The next day...
Macro returned to his usual routine—standing guard outside the prince's cubiculum, stone-faced as ever.
But something had changed in the air.
The door opened.
Macro, who wasn't looking directly at Caligula, was waiting for the soft footfall on the marbled floor.
Seconds passed.
A full minute went by.
No sound.
No movement.
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.
He can swear he even heard it when it hit the marble.
Slowly, Macro moved his eyes and peeked from the corner of his vision.
Caligula was just standing there, his back resting against the frame of the door.
His hands folded on his chest. Crumpling his purple tunic.
His other leg was crossed over the other.
His posture seemed relaxed, but it felt like a bowstring stretched too tight.
One move and it felt like the prince would snap and attack him.
Alert. Like a viper.
The pretty prince didn't exit his room like he used to.
He didn't move at all.
He stood motionless, like a statue.
Staring at Macro.
'Is he measuring me?' Macro wondered. 'This boy?'
Feeling incredulous.
Or maybe through him?
Caligula's blue eyes—like the clear blue sky surrounding Capri, but a bit deeper—were unfocused.
Empty.
Even when they looked straight into Macro's.
Caligula said nothing.
Just stood there.
So Macro said nothing either.
Didn't move.
Didn't even dare breathe.
His eyes wandered across the boy's pretty face.
There was a cut at the corner of his mouth.
A ghost of blood was there. Dried.
Macro winced internally, remembering what he had seen the night before.
It all came crashing back.
His gaze returned to Caligula's eyes that almost made him jump.
'Vae! That scared me!'
Blue, piercing—even though unfocused—those eyes were trained directly on his.
He felt the small goosebumps rise on his arms.
Macro swept one more look over the boy's face, then looked away.
Caligula's face was unreadable. Masked.
And his eyes...
'They look haunted.'
Half an hour passed in silence, before Caligula finally turned and walked away—without a word.
The next day was the same.
And the next.
One week passed.
Each morning, the same ritual: the silent gaze, the wound slowly fading, the mask never cracking.
But his posture was getting more and more relaxed unlike before.
His alertness that he showed before was gone.
It began to gnaw at Macro—not just the silence, but the sense that Caligula wanted something.
That he was waiting for something.
Or trying, wordlessly, to ask for something.
Finally, Macro caved.
"What is it?" he asked one morning, voice low.
His throat feels scratchy.
Caligula looked startled.
Hesitation flickered briefly.
Silence stretched between them.
Then—slowly—Caligula smiled.
Like a flower slowly blooming.
"What's your name?" Caligula asked quietly.
It caught Macro off guard.
His voice was like music to his ears.
Observe. Report. Do not interfere!
Macro gulped.
He hesitated.
Observe. Report. Do not interfere!
"...Macro."
He felt something connect between them.
He couldn't explain it.
It's like a fire that suddenly finds a crisp and old twigs to burn.
But that was all.
Suddenly the feeling was gone.
The boy stared some more, but said nothing before walking away.
Days passed.
Then, one night, just as Macro was about to leave his post, the door creaked open.
"Macro."
His name—spoken softly—like a spell.
Caligula's voice was quiet, almost tender.
"Can you help me clean my wounds?" he said.
A beat.
"On my back."
Macro froze.
Something wasn't right.
But he still stepped inside the cubiculum.
Leaving his pilum leaning against the wall.
Macro's eyes wander inside the room.
'Looks bare. Not fitting for someone of his status and his appearance.'
He felt Caligula move in front of him, halting his inspection.
Caligula's hand was already extending the damp cloth toward him.
It was visibly shaking.
'?'
When he looked up, he saw it—something fragile.
Something frayed. In his eyes.
Careful not to touch the boy's skin, he reached out and took the cloth.
Caligula turned away, began to untie his tunic, baring his slender, fair back.
As Macro pressed the wet cloth against his skin, he felt it: fever-warm.
Too warm.
The boy trembled under his touch.
And then—without a word—Caligula collapsed forward.
Macro's reflexes saved him from hitting the floor.
"Dominus iuvenis!"
***************************
Caligula was dreaming.
