"Oderint dum metuant."—Lucius Accius, Roman Poet (Let them hate me, as long as they fear me.)
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“TA-taa-TA-Taa!”
Sharp, brassy notes slashed through the wind, their vibrations rippling across the bustling city of Rome.
A flock of birds burst from the rooftops into the sky, rattled by the noise.
Something about that trumpet sound felt wrong—too sharp, too urgent, and too out of place.
Like a warning cleverly dressed in disguise.
But Rome—an eternal city—timeless and overflowing with life, a kaleidoscope of sight and sound—paid no mind to the blaring disturbance.
They heard those infernal trumpets blasting loudly every day, especially now that there was an ongoing celebration.
Why should this one be different?
Unbeknownst to them, a brutal plan was already stirring—one that would carve itself into history.
Today.
On the very last day of the Ludi Palatini , a sacred festival held in honor of the gods.
The sprawling metropolis of white marble temples continued to gleam under the Mediterranean sun.
Everyone was far too engrossed in the spectacles around them to worry about anything else.
Acrobats flipped before cheering crowds.
Charioteers thundered across the tracks, sands flying everywhere.
Actors projected their voices through the open-air stages in the central square.
Truly a marvel to behold!
Each performance elicited a thunderous unified roar that echoed through Rome.
The sweet scent of incense wafted from the priests’ procession, honoring the god Apollo—a solemn counterpoint to the city’s exuberance.
It mixed with the heady aroma of roasted meat and sweet pastries, enticing hungry stomachs and leaving many with a craving for more.
Yet beneath the sun-drenched city, something felt tilted.
A priest’s chant faltered.
A dog barked toward the Palatium .
A few Praetorians stood where they shouldn’t be.
And amidst them all stood a tall man in a hooded black cloak, pausing as he stared up at the imposing basilicas that confidently clawed the sky.
A habit.
One he could never quite discard.
He lowered his hood, letting its shadows swallow most of his face.
He was supposed to be a dead man.
A dead man who had crawled—inch by inch, tooth and nail—out of Tartarus .
A quiet breath escaped him before he resumed walking.
His destination?
The Palatium .
His steps carried purpose.
Then something small and fast collided with his back, stopping him in his tracks.
“I’m sorry!”
A tiny, chirping voice said.
He turned slightly toward the sound.
Sunlight caught his eyes—deep, steady, unmistakably green.
His gaze lingered on the child’s pale blond hair.
He was taken aback.
For the briefest moment, something inside him snapped taut.
“Golden blond,” he murmured.
A memory strained to surface—warm, pleading, unbearably sweet—but he forced it down before the voice could fully form.
“I-I’m sorry… w-we’re just playing,” the little girl stammered, staring up at him, her lip trembling.
Because the man’s aura suddenly shifted to something… cold and dangerous, like a big black cat that was threatened, ready to strike.
She didn’t know what to do.
Did she really hurt him?
She wanted to cry.
He blinked once.
And the storm inside him receded.
He hadn’t meant to frighten the little girl.
It was just that… whenever he thought of… him—that memory—he couldn't help but burn.
He gave a small nod, accepting her apology.
The girl fled back to her friends, relieved.
He watched them a heartbeat longer before exhaling and moving on, passing the dancers twirling in their colorful garments.
Rome stretched endlessly ahead—teeming with visitors from every corner of the empire.
Bright, flashy banners fluttered in the gentle breeze.
Laughter, chatter, arguments, and songs wove together, creating a warm, constant hum—like the city itself was breathing.
The man glanced around.
He couldn’t help himself.
His gaze drifted, scanning the crowds, refusing to stay still—as if searching for something… anything.
“The city is so vibrant…” he muttered, a faint frown pulling at his dark, handsome features as he observed the people.
Something was wrong, and he couldn’t place it.
Rome itself was also a tapestry woven with significant symbols and colors.
“Clothing revealed status, lineage, privilege,” he whispered, reciting what he already knew.
And among all the dyes and the fabrics, purple reigned supreme—the sacred color of the Imperial family… and the Emperor himself.
To wear it was to bask in imperial favor and power.
But today?
Not a single thread of purple could be seen.
Odd.
Odd enough to matter.
Odd enough to mean something.
Yet no one noticed.
Except him.
Strangeness hid in plain sight—until it didn’t.
The tall man quickened his pace, cloak rippling behind him.
‘I must hurry,’ he thought as he rounded the last corner of the streets.
His sandaled feet knew the path so well.
The path to the underground tunnel beneath the Palatium .
“TA-taa-TA-Taa!”
Another trumpet blast.
This one was rash and off-tune-a piercing shriek that felt sharp as a thunderclap.
It fractured the air, like metal cracking, like something breaking where no one could see.
The unpleasant second sound made the people who were busy commemorating the Ludi Palatini halt.
The vibrant noise of the celebration came to a jarring stop, replaced by a collective frown that killed the mood.
