"Oderint dum metuant."—Lucius Accius, Roman Poet (Let them hate me, as long as they fear me.)
**
"TA-taa-TA-Taa!"
A trumpet blared.
Sharp, brassy notes cut through the wind, vibrations rippling across the bustling city of Rome.
Rome—the eternal city, timeless and pulsing with so much life!
A sprawling metropolis of white marble temples gleaming under the Mediterranean sun.
Enormous grand basilicas that almost touched the skies, their columns throwing long shadows over the city.
Winding streets that stretched towards the horizon, with flashy banners fluttering in the gentle breeze.
But beyond the city's renowned grandeur, Rome itself was also a tapestry woven with significant symbols and colors.
Yet more notable were the purple hues worn by those close to its empire's ruler, marking their trust and allegiance.
But nobody wore purple today, which was odd, yet, nobody seemed to take notice.
Everywhere you looked, it teemed with visitors from all over its empire, many of whom wore vibrant clothing to signify their status or lineage.
Everywhere you went, the air throbbed with thousands of endless conversations—like the city itself was breathing and alive!
Chariot races, athletic competitions, and theatrical plays each drew cheering crowds, their voices rising in a unified roar that echoed through Rome.
Music, dance, and acrobatic performances filled every corner—a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds, a marvel to behold!
The sweet scent of incense wafted from the priests' procession, honoring Apollo—a solemn counterpoint to the city's exuberance.
It mixed with the heady aroma of roasted meat and sweet pastries, enticing the people's senses and leaving many with a craving for more.
And when night fell, torches and lanterns cast their magical glow over the revelry, transforming the city into a shimmering wonderland—a playground for the senses.
"TA-taa-TA-Taa!"
Another trumpet blast.
This one was rash and off-tune—a piercing shriek that felt sharp as a thunderclap.
The unpleasant sound made the people, who were busy commemorating the Ludi Palatini—a sacred festival held in honor of the gods and the goddesses—halt in their tracks.
The vibrant noise of the celebration came to a jarring stop, replaced by a collective frown that killed the mood.
A lone, low murmur set off, spreading through the colorful crowd like a contagion.
The trumpets had already sounded once, back on the festival's first day, when the Emperor delivered his usual drowsy speech.
"But why again…?" a long-bearded man irritably asked his wife.
He had just placed a bet on his favorite gladiator.
The murmurs swelled into a loud buzz.
"Especially on the very last day of the Ludi Palatini?" a young noble exclaimed to his friends, one of his hands was clutching a goblet of wine, the contents spilling to his toga.
Mid-performance, the acrobats froze, their practiced smiles faltering, as one muttered under their breath, "Is there another celebration?"
In a man-made amphitheatre, two gladiators eased their fighting stance, their eyes shifting warily to the distracted audiences as their bloodlust left them.
In the waiting area, a burly man with scarred brows mumbled to himself, "What is the new occasion?"
Even the charioteers in the Circus Maximus hesitated mid-race, pulling their horses to a complete stop, their competitive spirits momentarily forgotten.
"What does the crazy Emperor want now?" a merchant shouted in frustration, furious at the lost buyers.
The masses exchanged uneasy glances, their voices overlapping in a wave of bewilderment.
Then, from the Imperial Palace, some people came running.
"Hup hup… to the Palatium! To the Palatium!" out of breath, they cried out to the populace.
"They're announcing something important! Hurry!"
The message spread like wildfire.
A cacophony of noise rose from the crowd as speculation and curiosity about the announcement took over.
Even the shopkeepers abandoned their businesses, joining the throng as it moved forward.
Once they all gathered outside the Palatium, instead of the Emperor or any high-ranking magistrate, a ragged-looking herald appeared on an elevated, man-made wooden platform.
His dirty tunic clung to his gaunt frame.
Yet, his eyes shone with unsettling calm, a contrast to his disheveled appearance.
Unease spread.
Was this just another of the Emperor's bizarre whims again?
A woman's eyes, previously dazed, snapped to her wandering child.
In a sudden surge of dread, she seized him, crushing his small frame to her chest, a desperate act of protection against an unknown danger.
Her fingers dug into his thin clothes, making the child yelp in pain.
A drunk man hiccuped, instantly sobering.
The people waited with bated breath, their anticipation a palpable weight as heavy as stone.
Yet the herald remained calm under the stares of his spectators, his movements steady as he scanned them.
He grunted once, seemingly satisfied with their numbers, as he toyed with his scroll—rolling it open and shut, as if he were memorizing what was written.
Seconds passed.
A minute.
And then…
He straightened his back, and in a booming voice, he unceremoniously proclaimed—
"Romans! Rejoice!"
Silence.
Some frowned, then scoffed.
Others, already at the limit of their patience, angrily spat on the ground.
Some stayed clueless as to why they had to jump for joy.
And the rest were just there for the heck of it.
'Rejoice? For what exactly?' they thought.
'Is there anything left worth celebrating these days?'
'Really?'
They glanced at each other as their feet began to shuffle restlessly.
