The sound of armor—clinking. The march of many feet.
Metal on rough marble.
Sharp.
Cold.
No shouting.
Only silent efficiency.
The praetorian guards had arrived from the palatium.
Not Tiberius.
No Sejanus either.
Only men in blackened bronze, masked by plumes and indifference.
They moved through the hortus like shadows.
Some went to Drusus's body—now covered—lifting it as if it were both fragile and foul.
They wrapped him in purple linen.
No ceremony.
No priest.
No incense.
Just death.
Others moved to Livia, to escort her out.
She was pale, her eyes wide—not with grief, but with the horror of survival.
She could have died too. She hadn't even known.
She leaned into a servant, still straight with imperial steel—but her poise was unraveling.
A few guards bowed. Not deeply.
Behind her, Livilla followed like a ghost.
She didn't cry.
Didn't speak.
Her slaves hovered, flitting like insects, trying to soothe her—but she didn't notice.
They were led out the side way—not through the colonnade.
Not past the spilled wine and crushed figs.
Not past the birthday that had turned into a burial.
Then came the hush.
Too quiet. Except for the girl. The slave. The beautiful one.
Still kneeling.
Still sobbing.
She was being taken. As a suspect.
The guests who'd been brought back earlier were now gone.
All of them.
Deserted. Almost.
Then Antonia turned. Her eyes locked on Agrippina.
No more laughter.
But the grin? It hadn't left.
Not once—not even as Drusus's body was dragged away.
The torchlight danced in the summer air.
Antonia raised a hand.
A slap.
Not fierce.
Agrippina didn't even flinch.
She met Antonia's stare.
Defiant. Steady.
The grin was still there—but dead behind the eyes.
"Compose yourself," Antonia hissed. "What in Jupiter's name are you doing?"
Agrippina blinked slowly, then smiled wider.
"I did nothing," she said softly. "A shame no one stopped me."
Antonia stood frozen, staring.
The slap hadn't changed Agrippina. It hadn't even left a mark.
Her daughter-in-law looked back, unblinking, proud—like a statue carved too sharply, the grin still etched cruel and gleaming.
And then Agrippina whispered it again...
"A shame no one stopped me."
The words hung in the air like incense turned to poison.
Antonia's fingers curled slowly—tight around air, as if holding the stem of a dagger that wasn't there.
For a moment, she said nothing. But her breath hitched.
Once.
Just enough for Agrippina to see it.
Then Antonia's voice came—low, measured, almost tender.
"You forget yourself."
Her tone was quieter than before. But colder. Like marble in shadow.
She stepped closer.
Not quite threatening. Not quite maternal.
Something in-between. Something ancient. Something royal.
"Do you think you're clever?" she asked softly. "You're not. You're careless. Reckless."
She leaned in, her breath brushing Agrippina's cheek like frost. "I've been playing this game long before you."
Then she leaned back, looked at Agrippina from head to toe. "And you forget whose house this is."
Agrippina's grin twitched, just slightly.
Still proud. Still undefeated.
But Antonia saw it—the doubt. The flicker. The tightening of her jaw.
Then Antonia straightened, looking past her.
Toward the shadows. Toward the guards. Toward the future.
"Careful, girl," she said almost absently. "You're not the only one who knows how to wear a mask."
And just like that, she turned away.
Her sandals clicked against the marble as she walked back into the villa.
No goodbye.
No backward glance.
Just the cold hush of a woman who'd buried emperors and raised monsters—and wasn't finished yet...
*********************************
At that same moment, under the trees in the shadows...
Lucius came back and watched from afar.
No one noticed him under the shade of the olive trees—just another shadow among many.
He watched the praetorian guards move with quiet precision—blackened bronze and silent faces.
They carried Drusus's body away.
'There goes the next emperor...' Lucius scoffed.
Livia had left the scene already, pale and pinched, vanishing through the side path flanked by her servants and guards and the scent of crushed thyme.
