Volcanalia.
The summer's fire festival. Scorching. Blazingly hot.
The streets of Rome pulsed with life, feverish under the August sun.
Some threw live fish and other small livestock onto the flames—offerings to Vulcan, god of fire and forge.
Others hung damp tunics under the blistering sky, hoping they'd dry before the midday haze set in.
Vendors barked over one another, shoving trays of glistening olives and bruised figs toward anyone who passed.
Somewhere, a trumpet split the air.
A signal.
The final munera was about to begin.
The last spectacle of the Volcanalia.
They were calling the people now—to gather at the Circus Maximus, where blades would flash, and blood would spill in rhythm with the crowd's roar.
Those already on the way broke into a run.
Even from the subura, where Marcus's insula and the merchants' thermopolia stood, the roar of anticipation reached the rooftops.
Such was the pull of the munera.
Rome's favorite escape.
A theater of violence, designed to pacify. Distract.
Keep the people from thinking too much. From wanting too much.
Controlled.
But they didn't know that, of course...
And so... they went.
They walked.
And they will watch.
Like a good citizen.
Lepidus walked beside Marcus and Lucius, carrying crates lined with cloth.
They were heavy with the scent of fried chickpeas, honey-glazed nuts, and warm flatbread, stuffed with goat cheese.
Lucius's mouth watered.
Then came the rumble of his stomach.
The food had come from the merchants of the thermopolia stall, who'd paid three rotten apples just to have it sold.
Marcus shot Lucius a look of disapproval.
Lucius responded with an idiotic face, as if to say, "What? I didn't do anything!"
After a while, the three boys kept glancing sideways, scanning for a potential buyer.
They wanted to offload the food before the munera began—hoping to watch in peace, unburdened.
Lepidus bit his lip. His red tunic clung too tightly to the welts blooming beneath it.
A tattered cape hung over his shoulders. It did little to shield him from the sun.
If anything, it added to his discomfort—sweat glued the fabric to his skin.
He slowed, the crate still in his arms.
A hand print still ghosted on his cheek. His ribs ached with every breath.
But all of that vanished the moment he saw him.
'Caligula.'
The name flowed sweetly on his tongue. 'The name tasted sweet.'
As fast as he thought it, he faltered even faster.
The thought rooted him in place.
His friends halted too, nearly crashing into a plebeian ahead of them—causing a small commotion.
But Lepidus's attention?
Fixed on the boy standing just off the side of the road, near a shrine that led toward the Circus Maximus.
Caligula's back was on him. But he knew. Lepidus recognized that stance instantly.
He stood in the shade of a crumbling column, surrounded by three other boys—maybe his age, Lepidus guessed.
He had been secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of Caligula at the munera today.
Just a glimpse would do. He wouldn't dare approach—not looking like this.
Pathetic, honestly.
What he hadn't anticipated was the wave of emotion that crashed into him.
One of the boys stood a little too close to Caligula's side. Lepidus clenched his fist.
The boy wore a green toga, with black hair and sharp silver eyes—his height nearly matching Caligula's.
Caligula, in contrast, wore a white tunic, black leather sandals and a cream-colored cape, its hood resting low on his shoulders.
His golden-blond hair caught the sun and seemed to glow.
Ethereal. Almost otherworldly.
A goddess. No—a god.
Then the silver-eyed boy suddenly reached out, covering one of the others' mouths mid-sentence.
Lepidus caught a flash of something in him—tight, alert, worried—as he glanced at Caligula's face.
But Caligula wasn't reacting. Not really.
His shoulders were stiff, his back still to Lepidus.
Lepidus imagined what Caligula's eyes must look like now.
Empty. Staring somewhere distant. Unfocused. Not at the boy in front of him.
He blinked too often, lips barely parted.
And then Lepidus remembered—
'Oh. That was before, when his eyes were vacant. But that day in the forum... they were different—full of light, emotion. Still unfocused when he stares at me but... I wonder... What do his eyes look like now?'
