Lucius was out of breath.
It was vigilia tertia.
Third watch.
Late enough for the bakers, early enough for secrets.
Lucius, a plebeian's son—born to ash and bread—ran without stopping.
He didn't pause to wipe the sweat from his brow.
Didn't slow to catch his breath.
He ran like he was being chased by a pack of wolves.
From Antonia's villa, down the winding alleys of the Palatine.
Through night fog that curled around shuttered stalls and broken lamps—until the scent of ash, fig, and fresh dough told him he was close.
His father's thermopolium was still open.
Always was—especially after dark, when the real customers came.
He ducked under the worn awning of the bakery—or the front of it, anyway—and pushed through the wooden door.
Inside, the warmth of the ovens wrapped around him.
Bread. Honey. Smoke. Burnt flour.
Comforting. Safe, in theory.
But his legs still shook. He stumbled.
His tunic was wet, sticky. Not from rain—it was summer.
It was his own sweat.
His father—Publius, the baker—stood behind the counter, shaping loaves with the ease of muscle memory.
Publius didn't look up. He was used to his son's antics.
But his hands moved faster. Heavier.
There were two men by the wall.
One had a scar that split his face like a second mouth.
The other wore sandals too clean for this neighborhood.
They didn't eat. Didn't speak.
They were just there.
Lucius grabbed the water jug behind the counter and drank deep, as though the silence itself had dried out his throat.
His hands trembled slightly. Droplets splashed on the floor.
Finally, his father spoke. Low. Still not looking.
"You're a little late."
Lucius wiped his mouth, still gasping. Gulped again, then—
"The little hyena went to sleep," he rasped.
The baker's hands froze mid-fold.
The dough slumped, forgotten.
Still not looking, very softly..
"The little hyena?" the baker asked. "You mean... Tiberius' son?", unable to hide his shock.
Lucius nodded once.
"Sleeping."
A beat. His breath catching.
Then Lucius added, "With the red froth."
The baker exhaled slowly. Wiped his hands with a cloth and turned toward the back.
"Alea."
A young girl—barely a teen—peeked out from behind a flour sack.
"Take the red wax to Marcus's mother," he pointed at the drawer near a small door.
"Now."
She nodded, threw on her small cloak. Her movements were quick and precise as she took something out of the drawer.
Then she vanished out the side door.
Lucius leaned against the counter, dizzy with adrenaline and smoke.
"You think the snake—Sejanus—is acting alone? Or has the old hyena, Tiberius, finally turned on him? I mean, we all knew... if it's poison, it's always those two."
A shadow passed over Publius' face. "A falling out?" he said quietly. "Since the target was the little hyena? The old hyena's own blood?"
Then after a while, his father said, "It's possible."
Lucius let the words hang, then asked, softer, "After all this time...? After what they did to the sun. Germanicus?"
He paused. Then, half to himself:
"Same as that rat Piso. They all fell asleep. With the same red froth."
Still trying to steady his breathing.
"Why only now?" Lucius muttered.
His father didn't answer.
"Rome would have gained more if it happened sooner. The sun's already dead. The hope of Rome!"
Lucius's voice cracked with frustration.
He looked down at his hands. Jaw clenched.
"Now Rome is dark... because of these predators. Slaves are still slaves. Liberti are still not truly free. And us plebeians? They still think we dance to their tune."
"They think we didn't know! They treat us like fools!"
Before the baker could speak, the door creaked open.
Marcus entered, cloaked, hood low.
His eyes flicked first to Lucius, then the scarred men, then the baker—like checking a sequence.
He didn't waste time. "What happened?"
Lucius exhaled. Calmer now. Started with code.
"The little hyena slept in the old owl's nest," he said.
"While the female hyena, Livia, watched. And I saw the spider, Plancina, crawl into the old owl's nest. But I don't know what the spider did inside."
Marcus stayed quiet, cloak wrapped tight. "Old owl's nest…" he repeated, eyes lingering on Lucius. "Antonia's nest.."
"What an eventful feast," he murmured.
Then, softer—more real, "And our friend?"
Lucius hesitated. "Is it part of the report? I was only there to keep watch..."
He scratched his head.
'He's only there so that Lepidus has someone with him just in case things get awry with the boy he's obsessing over.'
And in the end it really did get awry but not in the way anyone suspected, he wasn't even on a mission, unlike Marcus.