A meadow.
Black and white.
A silent world.
Colorless.
But not empty.
Someone was always there—a boy sitting in the grass, sketching.
The only splash of color.
He didn't need to know the boy's name.
He never had to.
He already knew it in his heart.
Although he was afraid to say it out loud.
He was content with his presence.
In every dream, the boy was there, cross-legged, focused, drawing with quick, sure strokes.
Sometimes smiling shyly.
As if embarrassed.
His sun kissed skin was turning red.
His long black hair danced in the soft breeze.
His green eyes... clear.
The only color and face Caligula could see.
But lately, something has changed.
The boy was fading.
Not all at once—slowly, like smoke thinning in the wind.
His outline started to dim...
His color started to get diluted with black and white.
His form flickered.
And when Caligula looked at him now, he could almost see right through him.
The boy no longer looked at him..
No longer smiled.
Just kept sketching, head bowed.
As if he didn't hear Caligula anymore.
As if he was already... gone.
A ghost...
In that black-and-white world, Caligula felt something he couldn't name.
Not fear.
Not sadness.
Something worse.
Emptiness.
A familiar feeling.
Like waking with your hands open and finding nothing left inside.
Like grasping on the sand.
***************************
Macro hadn't meant to hold the boy like that.
He would never have dreamed of it!
His duty was to only to observe, report, and not interfere.
Although he felt like that was already broken even when he didn't do anything.
Asking and answering a question shouldn't feel like crime.
But he felt like he had just done a grave sin.
Like Tarpeia—the fallen vestial virgin—who dare greed of gold.
This wasn't duty.
This was something worse.
Or better.
He didn't know.
It was instinct—catching him before he fell, easing him onto the bed with a soldier's practiced hands.
'He weighs like a feather.'
And he was soft.
Delicate.
Caligula's body burned with fever, and Macro grimaced as he wrung out a cloth from the basin.
'This wasn't part of my job!'
He wiped Caligula's face.
'Standing guard, yes.'
Caligula's face has frowned.
'Weapons at my side, yes.'
Macro sighed.
'Playing nursemaid to a half-dead prince?'
No one had prepared him for that.
Still, he stayed.
"Hm.." the boy was making sounds in his sleep.
Macro started to feel frustrated with himself.
"Ssshhh.. It's alright, it's alright, let me wipe your face... ssshhh.." he cooed.
Maybe it was the way Caligula, even in sleep, turned toward the sound of his voice.
Maybe it was the way his fingers twitched, reaching for something unseen.
Maybe it was the simple, brutal truth: Macro had seen too many boys die young.
Not this one.
Not yet.
He pressed the cloth again but carefully this time against the fevered skin, wiping the flushed face.
The boy didn't stir.
"Lepidus..."
Caligula's mouth moved, whispering something too faint to catch.
Macro sighed through his nose.
"You'll owe me for this, boy," he muttered.
Not that he expected thanks.
Not here.
Not in this life.
He stared in wonder.
***************************
A few days later...
Two scrolls arrived at Capri that morning.
They were placed neatly on a golden platter, offered by Tiberius' librarius—bowing low, too low, in a cloying display of submission.
The first scroll bore the seal of the palatium, penned by Sejanus—Tiberius's most trusted man.
Tiberius broke the wax with slow, deliberate fingers.
As he read, his brows furrowed deeper, his face hardening into stone.
It was more news about the revolt—the Frisii uprising—spilling across the page.
It said Sejanus had mobilized the entire praetorian guards and marched north.
The emperor's mood soured at once, casting a chill over the cloistered court.
Murmurs died.
The easy laughter vanished.
Tiberius handed the scroll to a waiting scriba with a lazy flick of his wrist.
No new orders.
No urgent commands.
Nothing.
Sunk deep into his private world of suspicion and shadows, he muttered something about "the province's insignificance" and waved it away.
The scriba read the contents aloud, his voice dry and heavy, like ash drifting to the marble floor.
Watching the emperor's indifference, the courtiers adjusted swiftly, speaking of the revolt as if it were a trivial nuisance.
