Sometime around November. The day Sejanus' letter arrived at Capri Island 28 AD
A whistle.
Two tone.
Caligula's been trying to learn it ever since he first heard it five years ago.
But he never managed to do it.
Not with his mouth. No.
Instead, it echoes inside his head.
The tune stays, curled up in the back of his brain like something half-alive.
It's the only thing keeping his sanity.
He tries to hum it, but the sound won't come.
His throat is dry.
He wishes there was something to drink.
But there was none.
'Water—anything—!!'
Even if it contains something that drives men past reason!
.....
The sun had long since vanished, and the sea had gone black.
Capri held its breath.
But Caligula didn't know.
He can't tell.
Because there is no window.
He sat on the cold stone floor, bare legs drawn up to his chest.
His tunic was ripped and bunched at his waist, leaving his back and chest exposed, streaked with old bruises and new.
The oil lamp flickered weakly against the far wall.
Just a flicker of white in a small room made of black.
Blood trickled at the corner of his mouth.
He didn't wipe it away.
'Why bother?'
His cheek throbbed.
'It will bleed again anyway...'
His back burned.
But it was the silence that hurt more—the silence after the questions stopped.
He tried to recall the two-tone whistle again, but he couldn't anymore.
Not today.
The memory of the tune had blurred with pain and everything else.
So he swallowed the silence.
And stayed quiet.
He had learned not to speak.
Not even a groan.
Sounds and pleading invited correction.
And correction led to more suffering.
The chamber reeked—herbs, wine, sweat, and the sharp metallic tang of fear.
A scent he knew too well by now.
The emperor had gone still.
He stood a few feet away, breathing heavily.
His robe was half-loose, his sandals forgotten, and in his hand—the same hand that had struck him—a whip, suspended midair.
Trembling.
As if it didn't know what to do next.
Caligula didn't look at his face.
He never did.
He looked at the gray wall.
The white lamp.
The black floor.
Never the face.
That was lesson one.
The emperor hated being seen.
Not that Caligula could see his face anyway.
Faces were a smear of shadow—blurred and colorless, unknowable.
But he had learned to fake it—by watching the body's gestures, the way they walked, the cut of their clothes, the shape of their aura.
To nod at the right time.
To answer to the right name.
No one knew.
It was his secret, not for sharing.
He closed his eyes at that one memory trying to rise.
He counted his breath instead and tried to bury it.
He didn't want to think about it. Not right now.
Once the intruding memory was gone, he opened his eyes and looked around.
He didn't know how long he'd been inside here.
He felt suffocated.
There was no way to tell the time.
There was only the unchanging darkness.
Only questions. And the whip.
"Are you your father's son?"
WHIP
'It's starting again…'
"Do you harbor any thoughts on the throne?"
WHIP
'Another one.'
"Would you betray me, too?"
WHIP
A pause.
"Do you think I don't see it in your face?"
WHIP
Caligula was slowly releasing his breath.
Gritted his teeth.
KRIK
He had stopped answering with his mouth.
Now he answered only inside his head.
Hoping it wouldn't get any worse.
The first time this happened, he cried.
Called Agrippina's name.
Even silently called for the boy he so desperately wishes to see.
That made it worse.
So he stopped that as well.
He trained himself to be quiet. To stay still. To seem normal.
Just like how he trained himself to walk straight, look at the blurry faces, talk softly, smile sometimes.
Still like a calm cup of water.
But empty.
A thing.
Not a boy.
Not a threat.
Not anything at all.
He was nothing.
There were days the emperor ignored him completely, letting him drift through the villa's endless gardens... sometimes even summoned to parties to socialize.
But tonight was not one of those days.
Something was wrong.
The pattern was broken.
Tiberius had stopped mid-sentence.
Caligula had ended up flat on his stomach, cheek pressed sideways to the stone, body aching in every joint.
He wasn't sure when he'd slipped from sitting to this.
He only remembered the last blow.
Now the emperor's breathing had changed.
The emperor's hand was now down by his side, the whip still in it.
While the emperor's other hand is gripping his hair.
'Take the whip off your hand… please!' Caligula begged inside his head
The emperor's gaze wasn't on him anymore.