The baker gave a small nod. Permission.
"He was with the boy," Lucius said, rolling his eyes. "Caligula dulcis."
Marcus's jaw tightened. "And?"
"They went up the hill behind the nest. Acted like I wasn't even there," Lucius said, picking up another jug.
Drank. Continued.
"...like I didn't exist."
He wiped his mouth.
"Our friend even had the gall to show irritation to the great Lucius." His tone was light. Amused, even. Trying not to look bitter.
Despite everything, Marcus smiled.
"So he had a good time, huh. His deepest wish granted."
The baker made a sound—not quite a scoff.
"Foolish," he muttered. "They're from different worlds, those two."
Lucius nodded. "Well, what can we do? It's what he wants."
One of the scarred men stood, walked to the door, checked the street, and locked it.
The baker stepped out from behind the counter. Put down the cloth. His voice shifted.
No longer the baker.
The soldier returned.
"If Drusus is dead," he said, "...then the line is broken."
Marcus nodded. "Tiberius will see ghosts behind every curtain. And the snake—Sejanus—will make his move. He won't wait."
Lucius asked, "And the hungry wolf?"
A pause.
Marcus looked at him. Then down at the oven's glow.
Arminius. The wolf.
"Gone like the wind."
The baker nodded. "And the moon—Agrippina?"
"She might make a move soon..." Lucius said.
"Tiberius has no choice now. The next emperor would be Nero Caesar."
A rustle interrupted them. They went still.
Then, "Meow... meow."
An orange kitten appeared.
Marcus slowly exhaled. "I think he's spineless..." he muttered, continuing.
"Then Germanicus's Drusus?" Lucius asked, hesitant. "Or Caligula?"
Silence.
As if they were weighing the boy's name.
Marcus shook his head. "No."
He looked away.
At the kitten, now stretching beside the warm oven.
"Caligula and our friend's worlds will only grow further apart."
"Meow..."
Then silence. Each of them lost in their own thoughts.
After a while, Publius said to Marcus, "Go to your mother. Tell her the jackals tasted blood tonight. We need to be ready for the storm that's coming."
A crack from the oven echoed softly. Flour drifted in the stillness.
Marcus nodded and turned to leave.
Then paused, one hand on the door frame.
"I hope Rome doesn't burn again."
He didn't look back when he said it.
**************************
Still vigilia tertia.
The shutters were drawn tight against the moonlight.
The coals in the brazier pulsed faintly—a low, sullen red.
Plancina sat in silence on a cushioned triclinium, unwinding the gold clasp from her wrist with slow, deliberate fingers.
She moved like a woman in a ritual—precise, controlled, unhurried.
She wasn't smiling.
Not the way she smiled at Empress Livia earlier.
Not quite.
But there was a curve to her mouth.
Not joy. Something quieter. Deeper. A kind of earned satisfaction.
'Not bad,' she thought.
Not bad for a woman who once had to crawl her way into Livia's circle—nodding at the right time, flattering the right wrinkle.
Who lingered in the corridors of the palatium, just close enough to be seen.
Just harmless enough to be forgotten.
Her fingers brushed a smear of rouge from the corner of her mouth.
She had dressed well tonight—measured, not too grand.
Elegant in that modest, Roman-matron sort of way Livia would favor.
Something that will echo the old empress's imperial purple... without daring to match it.
A shade that deferred to hers.
And yet Agrippina had only looked at her once.
A flick of the eyes. A crease of the brow.
As if she were an insect crawling too close to the imperial family.
Plancina flushed at the memory.
The humiliation. She had poured wine into her brass goblet, steadied her hand.
'No matter.'
She leaned back now, arms loose, wine in hand.
She had left something behind in Agrippina's cubiculum.
Just a vial.
A tucked-away little guest.
Hidden on the far side of the harlot's bed, behind a loose fold of coverlet.
She wasn't stupid.
Now that Drusus the Younger was dead, hell would break loose.
Tiberius would suspect everyone—even the household goose.
That's how these games worked.
And all would race for the throne.
After all, Germanicus's sons were still young—the ones with the most legitimate claim.
But Agrippina would still have the advantage.
So it was up to Plancina to take her and her sons out of the race before it began.
A nudge in the right direction—a hint, a shadow, a glint of glass—could bend even the hardest spine.
She imagined Agrippina's face, wild with protest, red with grief.
Her sons being dragged away for questioning.
