Murmurs and laughter swelled, filling the banquet hall with a rising hum—like a gentle buzz of bees turning into hornets.
Germanicus glanced around the table as he took his seat, his eyes scanning each face.
A slave handed him a silver cup.
She poured a red liquid—passum—a sweet wine.
As the cup filled, he murmured a quiet 'thank you'.
The slave blinked in surprise, then bowed and stepped back.
She cradled the oenochoe—a wine jug—like a babe.
Before turning away, she stole one last glance at Germanicus—
But his attention was already elsewhere.
Across the long banquet table, heavy with roasted meats and steaming bread, Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso—governor of Syria and a fellow general—caught his eye.
Their gazes clashed—unyielding, unblinking.
Neither of them looked away.
Germanicus sipped.
He drank slowly, unfazed.
The sweet wine coated his tongue.
He didn't break eye contact as Piso raised his bronze cup in a silent toast., whose sharp eyes never wavered.
Defiant.
Challenging.
As if he had been waiting for this exact moment.
Then he spoke.
"Germanicus…"
His voice was gravelly, yet Germanicus heard it clearly over the growing noise of the banquet.
"...welcome back."
A pause.
"I trust your journey was uneventful?" Piso added, his tone oozing feigned politeness.
Torchlight danced against his long white hair, making him look almost… menacing.
Germanicus said nothing.
He raised a brow.
"How was Germania, hmm?" Piso continued, needling, pressing for a reaction.
By now, silence had spread through the room.
One by one, heads turned.
Curious.
Intrigued.
Every ear was trained on the exchange.
Piso sipped his wine with exaggerated leisure, letting the question hang in the air.
His gaze roamed, confirming that all eyes were on him—and him alone.
Not Germanicus.
Him.
He didn't care that Germanicus hadn't uttered a single word.
The lack of reply only made him braver.
The attention was enough.
"Ah, Germania…" he began, setting his cup down—fingers lingering on the rim.
"...a land so wild, so untamed… so full of trees," Piso mused aloud.
Dramatic.
He leaned forward, elbows now planted on the table—bracing himself like a man about to deliver a sermon.
"Tell me," he crooned, lacing his words with false syrupy concern.
"Did the barbarians even bother fighting?"
He stared directly into Germanicus' blue gaze, needling him further.
"Or did they simply step aside and let you march around, playing at conquest?"
A blatant insult.
"Pft—"
Piso couldn't contain his amusement.
He felt like he'd already won a contest nobody else had joined.
Then he paused, shook his head, exhaling through his nose with mock sympathy.
"Well, I suppose that's why Rome sent you there, Germanicus—" he hissed, the name leaving his mouth like a curse.
"—someone has to talk to the trees!"
A triumphant fist slammed against the table—sharp, loud, thunderous.
Wine sloshed from his cup at the sudden movement.
Piso threw his head back and laughed.
"Ha ha ha ha!"
Alone.
A sharp, barking sound echoed through the hall.
Germanicus' brow furrowed.
Once Piso's laughter subsided, he struck again—with a slower, more pointed jab.
He tilted his cup, swirling the wine slowly, leaning in ever so slightly like a man about to whisper treason.
Everyone inclined forward, drawn like moths to fire.
He cleared his throat.
"Ahem…"
The prelude to poison.
"...I heard Agrippina often visited you in Vetera…"
His eyes gleamed with pure malice.
"Such… a devoted wife."
His wrinkled fingers tapped the cup's rim, watching Germanicus closely.
Then he murmured, just loud enough to sound conspiratorial.
"How… fortunate you are."
A curl of amusement twisted his lips—he had cast his bait, and now he awaited a bite.
He wanted to see Germanicus break his princely composure.
"She visits you so often—it's not like Germania is your next door neighbor," his voice rang out.
He raised his cup as if to sip, only to hover mid-air, building suspense.
"She must've missed you so dearly."
Another delay.
He grinned.
Then, the strike.
"Or perhaps…"
His voice dropped low.
"...she misses something else?" his gaze dipped—to Germanicus' crotch.
Bold.
Obscene.
A collective gasp rose from the onlookers.
Tension rippled through the hall.
For a moment, the already silent room had become subdued with unease.
Everyone knew Piso's reputation—his sharp tongue, his hunger for controversy.
And they all sensed the venom he had always reserved for Germanicus, though none could say why.
Still, they waited—hearts stilled, lungs held.
Watching.
Wondering how General Germanicus would respond.
Germanicus' eyes narrowed.
His grip almost crushed his cup's delicate shape, silver warping in his palm.
His arms tensed, veins bulged.
He looked ready to leap across the table and tear Piso apart.
They knew how much he loved his wife.
That kind of insult demanded blood—from a man like him.
Yet none had ever seen Germanicus lose control.
Because no one ever dared push him this far.
Now they teetered on the edge of their seats.
Because Germanicus said nothing.
And that silence—
That stillness drew the whole room closer than a scream.
It was the 'calm before the storm'.
