'Who had dared take my father's life away?'
Drusus' fists clenched, pale blue eyes darting over the mourners around him, sharp with suspicion.
The carriage jolted over the uneven cobblestone road, forcing him to loosen his grip and steady himself.
Why?
'Why are they looking at us like that?'
Drusus Caesar.
Second son of General Germanicus.
He assumed he was old enough to read the mood in the air—he took pride in it.
Smart, resourceful, observant.
Old enough to recognize the real meaning behind those somber looks they threw at them.
At him.
And yet—he refused to accept it.
To name it.
Something cold tightly wrapped itself in his gut, like a rope.
He didn't like it.
It felt like a premonition—
Of something terrible.
He ground his teeth and spat the words in his mind.
'Their expressions are blasphemous! These stupid riffraff!'
It wasn't respect—no it wasn't.
'All of you dare take pity on us?'
The realization sank deep into his chest.
'On me?'
Frosty and unwelcome.
The same Romans who once celebrated his father's name now felt sorry for him—felt sorry for what he had left behind.
The same streets that had once echoed with cheers for glory now swallowed Germanicus' funeral procession in silence!
Drusus clamped his jaw and stubbornly straightened his neck—refusing to take another glimpse at those ignorant fools who knew nothing.
He willed himself to stare ahead as the carriage rattled forward.
He despised this.
Detested the silence.
Loathed what it meant.
He could feel their heavy gazes—it pressed against him, like a dozen scorpions with their poisonous tips pointed in his skin.
It made him shift uncomfortably in his leathered seat.
Cold sweat rolled down his temple.
His heart thundered.
The feeling of being watched remained—unwilling to leave, etching to his bones.
Not on the carriage.
Not on his siblings.
Not his grandmother.
Certainly not on his mother ahead of them.
Him.
Drusus' palms became damp, but unable to hold back, he took one last sweep of his surroundings.
The crowd's dark attire blurred together, a sea of muted colors stretching endlessly before him.
Some onlookers were still damp from the earlier rain, their soaked garments clinging with every step.
The heavy scent of wet stone, damp earth and the nagging incense filled the air, pressing the moment deeper into him.
As the skies cleared, he saw it clearly—
Their pity.
Their sympathy.
Heat crept up his neck, frustration simmered.
He straightened his back, suddenly self-conscious.
His eyes flickered over the elaborately adorned coach—the mark of Imperial name.
One of many.
An exquisite carrier, built wide enough for five people with comfort in mind…
With its wheels carved with intricate designs—each detail proclaiming Drusus' lineage.
The rail gleamed under the dull light.
Four noble brown horses—gifts from his grandmother—pulled them forward with rhythmic grace.
The opulence of the carriage was a stark contrast to his inner turmoil, reminding him of his Imperial status, as if it was mocking him.
'And they still dare pity us?'
Surely this counted for something?
Let them envy him.
Let them choke on it.
Let them see him as something more.
His face twisted at the mourners' shabby appearance.
'Are you people envious? Why not thank the gods? It's not my fault that you were all born beneath me! This carriage, right before your very eyes, screamed of the Imperial family!'
Drusus lifted his stiff chin, peering down once more at the gathered plebeians.
For a fleeting moment, he imagined himself a ruler surveying his subject.
And for the first time in days, the thought pleased him.
He turned towards his siblings, about to see if his older brother felt the same way, but instead it soured his mood.
His younger sisters sat beside his grandmother—oblivious to the world around them.
Irritation flared in his chest.
He didn't even know why he was suddenly feeling that way.
He sucked in a breath, filling his lungs with a mixture of scents— worn leather, children's sweat, incense, and the faint, flowery perfume of his grandmother.
The smell nauseated him.
He scowled, swallowing back the bile that threatened his throat.
His eyes locked on Antonia—his grandmother.
Her face, lined with age, bore the weight of both years and sorrow.
Yet her cobalt blue eyes, just like his father's, still held warmth and kindness.
She was the niece of Emperor Augustus himself.
And yet…
'She looks so old. Hunched and small.'