Even a wolf, cornered, loses its bite.
Plancina's breath fogged the brass goblet.
She liked the way it looked—soft, blurred, like the world itself was slowly fogging over with her success.
Of course, the plan hadn't gone perfectly.
She needed to tell Sejanus.
He would know what to do.
Sejanus—the boldest of the racers.
Drusus the Younger.
Tiberius's heir.
The next in line to the throne.
'Dead.'
A shame. Too young.
A life snuffed out before it had even fully unfolded.
She could've poisoned him herself, she thought.
And maybe she would have.
But it wasn't necessary.
She had provided the poison—the one Sejanus had asked her to pass along.
She knew it well.
Knew what it could do.
Knew what it would cost.
She stood, letting her robe fall from her shoulders.
Tomorrow would bring chaos.
Accusations.
Maybe arrests.
But tonight, she will sleep.
"I can't wait to see you fall..." she murmured, then hummed to herself.
She didn't know someone had already found the vial.
Didn't know that ghosts were gathering.
Didn't know she had overplayed her hand.
**************************
Vigilia quarta.
The last watch.
That cold, dead hour before dawn.
Tiberius sat slumped in the corner of his inner chamber—a library-like space he used for planning—wine dribbling down the side of his mouth, staining the hem of his fine toga.
The lamp guttered low.
Shadows flared long across the marble floor.
Smoke from the brazier curled like ghosts.
He hadn't summoned anyone for hours.
Not even his praetorian guards dared enter.
Drusus was dead.
'My son.'
He turned the cup slowly in his hand.
The wine was sour.
Or maybe it was just his tongue.
Too dry. Too bitter.
He couldn't tell anymore.
He stared at the embers.
One by one, names surfaced in the glow:
Agrippina.
She might have moved when she heard I was naming my son the heir.
Still bitter about her husband's death.
Sejanus.
Too ambitious. Too clever. Too patient. A snake.
Livia.
Too calm. Always had been. Her fingers in everything—even from the grave.
'One of the Senate? My consuls? The people of Rome?'
'Slaves? Or Rome itself?'
'Maybe it's the gods.'
He took another drink. The goblet was half-empty. Or half-full. What did it matter?
"Who gains?" he whispered.
His own voice startled him. It sounded small.
Not Rome. Not the people. Not me.
The silence pushed in, thick and choking.
He blinked hard, then looked up—eyes glassy, red-rimmed.
For a moment, the marble bust of Augustus across the room seemed to be watching him with disappointment.
Tiberius laughed. Just once. A cracked, broken thing.
"You always knew I wasn't made for this. Didn't you?" he said to the bust.
"That's why you picked Germanicus at first. But you chose me anyway. Your noble last resort."
He stood abruptly, staggering.
The cup hit the floor with a dull thud.
The wine spread slowly across the stone—red, like blood—thicker than wine should be.
Or maybe that was just the light.
He pressed his hands to the edge of the table, grounding himself.
Breathing ragged.
"Drusus would've made a better emperor than me."
He stared at his own reflection in the polished bronze of a platter.
Saw nothing but ruin. "I should have died!"
A sentiment he hadn't voiced aloud in years.
Footsteps echoed somewhere outside the chamber. A servant, perhaps.
He didn't call out.
Didn't want them to see what remained.
Instead, Tiberius closed his eyes.
The ghost of his son hadn't come, but everything else had.
And for the first time since the poison took his son, he let the grief slip through the cracks.
Quiet, undignified.
A tremor in the hand. A tear that didn't reach the floor.
No empire. No legions.
No Senate decree could change this.
He was alone.
He was defeated.
**************************
INDEX:
Vigila tertia- roughly from midnight to 3 AM.
thermopolium- food establishment (singular)
Caligula dulcis- sweet Caligula (term of endearment).
triclinium- dining couch
Vigilia quarta- roughly from 3 AM to sunrise (dawn)
**************************
CODES:
little hyena- Drusus the Younger
snake- Sejanus
old hyena- Tiberius
rat- Piso
female hyena- Livia
old owl- Antonia
nest- estate/villa/house
spider- Plancina
sun- Germanicus
moon- Agrippina
hungry wolf- Arminius
red froth- poison
sleep/sleeping- dead
jackals- the predators/ senate/ consul/ gentes/ nobles
our friend- Lepidus
orange kitten- me. the author. meow.