They were more invested in his retaliation than in the celebratory banquet meant to honor him.
Germanicus had always been disciplined.
Refined.
He hadn't been dubbed the 'Golden boy of Rome' for nothing.
And now they saw it—
The way he restrained himself.
And it was far more terrifying than rage.
They anticipated seeing blood soon.
Inside, Germanicus seethed at the mention of his wife.
Murder thrummed beneath his ribs.
It wasn't patience nor ignorance that kept him still.
Nor indifference.
He held back because he didn't trust himself not to snap and kill that blabbing rat in a way even Rome wouldn't stomach.
He was exhausted.
His mind was burdened—
His ailing son.
The Emperor's too-sweet smile, dripping with something… unspoken.
And now, this pest—this bloody vermin—was taunting him so openly?
'You can mock me all you want,' he thought, jaw locked tight, 'but her beautiful name doesn't belong in your filthy mouth.'
Rage flared behind his grinding teeth.
He ached to crush Piso's smirk with his fist.
His veins swelled some more, his face flushed red.
'Her name sounds wrong on that tongue!'
For a fleeting moment, he imagined the satisfying crunch of his knuckles meeting the rat's sneering face.
But this wasn't the time.
Nor the place.
His gaze drifted.
And there beside him—the Emperor.
Brown eyes, unreadable.
Observing.
Germanicus then turned back to the rat.
For the first time that evening, Piso flinched.
His smugness cracked as Germanicus stared at him with murderous glare.
Cold.
Controlled.
Contained.
For now.
As if all had been a lie, Germanicus exhaled.
Steadily.
Purposely.
His face cooled.
The color returned to its usual sun-kissed calm that the public adored.
But the burning rage still smoldered—buried beneath perfect composure.
The silence stretched on.
Every breath in the room seemed suspended.
Then, at last, Germanicus moved.
He looked down on his wine, and lifted his cup with elegant indifference—
As if considering Piso's every word like a mild curiosity, not a grave insult.
He swirled the wine.
His motion was casual as he reached for his culter (knife) with his other hand.
He then stabbed a thick slab of roasted meat—took a bite, then set the utensil back down.
He chewed slowly.
A relaxed demeanor.
Almost bored.
"And how is your wife, General Piso?" he asked, voice lazy, mouth still full.
Piso twitched.
His victorious smirk was nowhere to be seen.
Germanicus swallowed his food, then tilted the cup in his hand, eyes tracing the wine's dark red spiral like blood on water.
"I heard she's been frequenting a certain taberna…" he murmured, letting the words trail.
He let the words simmer.
Anticipation coiled in the silence.
His gaze rose and met Piso's eyes.
His expression turned grave.
"...seeking comfort in the arms of another man," he whispered.
"Perhaps to ease her loneliness."
His expression softened, a worried look ghosted his face.
"We're all military men, so… I hope you understand, and don't be too hard on her when you get home."
The entire hall heard it—each word sharp as a knife.
Germanicus took a pointed sip, letting his eyes wander lazily around the hall.
Then, as though recalling something trivial, he looked back at Piso again and added with mock innocence:
"But oh… you never left Rome, did you?"
The silence snapped like a bowstring.
Then laughter exploded—booming, scandalized, uncontrollable.
Piso's face reddened, his eyes flashing with anger.
His chair scraped back sharply as he lurched to his feet, fury boiling over.
Germanicus simply raised his cup.
A silent mocking toast.
It made Piso livid.
"You—!"
Sejanus, a praetorian guard, stepped forward.
His hand on the hilt of his gladius, ready to intervene.
As an elite protector sworn to defend the Emperor with his life, it was his duty to step in at the first sight of bloodshed.
But Tiberius raised a hand—halting him in his stride.
Then came a warning glance.
A silent command.
'Do not draw steel in Germanicus' presence. He'll kill you in a heartbeat.'
Laughter faded.
Even the hum of conversation stilled.
Every guest leaned forward, eager for what came next.
Like a spectator in a dramatic play about to witness the finale.
They held their breath.
Would there be a fist fight?
But before anything could start, Tiberius intervened—slipping into a role of peacemaker.
He let out a low, theatrical chuckle.
Mask already in place.
No one noticed.
His expression brightened, suddenly jovial once more.
"Enough, enough. Sit down General Piso. This is a joyous occasion! Our lifelong wish has just come true!"
He reached for his golden goblet and lifted it high, the wine almost spilled.
Then he eyed everyone.
Once all attention was on him, he declared, "Let us toast to Germanicus' triumph in Germania!"
Piso remained standing, his face darkening with unreleased rage.
Tiberius shot him a subtle look—
One that needed no explanation.
Piso averted his gaze and sat down, still seething.
"To Rome!"
The room quieted as every cup rose in tribute.
"May our former Emperor's soul be blessed by Jupiter!"
"To Rome!" the crowd echoed as one.
Then they soaked their bread in the wine.
A Roman custom.
"Salus!"
The assembly resounded with the toast, voices rising in unison.
**
INDEX:
salus—latin toast