Caligula could feel it—the shift in the emperor's aura.
It was like an intuition.
Something that replaced his ability to see faces clearly.
The emperor's mind had drifted.
It feels detached.
As though the emperor's mind had left the room.
A memory? A ghost?
Caligula couldn't tell. He couldn't see the expressions on the emperor's face.
He just felt the shift.
Then—something else.
A presence behind the door.
A change in the air. Cool. Sharp.
Then—a sound.
The smallest creak of wood.
A sliver of night slid into the room, cold against his bruised skin.
Caligula's heart jumped. Then stilled.
He didn't dare look toward the door.
He couldn't turn his head. His cheek was pressed hard to the stone.
So he darted his eyes sideways—away from the door.
He didn't know what he feared more:
That someone had come to join Tiberius… again.
Or that no one would stop the emperor when it's only the two of them.
Then—a movement. Quiet. Careful.
Caligula's vision blurred—pain, exhaustion, or just the sudden intake of breath he hadn't let himself have for hours.
He blinked.
The stone floor burned cold against his cheek.
His lip stung where his teeth had broken through the skin.
Making his eyes wander to the intruder.
In the dark space near the doorway, a silhouette lingered.
He squinted his eyes.
A shape he knew.
Always a few paces behind. Always silent.
That build. That stillness. That aura.
That one with the most dangerous aura.
'The guard that escorted me here... was it earlier today, or had it already been yesterday? When the emperor summoned me after receiving those scrolls...'
The one who would sometimes walk behind him to and from this gilded prison.
The one who watched. Followed. Never spoke.
But for some twisted reason, Caligula felt that the guard was warm.
He tried to feel what the guard's aura was now...
But something in the guard's posture... 'had changed?'
He wasn't standing like a soldier anymore.
His presence wasn't just observing.
He was witnessing.
Caligula didn't know what the guard saw when he looked at him—
But he felt it. Sudden. Terrifying.
Now the guard saw him.
In this pathetic state.
Not as a prince.
Not as a danger.
Not as Tiberius's twisted project.
As a boy.
A broken toy.
Caligula wanted to speak. To ask. To beg.
But the words had long since rotted in his throat.
So he just stared—eyes squinting—at the pale sliver of light framing the man's body.
And for the first time in a long time…
He didn't feel alone.
Not safe.
Not saved.
But he sensed a gaze that truly saw him.
Not from his adoptive grandfather, but from a stranger.
He closed his eyes and tried to recall Lepidus' whistle.
***********************
Macro's POV
The sun scorched the limestone cliffs of Capri, turning the sea below to molten sapphire.
Along the villa's terraced edges, where imperial luxury met unrelenting surveillance, the praetorian guards stood watch—silent, still, and ever alert.
Among them was Macro, a man whose calloused grip on the pilum betrayed a history written in blood and sand.
Sweat was rolling down his neck.
Scars lined his knuckles.
A faint reminder of his years spent fighting for breath and coin in Rome's arenas.
He was a former gladiator. Now a Liberti—a freedman.
Born a slave on a sprawling estate outside the city, Macro had clawed his way to freedom with grit and brute endurance.
He'd traded chains for armor, brutality for vigilance.
Being a praetorian guard had offered stability, if not purpose.
He told himself ambition was long dead—a fire smothered by too many years of silence and survival.
But lately, a spark stirred.
Small.
Dangerous.
His current assignment was curious.
He was sometimes posted to the periphery of the youngest son of Germanicus.
A boy of seventeen, soft-spoken and beautiful but ghost like, drifting through the villa as though sleepwalking through life.
Macro's orders, passed discreetly from a centurion loyal to Sejanus, were precise:
Observe. Report. Do not engage.
Macro suspected that Sejanus had his own designs for the young prince.
He'd served under Sejanus long enough to know the snake's true nature.
Sejanus would never bother if 'its' a useless pawn.
But he kept quiet and decided not to put his feet where they did not belong.
So Macro only watched.
Listen.
Obey.
Sometimes, each morning, he stationed himself near the boy's modest quarters.
When Caligula emerged—eyes shadowed, steps uncertain—Macro fell in behind, always at a respectful distance.