Lepidus unclenched his fist. Then clenched it again. Tighter than before.
Then he saw it—Caligula's body trembled, just slightly.
No one noticed.
But Lepidus did. He had watched him enough to know every detail. Every mannerism—and every absence of one.
Caligula's hand, curled behind his back, gave a subtle twitch.
Lepidus stood frozen, as if the world around him had stopped.
"Hey," Marcus said, nudging him. "Are you spacing out already? We haven't even started selling yet."
But Lepidus didn't respond. His gaze stayed fixed.
Lucius poked Marcus and pointed toward Caligula.
Understanding dawned on Marcus.
"Ah," he said quietly, as if it explained everything.
Well, if nothing else… Aside from the drawings, his friends knew Lepidus had watched the boy from afar—at festivals, processions, even lingering outside Antonia's villa urbana just to catch a glimpse of him.
They were even with Lepidus sometimes, just hanging out by the tree, watching him watch Caligula.
"Do you know who's beside him?" Lepidus asked, his eyes not leaving the boy.
Marcus paused, thinking. 'Who?' He scanned the other boys' faces.
After a heartbeat...
He realized who Lepidus meant. Black hair, sharp silver eyes. 'Ahh! You are standing too close, lad!'
"I think that's Asprenas. Nonius Asprenas. Their families were close...before?" He paused again, observing. "...So they're still close."
"The other two lads in front of them are from the gentes families," Lucius added.
Lepidus didn't answer. His heart started to thump loud.
Marcus and Lucius exchanged a glance.
'He's obsessed and doesn't even realize it,' Marcus thought. 'But that makes it fun.' He grinned. 'I can only hope you won't get hurt. I'm rooting for you in the future, but not right now...'
'You're both still too young..'. Then he slapped Lucius on the back of the head, earning a scowl and a slap in return.
They started horsing around. The crates of food were forgotten on the ground.
Lepidus didn't know what his friends were thinking. His attention stayed rooted on Caligula.
Then he sighed. Just two days ago, he'd managed to speak actual words to him.
Had he not stumbled by accident… 'I wouldn't have had the courage', he thought. 'It's not like I have any. It's just… the way Caligula sat that day. The look in his eyes...'
It felt both momentous and fragile.
And then—the invitation. Five more days.
That thought had kept him up all night.
Even the next day, he had wanted to stand outside Caligula's villa urbana.
But Lepidus was acutely aware of his pitiful appearance. So he was hesitant.
Just a bit.
He'd even thought of practicing what to say while he waited.
He wanted answers.
But the matronae's slap had grounded him, shattering any delusions of casually "bumping into" Caligula at the villa.
'Like it wouldn't be creepy. Like he'd even believe it was an accident. The next neighbor's miles away...'
He sighed again.
'I don't want him to see me like this... especially now, looking like this.'
And the fact that two days later, the high he felt after speaking to Caligula had faded.
Reality settled in, heavier than before.
What was he supposed to do? Did Caligula really want him there? Or was it a slip—a pity invitation?
Or worse... a joke? After all, he's still a noble... 'Not an ordinary noble, though...'
Or was he expecting something? Did he only want someone to draw him?
His face still throbbed, as if divine intervention had stepped in.
He turned slightly, his eyes still anchored on Caligula, his breath shallow.
Angling himself behind a stall to watch without being seen, his posture rigid.
The crate still in his arms—forgotten, though it was heavy. His hands were still clenched into a fist.
Even something as simple as putting the crate down felt like it might undo everything.
Marcus and Lucius glanced at Lepidus and sighed, as if to say, 'You're still exposed!'
Caligula was speaking now—his body moved, but there was hesitation. A delay, like he was speaking through water.
Asprenas leaned into Caligula, said something. Lepidus' heart started hammering.
Like he wants to throw the crate to Asprenas face.
Then Asprenas slapped his friend's mouth, and practically dragged the group toward the Circus Maximus.
Caligula stayed frozen in place.
Then slowly, his feet followed. Two young slaves trailed behind him.
