The morning sun retreated behind the clouds, plunging the world into gloom.
Time bled away.
Agrippina's wails finally softened.
Her body was spent.
A hesitant touch brushed her shoulder.
"Mater… let's go," Nero Caesar's voice cracked, thick with unshed tears.
"Nunc requiescat pater..."
(Now let father rest...)
She found no voice to answer.
"Iterum eum videbimus in Campis Elysii beatis…"
(We will see him again in the blessed Fields of Elysium…)
She hugged the urn tighter, shook her head—denying his words—rocking her body back and forth, like a child throwing a tantrum.
A sob tore loose.
"Hnnnnnnnnnn…"
A long moment dragged on.
Nero's hand stayed firm on her shoulder—giving her a gentle squeeze.
Steady.
Patient.
Quiet.
Like an adult beyond his years.
As though he carried his father's patria potestas already—the burden of a man grown too soon.
'It's not supposed to be like this…'
She sensed her son glancing around, as if taking in the scene—or maybe—forcing himself to master his own grief.
'Oh my firstborn… there is no getting out of this kind of hell…'
The wind still blew.
The earth still turned.
The clouds kept shifting.
Then the sun broke through the clouds—raindrops glittered like daylight fireflies, making the world burn with light.
The damp grass continued to dance.
The leaves went on swaying.
Finally, Agrippina lifted a trembling hand.
Her tattered heart was now ready—
To continue her journey.
To lay her beloved's ashes to rest.
'He had suffered enough…'
Claudius moved to help, but Drusus Caesar was quicker—rushing to her side.
Together with Nero, he lifted her to her feet.
Little Julia, only four years old, ran forward as well.
She clung to her mother's legs, uncaring of the soaked and dirtied stola—holding on as if letting go meant losing her too.
Agrippina stood.
Drained.
Hollow.
Numb.
Clarity crept back in.
Sounds tethered her—the gentle buzz of the mourners, the rustle of fabric, the faint smell of incense in the air.
Slowly, she looked upon her children holding her upright—Nero Caesar, Drusus Caesar, then Julia.
'Liberi mei carissimi…'
(My dear children…)
Then her eyes landed on Caligula.
A faint smear marked his smooth cheek.
Blood.
His blue orbs—like his father's—were vacant.
Still.
'Lifeless…'
Agrippina blinked.
Felt nothing.
Not even curiosity.
She registered the wound.
Without emotion.
Then moved on to Drusilla and little Livilla—each cradled by a nursemaid.
Her gaze found Antonia next, and in her face… Agrippina saw her own sorrow, but gentler.
'She lost a son… mine was a husband.'
Agrippina bit her lip bitterly.
Then Claudius.
She studied him—his stare was tentative at first, then it pierced through her.
Assessing.
Seeking.
Reading her thoughts.
Almost at once, she snapped her head away—turning to the mourners, their sorrowful eyes watching her every move.
She could hear every breath.
Every murmur.
Whispers stirred.
Something unspoken.
Accusation.
Rumors.
Unverified.
True.
Her hazel eyes twitched, her grip on her husband's funerary jar stiffening.
But she did nothing.
'Istae susurrationes…'
(Those whispers…)
She vowed to remember.
'Hoc momentum…'
(This moment…)
Etched forever in her memory.
'Aliquis poenas dabit…'
(Someone would pay…)
Nero Caesar tightened his hold on her arm, halting her spiraling thoughts.
Darkness in her heart lingered like a seed—stirring, ready to sprout.
Yet without water to sustain it, it was left suspended.
Her son urged her onward.
To walk.
Agrippina's face stayed wet with tears, her breathing ragged.
She let herself be led—like a leaf finally caught in the current.
Each step toward the mausoleum made the urn feel heavier, as though Germanicus himself anchored her in place—telling her he was there, whispering he would not leave her.
'My love…'
She smiled bitterly, then stopped—wanting to finish her solitary walk—alone.
'... our flesh may be apart… but our souls are not…'
She met her son's gaze.
'You'll stay forever with me…'
Nero seemed to understand.
He drew Drusus and Julia back—
SQUELCH
—letting their mother step forward.
'... till death…'
She sucked in a breath.
SQUELCH
'... do us part.'
The air outside the mausoleum still smelled of grass and rain.
Inside, it reeked of incense, myrrh, and offerings.
And beneath it all—death.
The musty, earthy stench of wet stone and decay.
No matter how much they tried to mask it, the odor crept through.
Inevitable.
Sharp.
Potent.
It twisted her stomach.
As if it was warning her that this place was not for the living.
But even so, she continued.
The overseer of the necropolis stood near the entrance and bowed.
Agrippina ignored him.
She moved deeper inside.
CLICK CLICK
Her family and the mourners followed, tight-lipped, keeping their distance.
Past the towering walls of niches, only the click of footsteps echoed on the rough marble floor.
CLICK CLICK
Each niche held a sarcophagus or an urn—mute witnesses to Rome's vanished glory.
The silence engulfed her, weighing down each of her steps.
Nevertheless, she continued—then stopped.
Her long trek had finally come to an end.
Before the vast, high-ceilinged central chamber.
Before the grand tomb of Augustus.
She barely glanced at the intricate carvings on the tomb of her grandfather before turning to the overseer.
"Where?"
Her voice was raw, hoarse.
It was the first word she had spoken.
She was asking where to place her husband's ashes.
The man bowed and gestured toward a raised platform—where an empty urn waited.
She stepped forward.
With shaking hands, she lifted the temporary urn.
For a heartbeat, it hung suspended in the air… then she set it into the heavy marble vessel.
Slowly.
Carefully.
As if it might shatter any moment now that it was gone from her embrace.
Her fingers lingered, clinging to it.
A tear slipped down her cheek.
Then another.
And with great difficulty—after a long agonizing struggle—she released it.
A feeling of emptiness hollowed through her chest.
She found it hard to swallow, as if there was sand inside her throat.
Now—her husband's ashes rested on a pristine white marble, its surface carved with words meant to make him eternal.
Agrippina stepped back, tears streaming—sight not leaving the urn.
She wanted to take it back, to hug it, afraid her husband might feel cold—but she resisted the urge.
Instead, she mouthed a silent prayer, lips quivering.
The mourners bowed their heads in respect.
At last, Germanicus had found his place among his ancestors.
And Agrippina—though surrounded by her own dead kin, her beloved sealed away in stone, and her sons and daughters—had never felt more alone.
**
INDEX:
Mater—mother
Pater—father
Fields of Elysium—same as Elysian Fields or the afterlife, but this is the more broader term.
patria potestas—power of the father, since Nero was the firstborn, he was now the one that stood as his family patriarch.
QUICK FACT:
What is Patria Potestas?
In ancient Rome, patria potestas was the complete and total power a father had over his family. This authority was a fundamental part of Roman society. When a father died, his sons would become the heads of their own families and inherit their own patria potestas over their children. However, when Germanicus died, leaving his young children—who were still unmarried—the legal authority over them didn't automatically pass to Nero Caesar because of his age and also because Germanicus was adopted into the imperial family. Now, the patria potestas fell to the head of the entire family line, which in this case would be Emperor Tiberius, Nero's adoptive grandfather. While Nero was seen as the social and moral protector of his mother and younger siblings, he was still legally under the control of his grandfather. And in my novel, Agrippina thinks so too… or hopefully wished to… because who else was left to wield it… right? So, Nero Caesar's position was complex.