Together they walked to a more secluded wing of the villa, where the emperor waited.
The boy would disappear behind a thick wooden door.
It would close with a hollow thud.
And Macro would remain outside, unmoving.
Watching the sun grow brighter and hotter from the slit of the window.
Hours passed like that.
The sea shimmered. The gulls screamed.
And Macro stood, listening to the weight of silence.
Sometimes, faint noises slipped through: the scrape of furniture, muffled voices, once a cry so raw it made Macro flinch.
'Ignore it.'
But his grip would tighten around his weapon.
His feet would shift. But he did not move.
Observe. Report. Do not interfere.
The words were a collar he wore as tightly as any slave brand.
When Caligula emerged—pale, silent, gait uneven—he offered no word, no glance.
The boy often kept his face averted, a gesture Macro interpreted as disdain.
As if he didn't want to see a lowlife like Macro's face.
Macro followed Caligula once more, a silent wraith escorting a broken shadow back to his quarters.
......
Sometimes he would watch the boy stand politely at a feast or in the court, smiling faintly for senators, laughing softly with young heirs and their fathers from the ten great gentes—untouched by the storm waiting behind closed doors.
'So, he knows how to smile?'
Day by day. Months after months. Until it turned to years.
But then, one routine snapped.
After the emperor received a missive from the palatium that day.
The sun set in brilliant defiance, casting the cliffs in crimson and gold.
Macro watched it, silently berating himself.
He wasn't supposed to be on duty today.
But something pulled at him, some invisible force, compelling him to be the one to escort Caligula.
As though he had no choice.
He'd been standing here for what felt like an eternity now.
'Shouldn't he be coming out right now?'
But still, the door had not opened.
The villa quieted.
Torches flared against the night, throwing restless shadows across the marble.
Macro remained at his post, dread blooming in his gut like rot.
Midnight passed.
Then—movement.
Not the door itself, but the soft shimmer of moonlight pooling beneath it coming from the window in front of Macro.
A silence pressed from within. Not peaceful. Not empty. Wrong.
For the first time, Macro disobeyed.
Not rashly. Not loudly.
But because something deeper than orders—more than obedience—rose up inside him.
He stepped forward. Pressed his ear to the wood.
Nothing.
He pushed the door open just enough to see.
Inside, lit by a single, flickering oil lamp, Tiberius stood over the collapsed figure of the boy.
A whip on one hand.
The other was clutching his graying hair.
The emperor's back was on to Macro.
Caligula lay on his stomach on the cold stone floor.
The fabric of his tunic was torn and pulled down around his middle, baring his bruised back and chest to the cold stone.
Lip bleeding, head awkward, cheeks pressed on the cold floor, his eyes restless.
The emperor's hand with the whip was trembling, as if it was ready for another blow.
He didn't know what the emperor's face looked like but it felt twisted, raw and furious.
The air stank of sweat, silence, and a violence that had already happened.
Macro couldn't breathe.
He had sense things before but tonight is the confirmation.
The bad energy he had been sensing for so long.
The one he ignored for years.
It wasn't just the boy's broken form that stopped him—it was the recognition.
The sick familiarity.
The memory of a boot across his ribs, a whip across his spine, an audience cheering for blood.
And now this.
This quiet horror behind closed doors.
Now he understand.
The young son of Germanicus, brutalized like any slave.
Like Macro. Like any of the other gladiator slaves. Like his already dead brother.
He closed his eyes and tried to forget the memories of his brother that burned in his eyes.
The guard Macro had once been—the man who obeyed, endured, survived—died in that moment.
What rose in his place was something else.
He opened his eyes.
There is a fire within.
Antiquated. Sharper. Bound not by orders but by the ghost of pain.
He stepped back into the shadows.
Slowly closing the door. Quietly.
A new resolve coiled within him—not loyalty. Not ambition.
Something more dangerous.
Recognition.
Not as a soldier.
Not as a gladiator.
Not as a slave.
But as a survivor.
And maybe—one day—
His head turning back to where he came from.
The first seed of a bond—between a broken guard and a shattered prince—was planted in the blood-slick silence of that Capri night.
***********************
INDEX:
Pilum- a javelin