Chapter 5: Pompa Funebris
January—20 AD.
"My little lion!"
SHWAAA—
It was raining.
"Is the sky mourning?"
SHWAAA
"Look up!"
A lanky twelve-year-old boy named Lepidus tilted his head toward the gray ceiling of the world.
Lost in a haze.
Daydreaming.
He closed his swollen green eyes, welcoming the rain—like a balm for his numbing soul.
Droplets of water streamed down his face, soaking his tangled black hair.
They traced cold paths along his sun-baked skin, dark and golden-brown—like wet earth.
His features didn't resemble those of most Roman boys.
Who was he?
A runaway slave?
A beggar?
Or a vengeful spirit—thin, hollow-eyed, and cursed?
He was none of those.
His red tunica clung to his bony frame, caked with mud and streaked with soil that the rain refused to wash away.
Yet even beneath the grime, a keen eye might spot the fabric's fine cut and delicate stitching—it had once belonged to a noble.
Faded, yes.
But finely made.
His brown cape hung uselessly at his sharp shoulder blades, drenched and sagging with water.
But look closely, and you'd see the intricate embroidery.
Not something a street urchin would wear.
"My son!"
[FEMALE GIGGLING SOUND—HIGH, SOFT, AND DISTANT]
He was a bastard.
Born of a patrician man and a slave—now dead.
And today, he stood alone in the center of the storm.
A half boy.
Half scandal.
All grief.
Goosebumps prickled all over his skin.
"Lepidus!"
Opening his eyes, he squinted against the downpour.
They were sore and red-rimmed—raw from crying for too long.
He gave the sky one last lingering glance before lowering his head.
He was still not himself.
His bare feet remained still on the cobblestone road.
'The air smells of damp earth…' he thought, as if he were a spectator—there but not really.
His body felt like it was flying.
Then another thought—
'The realm of gods is dark… they were sad.'
A sudden, shaky sniffle escaped before he could stop it.
Slowly, he raised his arm just enough and opened his palm, trying to catch the rain.
But it slipped through his torn fingers, a stinging twinge he barely noticed.
'It's impossible to hold on to them.'
The pain mattered less than his failure to grasp the rain.
'My body is numb, but here—'
His chest ached—tightening with an invisible force.
His raised hands trembled.
Then, he pressed it to his heart—clutching it, as if the pressure could help dull the throbbing inside.
"My little lion!"
The rain continued to drum on Rome without mercy.
Each sharp drop—a lonely note in the melancholic melody that echoed his sorrow.
SPLOSH SPLOSH
A shiver ran through him—violent, unbidden.
Lepidus stood in the rain-soaked streets of Palatine Hill.
Citizens hurried past him—merchants, nobles, commoners—each too absorbed in their own lives to care about the shuddering child in the storm.
If anything, they veered away—eyes forward—like they didn't see him.
As if he were just an insignificant dirty dog in the rain.
His teeth began to chatter.
Lips turning blue.
He hugged himself.
"The gods are shedding tears, just like me," he whispered.
And for a long time, he simply stood there.
Unable to take a step.
He had nowhere to go.
No shelter.
Not from the cold.
Not from the rain.
Especially not from the pain.
He sniffled once more.
Then squared his shoulders.
His chin lifted slightly.
Determination filled him.
At last, he smeared away the water, tears, and snot on his face in one motion—his jagged fingernails scraping slightly against his skin.
"Lepidus!"
[FEMALE GIGGLING SOUND—PLAYFUL AND CHEERFUL]
One last look around.
Still, no one cared.
"Cheer up!"
He smiled bitterly.
Then without another word, he turned and began to walk away—
His bare feet splashing through the flooded street.
Lepidus' thoughts drifted to his beloved mother.
Her laugh.
[FEMALE LAUGHTER, WARM AND FAMILIAR]
Her gentle voice.
"I'll always be watching you from the Elysian Fields, my little lion…"
He could still hear her—soft and comforting, a promise she had whispered, over and over, on her deathbed.
The way her eyes sparkled—even in death.