Lepidus heart slowed down.
Lepidus couldn't hear what had been said.
He didn't need to.
He saw the result—the trembling, the shadow in Caligula's expression.
And the way he stood there, betrayed by his own body.
Lepidus stepped forward, unsure if it was the right time.
Could he say something? Could he help?
But fear held him back.
He was just a boy from a complicated home, hiding bruises under his clothes and emotions in the rolls of his scrolls.
He didn't know what he was to Caligula.
A curiosity? A distraction?
Or maybe, just maybe... someone to toy with. He's a noble.. a noble.
Lepidus bit his lip.
"Go," Marcus said.
Lepidus whipped his head toward him. Met his gaze.
"Just go."
There was something soft in Marcus's voice. Encouragement.
Lucius started to protest as he took the crates from Lepidus. "Hey, who's going to carry the other crates?"
"Ssshhhh!" Marcus hushed him and repeated what he'd said to Lepidus.
"Go."
And that was all the encouragement Lepidus needed. The heavy crate that was now gone felt like a stone that got lifted.
Lepidus's shoulders, which had been hunched in restraint, slowly relaxed as Marcus's words echoed in his mind.
He unclenched his fist. Exhaled a shaky breath.
His legs, stiff and unyielding a moment ago, now took a hesitant step forward. He felt light.
"I'll catch up," he told them.
"Sheesh!" Lucius called. "Don't kill someone! Just break a leg!"
Marcus slapped the back of his head. "Dumbass!"
'That's not even how that works', Lepidus thought, amused despite himself.
And just like that, he felt... a little braver.
He slipped into the crowd, heart pounding, eyes fixed on Caligula's back.
He didn't know what he'd say.
He just knew he couldn't stay in the shadows anymore.
****************************
The Circus Maximus—a chariot arena that had been transformed into a gladiatorial battleground for the Volcanalia—thundered with life.
The air was heavy with the scent of food, sweat, and anticipation.
A grating sound of thousands of voices made the very ground beneath shake.
The vast stadium stretched endlessly in all directions, though only a quarter of it was in use.
Yet, the stands were packed—half-filled with spectators, their excitement palpable.
Vendors shouted above the noise, their voices lost in the overwhelming roar of the crowd.
People moved quickly through the aisles, each finding their designated seats.
The seating arrangements—a clear divide by social class—served as a constant reminder of Rome's rigid hierarchy.
The front-tiered benches were claimed by the Imperial family, patricians, and the gentes. The prime seats. The best view.
In the middle, the equestrians held court. Their faces, ever so subtly, betrayed a practiced air of superiority—though it could never compare to the true nobles' grace and poise.
At the highest points, the plebeians and slaves packed the stands, their cheers echoing in unison, loud and raw with excitement.
The golden sand flew everywhere with every movement of the fighters.
A sturdy murmillo and an agile thracian gladiator clashed with deadly precision.
The ground vibrated beneath them, the shuffle of feet, the clash of distant weapons, and the sporadic roars of the crowd blending into a thunderous symphony.
Above it all, the raised platform—intended for the Emperor—stood empty, a silent reminder of Tiberius's absence. Not that it mattered. No one seemed to care.
Caligula, who had just entered, was already lost at the sight before him.
Every time blood was spilled on the arena, the already deafening crowd doubled its roar.
It was his first time. He had never been to the Circus Maximus before.
He's only ever been to his mother's political processions.. in the public, when there are festivals.
He's always been with his mother, siblings... never alone.
His subconscious, returning after so many years, felt more like a curse than a blessing at this point.
His feet felt heavy, reluctant to move forward, his mind lost in a haze of thought.
His vision, already blurred, took in the colors melding together in a swirl of black and white—a constant reminder of his achromatopsia.
The faces around him were nothing but indistinct shapes, ghostly figures moving in and out of focus.
The subtle shift in their movements gave him no clue who was who, only the faintest impression of form and direction.
As he walked, he stumbled slightly, his feet catching on the uneven stones beneath him, his senses overwhelmed by the noise and motion.