He fiddled with the purple stripe of his toga praetexta.
The off-white wool scratched at his skin as his mind drifted back again—but this time, to their last stop before entering Rome.
Antonia had tried feeding them before they continued on to the Mausoleum.
"Drusus my boy. Here—eat."
Her wrinkled hands tore a panis focacius, offering him the still hot hearth bread with a gentle smile.
Instead of comfort, the act filled him with dismay.
'There are servants for that sort of thing! You're a member of the Imperial family—act like one!'
He had wanted to shout it at her.
Shake her.
But he said nothing as he took the bread.
Instead, his displeasure twisted across his face for her to see.
Antonia had met them halfway—traveling from Rome to join them mid-journey from Syria.
She had brought her own chariot and carriages, boats, and fresh horses.
But Agrippina had just shaken her head, refusing them all.
She still rode in Germanicus' chariot—behind its tired horses.
Drusus' gaze shifted to her.
'Mother…'
She had gone mad.
'I think.'
She hadn't spoken a word since her husband breathed his last breath.
Vacant eyes.
Hollow face.
She looked insane.
Something twisted in Drusus' chest—a bitter mix of anger and something else.
Something he couldn't name.
And wouldn't bother to name.
Then, he snapped his gaze to Nero Caesar.
His older brother sat still.
Calm.
Eyes fixed on some unseen point ahead.
'How?'
How could he stay composed?
'Doesn't he see?'
Didn't he understand?
Their family had fallen from grace!
'We're falling apart!'
Drusus wanted to grab him, rouse him in his daydream until the same fire blazed in his eyes.
But then—something was caught in his peripheral vision.
'More like someone.'
Him.
'Caligula.'
His younger brother, dumbly sitting in silence, doing nothing.
'That empty stare again.'
Unfocused.
Unreadable.
Drusus felt something inside him was about to snap.
'You attention seeker!'
His whole body trembled as his anger boiled over.
That boy—
'If you are so sickly, why are you still alive? You should have been the one to die if you were so sick!'
Not his father.
'NEVER FATHER!'
A surge of bitterness swelled inside him.
This brother!
The one who had stolen their parents' attention.
'Caligula…. Caligula…'
He was so mad he could only say the name repeatedly in his mind.
It burned on his tongue, like a curse.
Drusus was willing to bet that this effeminate little pest was cursed.
Because how else to explain that behavior?
The bad luck that followed their family all the way to Syria?
How?
Maybe—
Maybe he was even the one who had cursed their father to death!
His eyes widened at the thought.
He felt like he had just uncovered a great secret.
A revelation.
The truth.
He gritted his teeth.
His eyes narrowed to a slit.
Once, Drusus had been the favorite.
The golden son—basking in his father's praise, in his mother's warmth.
They even said he was so much like his father.
The one that would inherit his legacy, the one that would follow in his father's step.
Now?
He was nothing more than a footnote.
A mere afterthought.
The carriage's steady vibrations pulsed beneath him like it was something alive.
With a clenched jaw and fingers digging in his palm, Drusus forced himself to look away, trying to push down the fury twisting his gut.
Germanicus had wanted to leave Rome.
Not for peace.
Not even truly for retirement.
But for him.
For Caligula.
Disappointment.
Betrayal.
Curse.
Drusus curled his fists harder, nails drawing blood.
Light blue eyes burned with raw resentment.
'You stole them from me!'
His father.
His mother.
All of it.
Then—
He heard a voice.
Singing.
Seikilos Epitaph.
It was him!
'HOW DARE HE?!'
The beautiful, yet melancholic melody clawed through Drusus skin, sinking into his blood.
A violent heat erupted within him, blurring his vision.
Before he knew it, he leaned forward and his hand shot out.
A blur of motion.
A loud, merciless sharp crack split the air.
Caligula's head snapped sideways.
On his cheek, a thin red line of blood bloomed like a brand.
Gasps filled the air.
Antonia's hand flew to her mouth.
Drusus' chest heaved, vision drowned in crimson haze.
His palm stinged, then numbed.
'Fear me.'
That was better.
**