A fresh wave of tears welled up, obscuring his vision.
Slowing down, he wiped them away with the back of his hand.
But once they came, they didn't stop—
They poured like rain.
His sobs deepened until he could no longer breathe.
SLOSH SLOSH
Then his jaw clenched, remembering how his father, his second wife, and his concubinae—each had treated his mother.
'She was the first wife… his first love,' he thought, grinding his teeth.
'How dare he forsake her like this!'
He had let them make a mockery of her!
His legs nearly gave out, but he kept walking.
A discarded wife.
A half-blooded disgrace.
She stayed—forced to raise Lepidus in that poisonous household, where each day brought a new insult—kicks, slaps and cruelty.
They ripped her hair out by the roots.
Flogged her.
Inflicted every kind of brutality on her fragile body.
Yet, she never cried.
Just closed her eyes and waited.
Waited for all the blows to land.
But the moment they set their sights on him—to Lepidus, her son—
She stepped in.
Always.
She never let them lay a hand on him—even as she was left sprawled on the floor—bleeding, beaten black and blue.
"He's just a child—hurt me instead!" she would cry, always desperate.
And they would.
Still, she never stopped protecting him.
Afterward, she would crawl to where he hid.
Huddled in the corner.
Bawling.
Helpless.
She would cup his face, her own—bruised and gory—offering him an unwavering smile.
"It's okay now, my little lion. It's alright now…"
And then he would break, fall apart in her warm embrace.
[HIS MOTHER'S LAUGHTER—FRAGILE and FADING]
Lepidus stopped walking.
His breath caught as his vision blurred with tears.
"Liar," he whispered bitterly.
"You were never okay…"
He tried to scrub his eyes with his sleeve.
But the pain wouldn't go away.
"No one could be okay… not after being hurt like that…"
The ache was deep.
"You… you didn't even wipe the blood off your face before saying that… hic… hic…"
And now, she was gone—died last night, quietly, while the whole world continued breathing.
She left him all alone.
Vulnerable.
A chill swept through him, his breath hitching.
"Mother is truly gone," he sniffled, his voice barely above a whisper.
But then came a flicker of bittersweet comfort.
"No, not really gone… She's in the afterlife. With the gods. They're mourning for her now."
A fragile smile flickered across his lips despite the weight crushing his chest.
But his knees buckled.
His body betrayed him.
He barely caught himself, hands blindly grasping the cold stone wall beside him, fingers trembling.
His legs threatened to give out, but he held on.
And then, he wept.
Letting it all out as the downpour intensified.
Yet even as the grief swallowed him whole, his father's reaction to her death cut deeper.
"Take care of it."
That was all he had said—after years of turning blind and deaf to her suffering from his second wife's hands.
As if the woman who had died wasn't once the love of his life.
He exhaled.
'Yes, he did love her at first… Mother said so…'
Convincing himself.
Steadying himself.
'Who wouldn't?'
His hands clenched into fists, the stinging pain on his palms returning—but he brushed it off.
His mother was so beautiful!
A rare kind of beauty—part noble Roman, part Nubian.
It set her apart.
Made her unforgettable.
Her father had been a true Cornelius—
The paterfamilias of the Cornelii family, a gens.
A noble house that had wielded power since time immemorial.
'But he was a sick pervert who preyed on helpless women,' he grimaced.
'I'll never be like him!'
And the unlucky mother?
A pure Nubian slave.
All of the Cornelii knew.
But they said nothing.
They had no daughter to offer—
But they still sought to elevate their name among the great gentes.
'Just like the Julii and Claudii.'
Ambitious.
They hid her parentage.
Forged her persona.
They spun a tale—she had merely returned from an extended stay in Egypt.
That's why her skin was dark, they said.
In truth, she was the secret shame of the family.
Even after they became liberti, she and her mother were still treated as slaves.
Only their status was changed.
She remained a slave.
They polished her manners.
Dressed her in silk—
And offered her up to the Aemilii like a prize.
Like a pure patrician bride.