Livilla followed silently with her own slaves.
Then the female slave, still kneeling and sobbing, was forced to stand by two praetorian guards.
Now forced to her feet, her sobs still wracked her chest.
Their grip on her arms was tight.
Lucius didn't follow. Pity was in his eyes as he watched everything unfold.
The villa had emptied like a drained cistern.
'Should I report this?'
The thought came unbidden, followed by another.. 'The Taberna Aureii will want to know.'
His family's organization had ears in every market, lips in every tavern.
Common merchants and citizens, equestrians—people who saw things, heard things, traded in truths and lies.
He shifted his weight, arms crossed.
The information alone was gold.
The death of Drusus—the successor of Tiberius—then whispers of poison, the odd calm of the guards.
No public outcry. No mourning rites. Just quiet efficiency.
'Marcus should've been here. He's better at this than I am. Faster with a message. Quicker with a smile.'
Lucius turned his gaze toward the treeline beyond the estate, where he had come from just minutes ago.
Lepidus and the boy. He couldn't see them now—but he knew they were there.
Caligula. And Lepidus. Two different worlds.
One—noble of nobles. Extraordinary beauty. Seems broken.
The other—his friend. Close. Real. A little older.
Handsome in a way that made younger females sigh.
Lucius wasn't sure if Lepidus was a fool or something else—smarter, perhaps, or just someone who let his emotions show.
'What did he see in him? His obsession…'
He lingered on the thought a moment longer, then turned away.
The villa was still, again, with only the scent of dying roses in the summer dark.
*********************************
Elsewhere, as the guards moved through marble and silence...
The door was shut tight.
Barred from the inside, maybe.
The cubiculum was too warm, too crowded, and too quiet for Drusus Caesar's liking.
Many beeswax candles are lit. Fire swaying in the wind..
He sat cross-legged on the marbled floor next to Nero Caesar, bouncing his heel against the cool stone, arms crossed.
Outside, he could hear it.
Metal armors.
Not just one.
Many.
The soft scrape of sandals, the whisper of armor—moving farther away now.
'Guards,' he thought.
Finally.
But the wet nurse's hawk-like eyes were fixed on him. As if she knew he was planning something.
'Tch', he thought, scowling.
He looked at Nero Caesar, sitting beside Julia and Drusilla.
Little Livilla was curled up against the far wall of the bed, thumb tucked in her mouth.
But he wasn't here. The pest.
"Caligula's not here," Drusus whispered, low so only his older brother could hear.
Nero blinked, startled, then turned his head slowly. His eyes scanned the room.
Only now did he seem to realize.
"Where…" Nero muttered, under his breath.
Drusus leaned closer, voice even softer now. "Cover me. I'll see where he went."
Nero hesitated. Blue eyes trying to guess his younger brother's real intention.
Then gave a single, sharp nod.
With surprising ease,
Nero sprang to his feet and clutched his stomach.
He groaned loudly, staggering toward the wet nurse.
"It hurts!" he wailed. "It really hurts!"
The wet nurse jumped to her feet, all focus now on the oldest boy.
"I told you not to eat that honey cake!" she barked, already bustling toward the door. "Stay there, I'll get the apothecary—"
The moment the door clicked behind her, Drusus was moving.
Out.
The corridor was dim. Empty. Yet filled with echoes.
The armor-clinks had moved farther and farther away, toward the atrium maybe.
Then—something.
A flicker of motion. A shadow, gliding past the end of the hallway. Drusus froze.
The shadow turned. Slipped into a side door.
Agrippina's cubiculum.
His heart thudded. Was it the wet nurse?
No. Wrong shape. Taller. And faster.
Was it the one who poisoned Uncle Drusus?
He took a step forward, then paused.
'Follow? Or return?'
He glanced back at the open door.
And then toward the cubiculum again.
His breath caught.
He had to choose.
He crept forward.
