft grass, bent over a scroll, his charcoal-stained fingers moving swiftly across the parchment.
The air was calm, the wind gentle, playing with the boy's hair, lifting and swaying the strands.
Caligula watched from a distance, entranced. He was standing under the huge tree...
His usual position on his dream.
'But it was so clear! So unlike when he is awake.'
He wanted to see the boy's face—to know who he was.
But when the boy lifted his head, there was nothing.
No features, no expression—just a blank, faceless void...
And the voice in his dreams... he could still hear it... 'I could draw you...'
In his waking mind, he knew who it was..
Lepidus.
Caligula sighed, rubbing his face as he reluctantly rose from the bed.
He opened his eyes, squinting and decided that he would not dwell on dreams.
He had spent too much of his life trapped in them already.
His thin, immature body unfolded from the soft bed.
The mattress, filled with wool and feathers, cradled his form.
The fine lines and delicate patterns on the sheets suggested wealth.
Or rather, his grandmother's wealth.
The beautifully crafted wooden headboard was adorned with fine carvings—testament to the imperial class's fondness for opulence.
Again, it was her riches.
He stretched, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep.
The morning light danced across his features.
Illuminating his smooth boyish pretty face.
His blond hair, akin to gold, was now cut short, framing his face, a contrast to how it had once been when they were in Syria.
Germanicus wanted Caligula's hair to be like his. A slightly longer style.
He stilled.
Time and time again, since gaining back his consciousness from his years of slumber, he remembered things like this—things that he knew that happened, he is aware of, but somehow felt like he was a spectator rather than on the receiving end.
He decided it was best to go out. He didn't want to remember what he could never change anyway.
After scanning the luxurious room, his eyes fell on his white tunic laid neatly on a small table, along with his small belt and subligar—an undergarment.
He clothed himself leisurely, then, slipping into his leather sandals, he slowly strode out of his room, taking his time.
His destination was the triclinium.
The atrium greeted him, bustling with slaves attending to their various tasks.
The large fountain splashed noisily. Surrounded by the blurry statues...
'Huh, statues...' Caligula stopped walking and closed his eyes recalling his encounter with the stumbling boy.
'Do you.. like my drawings? ....My drawings...?' Lepidus's voice echoed in his mind.
The way he hesitantly asked those questions.. curiosity in his voice. And the small voice when he asked.. my drawings?
'I never thought about it. My.. mother preferredstatues....' He remembered saying that. '.....they belong to poets and dreamers...'
Which in turn made Lepidus asked.. 'And you? Are you a poet? Or a dreamer?
He smiled at the thought, answering the question in his mind, 'Dreamer... yes, I'm a dreamer.'
He was unable to give that answer to him yesterday and instead deflected him.
His feet carried him into the triclinium, but his thoughts lingered on the boy in his dream—the faceless Lepidus, and the strange, unshakable feeling that Caligula had been drawn into something much larger than just a fleeting moment.
The morning meal was a quiet affair, as always.
He sat at the long table, his cup of watered wine untouched, his plate arranged with bits of fruit, cheese, and panis focacius—food he had no desire to eat.
Although the smell is teasing his senses.
Around him, his family dined in their usual fashion.
His grandmother, Antonia, moved with gentle precision, carefully portioning out measured bites of food for Drusilla and Livilla.
Even without speaking, she exuded warmth, her hands steady, her presence an unshakable pillar of care.
Beside him, Julia leaned in, whispering something to Nero Caesar. Their voices were hushed, conspiring.
Blurry faces. Black and white.
That was all he saw.
They might as well have been nothing more than shadows. A smear of dull gray in the periphery of his vision.
Lifeless.
The colors of the morning—the rich reds of the pomegranates, the golden honey, the dark wood of the table—muted, washed out. Black and white.
The world had been stripped of its vibrancy, leaving behind only outlines, only shapes.
And then, noise.
Drusus entered, his footsteps heavy, the door swinging shut behind him with a resounding thud.
He moved without care, without subtlety, scraping a chair back as he sat down, shoving a piece of bread into his mouth without so much as a glance at the rest of them.
A deliberate disregard. As if the very air around them was unworthy of his notice.
Caligula felt the shift in presence before he even turned his head. He knew what was coming.
A glance. A lingering, sharp stare.
The weight of it pressed against his skin. He can feel it. He didn't have to see.
It feels like a hundred knives.
Slowly, he flicked his eyes toward Drusus, indifferent—only to find his second older brother already watching him.
His body was turned away, but his head, his entire presence, was pinned solely on Caligula.
Blurry face. But he can feel it.
A silent accusation.
Disgust.
Caligula could feel it radiating from him.
Drusus had never been subtle in his contempt.
"What are you looking at?" Drusus snapped, voice thick with irritation.
Caligula did not answer.
Silence was easier.
Silence had been his refuge for years—his way of disappearing even in plain sight.
He had learned that words only fed the fire.
Drusus bristled at the lack of response, just as expected.
But Caligula barely noticed.
He was caught in the pull of memory, in the sharp sting of something half-remembered.
A slap.
He recalled the way Drusus's palm had connected with his face—swift, cruel, intentional.
A thin line of blood had bloomed in its wake, running down his cheek like ink on parchment.
He remembered it with perfect clarity.
But he couldn't remember the pain.
His fingers twitched slightly, as if testing the sensation.
But there was nothing. Just a hollow recollection, an image without feeling.
How strange.
He lifted his cup to his lips, taking a slow sip of wine, gaze still locked with Drusus as if he was seeing his face, his silence stretching just long enough to make the other boy's irritation deepen.
And Drusus's irritation deepened.
With a huff, he turned away, muttering under his breath as he tore another piece of bread.
Caligula lowered his eyes to the table once more.
The world returned to black and white.
****************************
INDEX:
matronae—plural of matrona