It was all a lie.
A calculated move to tie their fading bloodline to one of the stronger gens.
Just like the Imperial family forged power through marriage.
So did they.
Only dirtier.
His father hadn't known.
Not until it was too late.
When, over the years, her skin never lightened…
When his father realized the deception, his love curdled into hatred.
Overnight he became a stranger.
"Do you know what you've done?"
He still remembered the rage in his voice.
"You've made me the laughingstock of Rome!"
They tricked him.
Used her.
Used him.
Greedy people.
His mother's family.
Lepidus' family.
When his father finally divorced his mother, the Cornelii refused to take her back.
"Do whatever it takes to win back Marcus Aemilius Lepidus' affection," they said.
"We don't care what method you use…"
Then they sneered.
"Even if it means becoming a pellex."
When they returned to his father, his mother immediately fell to her knees.
The seven-year-old Lepidus didn't understand what was happening.
That man had always treated her like a queen!
And now this?
Why?
Why was his mother doing that?
She was begging—kissing the ground—pleading with Marcus Aemilius to let them live in one of the vilici's cubiculum outside his estate.
"Please! At least soften your heart for the boy!" she cried.
"He's innocent in all of this!"
His father's eyes blazed with anger as they landed on Lepidus—who flinched.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Only silence stretched on between them, broken by his mother's quiet sobbing.
Then, at last, he turned.
But before walking away, he said—
"So be it. I accept you back—"
And then the first cruelty.
"—not as a wife… but as a slave."
Words that stripped her of her place.
It seared into her soul, leaving her quivering.
And yet, she still thanked him—relieved.
Not for herself.
But for her son.
Then, the second cruelty came.
The one that still echoed in Lepidus' mind.
Words he would never forget as long as he lived.
"This is charity. Not forgiveness."
The sting of those words seeped into his bones.
Deeper than the cold of the rain.
The very next year, Marcus Aemilius remarried.
Had children—
All daughters.
Then came the concubinae.
They, too, bore only daughters.
Until one day, in a fit of rage, Lepidus heard his father shout.
"The only son I have is a half-ling! Vae! A son of a filthy slave!"
That was the beginning of all his mother's misfortune.
At first, the new matrona and the concubinae ignored Lepidus and his mother.
But after their husband's outburst, they began to find the smallest excuses to scold his mother.
To insult her.
To humiliate her.
One day, the insults turned into abuse.
And soon, it became a common occurrence.
When his mother grew sick and could no longer stand, Lepidus became their next target.
And he endured it in silence.
Willing.
Because they promised they would give her medicine.
Hiding the bruises from her… until the day she died.
Now, Lepidus stood at a loss.
Lost in every sense of the word.
She was his whole world.
What was he supposed to do now?
'Should I go back?'
His stomach twisted.
'There?'
To Marcus Aemilius' indifference.
To the beatings.
To the silent rooms, the sneers, the hate.
Just the thought of it made him want to vomit.
'Father… why do you hate her so much?'
The question burned in him.
But he knew he'd never have the courage to ask it aloud.
'It's not like she chose to be born that way.'
But it didn't matter.
That man wouldn't listen.
Wouldn't care.
He never had.
Not then.
Not now.
The years had turned his so-called father into stone.
Marcus Aemilius.
The Emperor's consul.
But the Cornelii…
His father's second wife—the matrona…
The concubinae…
Each one had carved wounds into his life.
'One day… I will return all this suffering to you.'
A dark promise bloomed in his chest.
'Every last drop.'
He didn't know how and when, but…
'Just you wait.'
**
INDEX:
patrician—noble
Elysian Fields—the afterlife
concubinae(plural)—concubines
Cornelii—a noble family that belonged to the ten gentes
paterfamilias—patriarch
liberti—freedmen/freedwomen
Aemilii—a noble family that belonged to the ten gentes
pellex—kept woman
vilici(plural)/vilicus(singular)—type of slave, we can thought of vilici as a head maids or a butlers or a stewards
matrona(singular)—a honorable married Roman woman