Still in Vetera Castrum. Second week of December. 16 AD.
It had been twenty-one days since the promise.
Caligula started to get bored.
His enthusiasm for the sword began to wane.
But he still dutifully swung his wooden sword every day.
He was impatient to impress his father upon his return.
Albeit sometimes, he used it to conduct an imaginary battle against the camp's chickens.
Early one morning…
"TA-TA-TAA!"
A horn blared.
A signal that the troops had returned.
It made Caligula jump to his tiny feet after defeating the biggest chicken in his imaginary battle.
He was just wondering if he could take on a goat next.
The ground vibrated beneath his little boots.
Then a shout—
"They've returned!"
"Victoria!"
"Germanicus!"
"Viva Roma!"
THUD THUD THUD
He sprang to life.
"Father?" he said to no one.
'He has returned!'
Cold wind assaulted his face as he ran.
His babysitters chased after him.
In his little head, he could already imagine his father's booming laugh.
He joined the noisy crowd.
The air felt heavy somehow.
It pressed down on him.
A mix of sour sweat, smoke, disease, and the metallic fragrance of blood hit Caligula's nose.
The smell clung to the returning soldiers like a shroud.
He peeked at the long, endless procession and decided to move to the very front.
Caligula wove through the throng of people.
His babysitters lost sight of him.
'Being small is such an advantage!' he cheerfully thought.
Once he was satisfied with his position, he waited patiently.
His heart pounded with excitement at the thought of seeing his father.
'I miss him!'
He watched the long line of people coming into the Castrum.
But his excitement gradually faded when he saw the wounded soldiers.
'Where are their arms and legs?' he wondered.
His heart started to beat frantically inside his chest.
'What happened to his eyes?'
A man was walking with a stick and blindfolded.
Caligula paused.
He realized that he knew that blind man!
Not just the blind man—he recognized the others too.
The ones missing their arms and legs!
"Milk man."
"Freckled man."
"And the… strong man?"
They used to play with him, carry him around the camp, and even gave him food!
He even got them in trouble with his father once, before they left—for letting him ride the wild boar.
Now that they were wounded, he felt… bad.
'They're hurt…'
He swallowed hard.
It was a child's egocentric way of thinking.
Somehow, Caligula believed that it was his fault that they'd gotten injured.
'I should have asked them to stay with me…'
He froze in place.
'Then what of father?'
Panic-stricken, his eyes searched for his father among the injured.
'I should have whined—cried my eyes out—and not let him leave me!'
His chest heaved in panic.
But really, who could blame him?
His older brothers—especially Drusus Caesar, the second eldest—always blamed him for everything.
Saying things like, "You should have told me not to go!"
"It was your fault for being a sissy!"
"They said you look like a girl! It tarnished our family name!"
"I was hurt because of you!"
Drusus used Caligula both as an excuse and a solution.
Every time they came home injured—from playing and stirring trouble with other noble kids.
He always shifted the blame to little Gaius.
Anything just to avoid being scolded.
It was all irrational.
But kids, being kids, they didn't know any better.
Didn't know how it would affect and shape their youngest brother's mentality.
They just wanted to escape Agrippina's hawk-like eyes and her itchy whip.
All these reasons—even though they weren't truly connected—looped endlessly in Caligula's young mind.
'Brother Drusus will surely scold me about why I let father go…'
It always felt like it was his fault.
It only deepened the self-blame, the logic of the young Caligula.
'Bad things happen because of me…'
He started to sweat.
'What if my father lost both arms and legs?'
'What if my father also lost his eyes and can't see me anymore?'
The metallic tang of fear filled Caligula's mouth as he gulped.
Then, a line of heavy wooden carts rolled—looming in like a mountain.
Big white cloth.
With unnatural shapes and bumps.
Spattered with mud and streaks of color red.
Some soldiers trailing the massive carts sobbed openly.
Their faces etched with raw pain.
While others walked in stunned silence, their eyes were hollow.
The spectators behind Caligula also started to cry.
And he didn't know why.
He hesitated.
'Why were they crying? Why did they look so broken?' he wanted to ask but the words wouldn't come.
His throat tightened with dread.
He gripped the edge of his small purple tunica.
'Did they find out that it was my fault they were hurt?'
Tears welled in his eyes.
He was bright.
Yes—but still a child.
He was easily frightened by the smallest, silliest things.
A boy who hadn't yet seen what real war looked like.
But he was about to find out.
Today.
The hard way.
Big wooden cart rolled past him again.
He glanced around the crowd once more.
A sea of faces—each bearing different expressions.
Some had contorted grief.
Others were pale with shock.
A few had a hardened look with grim acceptance.
The sound of crying increased.
Caligula gulped and tried to focus on what was in front of him.
Wooden carts continued to pass him by.
They were laden with the dead, moving like ghastly, silent ships under the morning light.
There was a weight of loss and an inevitability of death in the air.
But Caligula didn't know that.
Not yet.
He was only a kid, whose biggest problem was—what to play next after the chicken.
But he knew those wooden carts had blocked his view of the procession.
It hindered his search for his father.
One of the wheels suddenly jolted right in front of him—stuck on a protruding stone.
It halted the cart.
Some soldiers moved to shove the cart, halting the flow of the march.
With a strong push, the wooden cart shook.
Suddenly, a severed arm—slick with blood—flopped from the cart and landed just inches away from Caligula's little boots.
It terrified him.
The severed arm was still gripping a sword.
It wasn't a clean cut—ragged flesh still hangs from where it was sliced.
A stark reminder of the price of victory.
A grotesque trophy of death.
It began with a sniffle.
His hands trembled.
His eyes brimmed with tears.
Then came the wailing—loud, messy, snot streaking down his small face.
He wailed and wailed for a long time, certain that it was his father's arm.
'C-can't… cc-can't breathe—'
Suddenly he felt himself fly off the ground.
He struggled, but the grip was too strong.
He couldn't see—his vision was blurred by tears.
Then a lonely voice—
"Filius meus iuvenis…"
It was an endearment that means, "My young son."
Germanicus' voice was rough, a mix of relief and a deep, unspoken grief and worry as he spoke to his son.
"What's wrong, Caligulchen?"
It made Caligula still.
He stopped struggling.
He recognized his father's voice, making him pause a bit, still sniffling.
Then after remembering what made him cry… he broke down again.
But this time, it was harder.
A mix of solace and terror.
The rough fabric of his beloved little boots now felt like a symbol of his lost innocence.
**
INDEX:
Victoria/Viva Roma—Victorious/Long live Rome
Caligulchen—an endearment means dear little Caligula