At the far end of the room, Caligula sat, having been summoned earlier than usual.
Sometimes, when visitors came to the villa, his grim little schedule was broken.
He perched quietly, pretending to smile, pretending to listen to some young gentes heir prattle about noble bloodlines while holding a silver goblet of wine.
Caligula barely hid his internal eye-roll at the heir's pompousness.
Then, out of the corner of his eye—
Light snagged on some metal, sending a quick flash.
Catching Caligula's attention.
'It's Macro.'
Standing guard on the entrance of the court, with his comrades.
The light came from his shiny pilum.
'Macro.' He tested the name on his tongue.
'Macro.. Macro..'
Something about him... that guard..
'He moved like a predator.'
Yet—even though his aura feels dangerous—there was a strange warmth to him.
The contradiction was interesting.
'I should thank him for nursing me when I was sick...'
But when he woke up from the fever the next morning, Macro had already gone back to watching and following him—distant again.
That day was especially hard for Caligula.
He didn't know what possessed him to ask for Macro's help.
'Maybe I've been alone too long. Long enough to start forgetting Lepidus's face...'
It's been so long.
And the moments he had spent with Lepidus have been too brief.
Like a midsummer dream.
His first friend.
The one who promised to protect him.
Caligula can't help but to smile bitterly as Lepidus' face slowly fades away from his memory.
'Lingering on it will do me no good.'
He'll only feel more lonely.. more empty.
His eyes flashed.
'I should keep my eye on Macro. He may be useful to me in the future...'
Then a dangerous thought lingered at the edge of his mind.
He didn't acknowledge it. Not yet.
'Even if I succeeded... where would I go?'
His mother wouldn't welcome him.
He's sure of it.
He remembered how she sent her that day to the palatium five years ago.
Even though his stomach was hurting, vomiting.
His mother just stood there and did nothing—as the praetorian guards took him away.
He didn't have to see her face to know...
But some day... some way...
He thought of Lepidus again.
'I wonder what he's doing right now...'
He clenched his hands holding the goblet.
He swirled the wine.
'Does he still remember me?'
He stared at the black liquid.
Then he felt the atmosphere shift again after the scriba finished reading the message on the scroll.
The silence is palpable.
And Tiberius's mood seems to have darkened, based on the courtier's atmosphere.
Caligula swallowed hard.
He knew what would come later—when the guests drifted away, and the doors closed, and the sun dipped behind the cliffs of Capri.
He flinched when the emperor's hands moved again—but this time to the second scroll.
Caligula watched those hands closely.
Silent. Small. Cold.
Then Tiberius broke the seal.
Read it. Paused.
Unlike the first scroll, he didn't pass it to the scriba.
Instead he tightened his fingers around the parchment until it crumpled.
Then, without a word, he walked to the nearest brazier and shoved the scroll into the flames.
The parchment hissed, blackened, and curled like a dying spider
The smell—burning papyrus, wine and sweat—filled the heavy air.
Whatever it said, Tiberius would be the only one to know.
The courtiers began buzzing with false conversation.
But Caligula's gaze stayed locked on the dying embers and the emperor's clenched jaw.
"What do you think was in the second scroll?" a senator whispered to another.
Speculation.
"It's wise to let fires burn out, especially in distant provinces..."
"Hmm."
The gentes heir babbled on, changing the topics to the burning scroll, barely caring if Caligula listened.
"The emperor was wise not to send reinforcements. It's not worth the cost anyway!"
Murmurs of agreement.
"Yes, yes... the emperor's wisdom is evident—but might it embolden other tribes?"
Another senator coughed nervously, his eyes darting.
Signalling to the young heir to stop saying such things.
Then a courtier tried to flatter Tiberius, extolling Sejanus's foresight—but his voice cracked under the emperor's already icy glare.
The room trembled under the weight of what remained unspoken.
***************************
INDEX:
Tarpeia- (The Treachery of Tarpeia)- a foundational Roman myth
librarius- (Secretaries/Copyists/BookKeepers)- frequently slaves or freedmen,
scriba- (Public Clerks/Notaries)- they held a recognized place within the state administration