After several months of journeying—an odyssey in itself—Drusus' family arrived in Nicopolis, near Actium.
Augustus himself had founded the city long ago, but that day, it seemed to only exist to glorify them—their first ceremonial entry upon a foreign soil, staged with blinding pomp.
From there, a coastal vessel carried them to Athens, where people hailed them as heroes, especially his father.
Days brimmed with splendid festivities, prodigal and unending, all devoted to their honor.
The people revered them like deities.
Admired and celebrated.
They prayed and they danced.
They wept—they laughed.
And Drusus himself?
He savored it—drunk in the reflected glory of his father's name, as if it were a sweet wine.
Germanicus.
Virtuous.
The living legend.
The heir Rome deserved.
Everywhere they went—especially when traveling by land—crowds erupted in thunderous acclamation.
The masses followed until the sea itself forced them back—manic, feverish, mad with devotion.
Some swam.
Others tried to seize boats.
All in vain—yet entertaining to behold.
It was almost comical.
Officials bent the knee.
'Willingly, I should add.'
Poets recited verses.
Songs rose from every street and square.
'As it should.'
But not every city unfurled a red carpet.
There had been one stop in Asia Minor—one that haunted Drusus for weeks, no matter how hard he brushed it aside.
They had met a fortune-teller.
'More like an old fool,' he remembered thinking.
He arched his brow, pretending the old coot's knowing stare—and those yellowed teeth flashing in wild laughter—
'Like he had gone mad!'
—didn't send chills crawling down his spine.
The man had croaked a prophecy of doom soon to befall his father.
'That man was blind! Couldn't he see how healthy my father was?'
That was what Drusus told himself back then.
And his father's reactions?
Right—
"Hogwash!"
Germanicus had laughed, dismissing it without a second thought.
His father had always been that way—strong, unwavering, unshaken.
And above all, never superstitious.
Drusus had laughed along, even scoffing—as if it didn't unnerve him.
And then they had moved on.
Yet now, looking back, those words stuck like burrs to his memory—
Was it truly fated?
An ill omen?
'Can it be ignored?'
Armenia.
Then Parthia.
A coronation—the successful forging of diplomatic ties.
That was when things began to unravel.
News travelled fast—by word of mouth, by galloping horses, by sea.
By the time they reached Syria, something already felt… off.
It was in the way Governor Piso and his trusted men received them.
The smiles that cut like knives.
The heat.
The sun.
The icy stares full of disdain that felt like a stab from every expression.
The endless days of hushed voices and intrigue.
They didn't even bother to hide it.
Drusus could practically feel it slithering beneath his skin.
The governor's smirk said it all—he thrived in defiance, basked in it, as if the world itself were his stage.
Then came the snide remarks toward Agrippina—lewd comments that nearly drove his father over the edge.
If his mother hadn't managed to quell her husband's bloodlust that day…
The governor would have been torn to pieces.
Murdered and ripped apart.
For all of Germanicus' patience, even he had reached his limits.
Piso and his wife—
'That disgusting woman.'
They knew exactly how to push people's buttons.
An old hag.
Self-entitled.
Annoying.
'Shameless!'
She never stopped flinging those nauseating, syrupy glances at his father whenever she had the chance.
'Does she actually think that's seductive? Pft. She's delusional.'
She even went as far as snatching away a slave's role that offered drinks and food—serving them herself.
Drusus' parents, dignified as ever, dismissed her with silence—as if she were nothing more than a pesky fly.
'She's beneath us. Not even worth noticing.'
What mattered was that the Syrians themselves had treated his father differently.
They favored him more than they did their own governor.
'It makes sense they did.'
Piso was not fit to govern—haughty, pompous, and despised.
Drusus had witnessed it himself—in the people's hopeful gaze.
They welcomed Germanicus with open arms, yet offered their governor nothing but thinly veiled contempt.
But the people's silent affection only sharpened the tension between his father and Piso.
And then came Egypt.
Rome's golden bank.
The empire's lifeline.
Its grain basket.
Germanicus had gone and briefly journeyed there without Imperial consent.
He opened the Imperial granaries, ordering grain sold at a lowered price—providing much-needed relief to the populace.
"We cannot wait for Imperial permission. It would take months. Hunger does not wait."
This gesture earned him immense popularity and love among the Egyptians—a humanitarian act that stirred hearts… and sparked controversy.
Such deeds were rare.
Unheard of, even—from a member of an Imperial family.
"I only decreased the price, not gave it away for free," Germanicus had shrugged when Drusus asked.
"I don't see why the Emperor would be angry. Rome would understand. By doing this, the people would work harder. And Rome would prosper more."
Piso's rage had been palpable.
Rome had guarded Egypt jealously—its gate, its grain, its lifeblood.
But Germanicus ignored it.
Protocol meant nothing to him when people starved.
"The Emperor sent me here," he said simply.
"I think I have the right to act as I see fit."
Then—out of nowhere—Drusus' father began to change.
They had just returned to Syria.
To Antioch.
At first, it was nothing.
A shadow in his eyes.
A tiredness that lingered.
They told themselves it was only the strain of endless travel.
Ships.
Carriages.
Boats.
Horses.
Exhaustion.
Nothing more.
He only needed to rest.
But it worsened.
Fatigue turned to pain.
Pain to fever.
Fever to delirium.
Germanicus—the invincible Germanicus, the epitome of health, the man carved from stone—was weakening before their eyes.
Drusus spent never-ending nights at his father's bedside, refusing to leave.
Not to eat.
Not to play.
Not for anything.
He counted every labored breath.
Panicked when his father's chest seemed to still.
He pressed cool cloths against burning skin, desperate to fight the fire consuming Germanicus.
He helplessly watched as strength bled out of him.
Pale.
Sweating.
Trembling.
And then came the whispers.
People started talking about rumors of treachery—of foul play.
Some say it was a curse.
Some believe it was dark magic.
Agrippina grew frantic each day.
She had tried everything—pleaded with healers, prayed at temples, offered sacrifices and donated.
She clutched at remedies, charms, rituals—anything that would save her husband.
Anything.
But nothing worked.
It happened too fast.
Too cruelly fast.
Everything had happened so quickly that even up to this day… Drusus could still feel his head spinning.
Now, as he sat stiffly in the slow-moving open carriage bound for the Mausoleum Augusti—
The twelve-year-old Drusus was full of unanswered questions.
Who?
Who could have done this?
**
CREDITS:
This story draws upon historical accounts of Germanicus before and after his time in the East, particularly Tacitus' Annals, which offers a comprehensive account of the era, and the works of Suetonius and Dio Cassius—who were known historians.
The details concerning Rome's control over Egypt's grain supply and the political conflicts are derived from these ancient sources.