Confusion moved faster than sound.
One startled look became ten, then a hundred.
Suddenly, a lone, uncontrollable, low murmur set off, spreading through the crowd like a contagion, until it swelled into a loud buzz.
The trumpets had already sounded once, back on the festival’s first day, when the Emperor delivered his usual drowsy speech.
“But why again…?” a long-bearded man irritably asked his wife.
He had just placed a bet on his favorite gladiator.
“Especially on the very last day of the Ludi Palatini ?” a young noble exclaimed to his friends.
One of his hands clutched a silver goblet full of wine, the overflowing contents spilling onto his toga like blood.
Mid-performance, the acrobats froze, their practiced smiles faltering.
One muttered under their breath, “Is there another celebration?”
In a temporary amphitheatre, two gladiators eased their fighting stance, their eyes shifting warily to the distracted audience as their bloodlust left them.
In the waiting area, a burly man with scarred brows mumbled to himself, “What is the new occasion?”
Even the charioteers in the Circus Maximus hesitated mid-race, pulling their horses to a complete stop, their competitive spirits momentarily forgotten.
“What does the crazy Emperor want now?” a merchant shouted in frustration, furious at the lost buyers.
The masses exchanged uneasy glances, their voices overlapping in a wave of bewilderment.
Then, from the Imperial Palace, some people came running.
“Hup hup… to the Palatium! To the Palatium! ”
Out of breath, they cried out to the populace.
“They’re announcing something important! Hurry!”
The message spread like wildfire.
A cacophony of noise rose from the crowd as speculation and curiosity about the announcement took over.
Even the shopkeepers abandoned their businesses, joining the throng as it moved forward.
No one noticed that the wind seemed to still, as if the city itself were holding its breath, joined by the silent anticipation of the gods.
Once they all gathered outside the Palatium , instead of the Emperor or any high-ranking magistrate, a ragged-looking herald appeared on a small wooden platform.
His dirty tunic clung to his gaunt frame.
Yet, his eyes shone with unsettling calm, a contrast to his disheveled appearance.
Unease fanned out.
Was this just another of the Emperor’s bizarre whims again?
A woman’s eyes, previously dazed, snapped to her wandering child.
In a sudden surge of dread, she seized him, crushing his small frame to her chest, a desperate act of protection against an unknown danger.
Her fingers dug into his thin clothes, making the child yelp in pain.
A drunk man hiccuped, instantly sobering.
The people waited with bated breath, their anticipation a palpable weight as heavy as stone.
Yet the herald remained calm under the stares of his spectators, his movements steady as he scanned them.
He grunted once, seemingly satisfied with their numbers, as he toyed with his scroll—rolling it open and shut, as if he were memorizing what was written.
Seconds passed.
A minute.
And then…
He straightened his back, and in a booming voice, he unceremoniously proclaimed—
“Romans! Rejoice!”
Silence.
Some frowned, then scoffed.
Others, already at the limit of their patience, angrily spat on the ground.
Some stayed clueless as to why they had to jump for joy.
And the rest were just there for the heck of it.
‘Rejoice? For what exactly?’ they thought.
‘Is there anything left worth celebrating these days?’
‘Really?’
They glanced at each other as their feet began to shuffle restlessly.
‘Other than the Ludi Palatini?’
A burst of giggles.
Then full-blown laughter.
The herald must have already lost his mind.
“Ahem…” the herald cleared his throat.
“Hrmp…”
He already expected this.
“We are celebrating the end of the MAD EMPEROR’s tyranny!!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.
A hush fell, so sudden and unnatural, you could hear a pin drop.
The air grew heavy as the herald stood still, not explaining, just letting his words settle like dust.
“Hubris!”
“Boo!”
The crowd broke into jeers and nervous laughter.
A man even bravely stepped forward.
“He calls himself a god! How can such a mad god’s tyranny end so easily!?” he argued.
The people roared in agreement.
“Boo!”
But the herald didn't flinch.
His gaze swept slowly over the first line of people in front of him, pausing on each face—forcing them to see the seriousness of his news.
Instead of answering the man’s question, he decided to address them all.
“My beloved people of Rome,” he began, his voice trailing, a bead of sweat rolling down his neck.
“As of this moment…”
He sighed, deep and deliberate, making the masses more anxious than they already were.
“... the mad Emperor Caligula…”
Everyone held their breaths, a low hum of expectation rising.
“... known to Rome as Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus…”
A long pause.
“... is dead!”
Not a whisper.
Not a breath.
Then a single child cried—breaking the silence.
“Lies!”
The people screamed in unison.
The herald’s brows furrowed as he eyed his accomplices.
They started to move.
They whispered to the people.
One by one.
They shared the truth.
The rebellion.
The assassination.
Then—from somewhere in the crowd—one person cried out.
Then another.
And another.
The disbelief cracked.
Whispers turned into shouts.
Shouts swelled into roars.