Asprenas and his classmates had gone ahead, his presence now a distant memory, swallowed up by the masses.
He looked around, more lost than he first entered.
Caligula's heart quickened as he tried to locate him. He can't find him. He cursed inside his head.
He turned, eyes searching through the shifting mass of bodies for any sign of his two young slaves—his grandmother's slaves.
But they were gone. Vanished. He was alone.
Now… Now he was lost.
The crowd surged around him like a tide, bodies pressing in from all sides.
He searched frantically, his breath quickening, but all he saw were a jumble of blurry, shadowy shapes.
A momentary silence fell over him—just the absence of Asprenas and the slaves—and it was enough to send a wave of panic surging through his chest.
Even though the noise around him was overwhelming—cheering, shouting, the clanging of weapons—to him it feels like from somewhere distant.
It's there, but there is an echo.
The arena was a frenzy of movement.
Caligula blinked, a pang of unease spiraling through him.
He couldn't breathe.
His chest felt tight, constricted, as though the very air had turned to lead.
He glanced around, his hands trembling at his sides, trying to find anything familiar.
A sharp panic gripped him.
His heart thundered in his chest, and his limbs were frozen, as if the very weight of the crowd was too much for him to carry.
He stumbled again, his breaths ragged, the ground beneath him becoming a blur of chaotic motion.
A wave of nausea rose in his stomach.
He felt himself being pushed, jostled, the crowd moving with an insistent force, and he stumbled again, nearly colliding with someone in front of him.
He could barely register their figure, but the impact sent a shock of panic straight to his chest.
The people here, the ones surrounding him, didn't care about him.
They didn't know him, and didn't notice his presence. He was a ghost in their midst.
His pulse raced. His legs grew weak.
He tried to breathe, but the air felt thick, suffocating.
He couldn't see the exits. He couldn't see anyone who might help him.
He wanted to scream, but no sound escaped his mouth.
The world was spinning, the colors and shapes around him merging into one overwhelming blur.
His cape seemed to be strangling him. It was getting tight.
And then, through the storm of bodies, a hand shot out from the crowd. Firm, strong, a lifeline in the chaos.
The hand gripped his arm tightly, its touch grounding him, pulling him from the dizzying abyss of panic.
Caligula's heart skipped. He blinked rapidly, staring at the hand—small, strong, fingers gripping his arm with an almost desperate force.
A smell of mint.
He recognized it instantly.
The messy hair—the tousled curls that had never once been tamed—was unmistakable, even in his distorted vision.
His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, all the world around him fell silent.
He focused hard, willing his blurry vision to make sense of the shapes.
Lepidus.
He couldn't see his face clearly—only a blur, a patchwork of light and dark. But the presence, the shape of him, was unmistakable.
A deep sigh escaped him, a breath he didn't know he was holding.
He wasn't alone anymore. His pulse slowed, just a little, though his hands still trembled.
Lepidus is here.
For reasons Caligula couldn't explain, a strange warmth spread through him.
He didn't know why the presence of the boy made him feel this way, why his panic had been quelled by something as simple as a hand.
But it did.
His legs still shook, but the hand on his arm anchored him.
Caligula's eyes flickered upward, desperately trying to see the face, but all he could make out was the outline of Lepidus's face, faint in the blur.
"I…" Caligula started, his voice trembling, but the words didn't come. His breath caught again, caught somewhere between fear and relief.
The crowd surged, pushing them both forward, and the noise returned in full force.
The cheering, the shouting, the clash of weapons.
But Caligula didn't care. Not right now.
Lepidus's grip tightened, just slightly. He didn't say a word. He didn't need to. Not yet.
He was no longer alone.
Lepidus was here, in front of him.
And for the first time, he didn't feel like he was drowning..
He felt like he'd been saved.
****************************
INDEX:
Murmillo- a type of gladiator fighter, uses a big shield
Thracian- a type of gladiator fighter, a gladiator who uses speed