Still unsure. Still weighing the danger.
But his feet were already moving—quiet as a cat, like his father Germanicus taught him.
The door was open.
Rustling of dress and silent footsteps...
Drusus immediately hid himself in the darkest corner just in time for the shadowy figure to slip back out.
Fast, silent.
He hadn't seen the face. Just the back of a flowing dress, the glint of earrings, maybe?
He waited. Ten seconds. Twenty.
Then slipped into Agrippina's cubiculum.
It was dark. Still.
Nothing looked disturbed.
Nothing… obvious.
Drusus stood in the doorway, breathing shallow, listening. Only silence.
He stepped further in.
His mother's combs lay in perfect order on the small chest by her couch.
A half-read scroll rested beside them.
Her sandals neatly tucked under the couch. Everything in place.
He nearly left.
Then—something caught his eye.
A glimmer. Faint. Almost missed it.
Near the far side of the bed, half-tucked behind a loose fold of the coverlet.
Not obvious. Like it had rolled or been dropped.
He knelt.
Slowly reached out.
His fingers closed around something smooth.
Cold.
A glass vial. Sealed with wax. No label. No scent.
But the liquid inside was dark.
Thick.
Heavy.
'Poison?'
He stared at it, unsure.
Then, without fully deciding, he slipped it into the fold of his tunic.
Just as footsteps echoed far down the hall.
He darted out, silent as a shadow.
He ran.
Not far—just down the corridor, past the silent columns, around the curve where the shadows pooled thicker.
Then he stopped.
Pressed his back against the wall. Pulled out the vial again.
It glinted in the torchlight like a secret.
'Is this really poison?'
He turned it slowly in his fingers. The liquid inside didn't move easily. It was thick, like syrup, like blood.
'What if it isn't? What if it's just… medicine? Or oil? Or ink?'
He almost laughed at himself. 'What am I doing?' he thought.
But then he remembered the smell of panic in the air.
The way the empress Livia looked when Drusus fell down. The way his aunt shrieked in horror.
Something was wrong.
He could feel it.
And now he had proof. Maybe.
He looked around.
No one. Just the quiet breathing of a house pretending it hadn't just watched someone die.
He rolled up the edge of a tapestry and tucked the vial behind it, into a crack in the wall. Safe. Hidden.
Then paused.
'Could I use it?'
His lips curled.
'On the pest?'
He didn't smile. But the thought lingered. Like the taste of something forbidden.
He let the tapestry fall back into place and walked away...
*********************************
Now the time resumes... at the estate's entrance—
Livia stopped to catch her breath. Waiting for her chariot.
Livilla had gone ahead and followed her husband's corpse.
She leaned on a servant, the silk of her robe sticking to her back with sweat.
Her heart still raced, though she kept her chin high.
'I am not dead. That's what matters.' she sighed in relief.
'Not yet, old Emperor.' she sneered.
Livia had seen the look in the guards' eyes—cold, professional.
No sorrow. Not even for Drusus.
'Luck's still with me. Not joining you in the afterlife just yet..' defiance in her eyes.
The extravagant chariot arrived. Pulled by the four best black horses.
She climbed up, moonlight gleaming on her rings, her spine stiff with spite and survival.
Then—
A presence.
From the shadows near the colonnade, someone emerged.
Breathless. Pale.
Plancina.
She looked like a ghost—hair loose, cheeks flushed, lips parted. But her eyes held something else.
Livia blinked at her.
"Where were you?" she asked, sharp, not yet a scolding, but close.
Plancina didn't answer right away.
She bent slightly, catching her breath, the torchlight flickering across her face.
And then—
A smile.
Small. Private. Hidden just behind her lips.
Only Plancina knew what she had done.
She climbed into the chariot like she belonged there.
Livia did not react. She just raised a brow.
For a moment, they remained there—two women cloaked in power, blood, and memory—before turning to sit on the leather seats.
*********************************