'Other than the Ludi Palatini?'
A burst of giggles.
Then full-blown laughter.
The herald must have already lost his mind.
"Ahem…" the herald cleared his throat.
"Hrmp…"
He already expected this.
"We are celebrating the end of the MAD EMPEROR's tyranny!!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.
A hush fell, so sudden and unnatural, you could hear a pin drop.
The air grew heavy as the herald stood still, not explaining, just letting his words settle like dust.
"Hubris!"
"Boo!"
The crowd broke into jeers and nervous laughter.
A man even bravely stepped forward.
"He calls himself a god! How can such a mad god's tyranny end so easily!?" he argued.
The people roared their agreement..
"Boo!"
But the herald didn't flinch.
His gaze swept slowly at the first line in front of him, pausing on each face—forcing them to see the seriousness of his news.
Instead of answering the man's question, he decided to address them all.
"My beloved people of Rome," he began, his voice trailing, a bead of sweat rolling down his neck.
"As of this moment…"
He sighed, deep and deliberate, making the masses more anxious than they already were.
"... the mad Emperor Caligula…"
Everyone held their breaths, a low hum of expectation rising.
"... known to Rome as Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus…"
A long pause.
"... is dead!"
Not a whisper.
Not a breath.
"Lies!" they screamed in unison.
The herald's brows furrowed as he eyed his accomplices.
They started to move.
They whispered to the people.
One by one.
They shared the truth.
The rebellion.
The assassination.
Then—from somewhere in the crowd—one person cried out.
Then another.
And another.
The disbelief cracked.
Whispers turned into shouts.
Shouts swelled into roars.
And like a wave crashing over the Palatium ground, the entire crowd erupted into a loud uproar of approval.
"HURRAAAAAH!"
They thundered, shouting and stomping until the very walls of the Imperial Palace trembled.
The herald smiled.
Rome rejoiced at the fall of its self-proclaimed god!
The news of the Emperor's demise circulated rapidly—igniting a frenzy of jubilation and destruction.
The Ludi Palatini were fully forgotten.
Mobs of people who were just dancing to the music and enjoying the mood of the celebration hours before now surged through the streets with a wild, uncontrolled fury.
They targeted the numerous statues of the fallen god—the source of their newfound enjoyment.
In the Roman Forum—a central public space in the heart of Rome—a towering and perfect statue loomed.
A group of enraged citizens eyed it once, remembering how they poured all of their joy, sweat, and tears while building it with hopeful hearts.
A few people even sniffled from the memory—before picking up the hammers and chisels.
They then attacked it without mercy.
The sound of cracking stones echoed through the Forum as the statue's limbs shattered.
In a matter of minutes, it got broken into pieces.
Then they stomped on it.
THUNK THUNK!
Nearby, a bronze effigy of the mad Emperor stood atop a pedestal.
They lit a bonfire beneath it.
Flames engulfed the metal, melting its features into a twisted, grotesque appearance.
The people were pleased.
Their hearts felt light for the first time in years.
They wept, they laughed, and they danced around the fire.
Throughout the city of Rome, similar scenes were happening.
Statues toppled.
Effigies smashed and burned.
Images of the tyrant defaced.
Madness spread.
A marble hand severed at the wrist, a marble head rolling—cracked against the paved stones as kids played and kicked it.
The once-revered symbols of the Emperor's power now lay crushed.
A brutal testament of the people's rejection of his tyranny.
As night fell, Rome's streets were glowing with fires, illuminating the destruction.
The air resonated with the growing mania of the people and the clanging hammers, as the city purged itself of the mad Emperor's presence.
CLACK CLANK—CLACK!
The sounds of creaking wood and scraping wheels blended into the chaotic atmosphere.
An ox pulled a plaustrum slowly, making its way out of the city.
The tall driver, hooded in a black cape, halted the ox and gazed at the riotous scene unfolding before him.
The man's expression was a blank canvas, utterly devoid of emotion.
His fingers didn't even twitch, betraying no flicker of concern or interest.
The orange glow of the fires illuminated his face—revealing who he was.
It was Lepidus.
He turned away, his gaze falling upon the cart behind him as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
A thick, large cloth covered a shape that unmistakably resembled a body breathing slowly.
Quietly.
Hidden from the chaotic world.
The cloth shifted slightly, as if the person beneath it was trying to seek a more comfortable position.
Lepidus' expression remained inscrutable, yet his gaze lingered on the subtle movement, his face softening with an affectionate glance.
The burning city, the roaring crowd—a hellish scene—all faded into a distant hum for him.
His attention was solely on the mystery and secret the cart held.
Then he sighed, turned, and gave a slight flick to the rein, making the ox move forward.
The creaking of the wood, the scraping of the wheels, and the breathing of the person beneath the cloth became the only sounds he cared about.
He continued to drive, leaving the mayhem behind, hastening the plaustrum.
CLACK—CLANK—CLACK!
**
INDEX:
Forum or Roman Forum—an open public space, or a big plaza
plaustrum—a wooden heavy cart