And like a wave crashing over the Palatium ground, the entire crowd erupted into a loud uproar of approval.
“HURRAAAAAH!”
They thundered, shouting and stomping until the very walls of the Imperial Palace trembled.
The herald smiled.
Rome rejoiced at the fall of its self-proclaimed god!
The news of the Emperor’s demise circulated rapidly—igniting a frenzy of both jubilation and destruction.
The Ludi Palatini were fully forgotten.
Mobs of people who had been dancing to the music and enjoying the mood of the celebration just hours before now surged through the streets with a wild, uncontrolled fury.
They targeted the numerous statues of the fallen god—the source of their newfound enjoyment.
In the Roman Forum —a central public space in the heart of Rome—a towering and perfect statue of the Emperor loomed.
A group of enraged citizens eyed it once, remembering how they had poured their joy, sweat, and tears into building it over the years with hopeful hearts.
A few even sniffled from the memory, some were tracing their rough callouses—before picking up the weapon of their choice.
They then attacked it without mercy.
If their hammers and chisels slipped from their fingers, they would look around for stones to use.
They looped ropes around the statue’s head.
Then they pulled it down with all their might, groaning and grunting.
The rough texture of the rope re-opened the old cuts on their palms, making them bleed.
But they did not care.
The sound of cracking stones echoed through the forum as the first statue’s limbs shattered.
Silence ensued as they stared at the broken limbs now at their feet.
Their emotions churned, directionless.
“But… mamma…” A young girl with pale blond hair, who had just returned from playing with her friends innocently tugged her mother’s skirt, capturing the woman’s attention.
“Who will rule us now?” the little girl quietly asked, making those nearby who heard her clench their jaws, their faces turning grim once more.
An old woman started to weep quietly, remembering the time when the Emperor’s father would roam these very streets.
“Where did it all go wrong?” she cried.
The people started to move.
Now, fully determined.
One by one, they slammed their heavy hammers, smashing the chunk of limbs.
“It’s just a piece of stone!” some yelled.
In a matter of minutes, it got broken into pieces.
Then they stomped and spit on it.
THUNK THUNK!
Nearby, a bronze effigy of the mad Emperor stood atop a pedestal.
They lit a bonfire beneath it.
Flames engulfed the metal, melting its features into a twisted, grotesque appearance.
The people were pleased.
Their hearts felt light for the first time in years.
They wept, they laughed, and they danced around the fire.
Throughout the city of Rome, similar scenes were happening.
Statues toppled.
Effigies smashed and burned.
Images of the tyrant defaced.
Madness spread.
A marble hand severed at the wrist, and a marble head rolling—cracked against the paved stones as kids kicked and played with it.
The once-revered symbols of the Emperor’s power now lay crushed.
A brutal testament of the people’s rejection of his tyranny.
As night fell, Rome’s streets pulsed with firelight.
Torches, lanterns, and burning effigies threw their violent glow over the revelry.
The city that had sparkled with every shade of festival colors that morning was now painted only in the harsh orange of flames—transforming the city into a shimmering, terrifying wonderland.
And beneath that brightness lay something wrong.
As though the brightness itself were desperately trying to smother the shadow of the brutal plan that had just come to pass.
The air continued to resonate with the growing mania of the people and the clanging hammers, as the city purged itself of the mad Emperor’s presence.
CLACK CLANK—CLACK!
The sounds of creaking wood and scraping wheels blended into the chaotic atmosphere.
An ox pulled a plaustrum slowly, making its way out of the city.
The tall driver, the hooded man from earlier, halted the ox and gazed at the riotous scene unfolding before him.
The man’s expression was a blank canvas, utterly devoid of emotion.
His fingers didn’t even twitch, betraying no flicker of concern or interest.
The orange glow of the fires illuminated his face—revealing who he was.
It was Lepidus.
He turned away, his gaze immediately falling upon the cart behind him as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
A thick, large cloth covered a shape that unmistakably resembled a body breathing shallowly.
Quietly.
Hidden from the mad world.
Only the faint rise and fall of the cloth indicated life.
Lepidus’ expression remained inscrutable, yet his gaze lingered on the subtle rhythm, his face softening with an affectionate glance.
The burning city, the roaring crowd—a hellish scene—all faded into a distant hum for him.
His attention was solely on the mystery and secret the cart held.
“Caligula dulcis…” he whispered softly, his hands flying—about to reach out—but he caught himself, snapping out of a trance when he saw blood slowly blooming on the cloth.
‘I need to get him out of here… out of this hell…’
A steely look masked his face, but his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Biting his lip, he mumbled, “Time is of the essence.”
Then he sighed, turned, and gave a slight flick to the rein, making the ox move forward.
The creaking of the wood, the scraping of the wheels, and the breathing of the person beneath the cloth became the only sounds he cared about.
He continued to drive, leaving the mayhem behind, hastening the plaustrum .
CLACK—CLANK—CLACK!
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