Agrippina rose before the sun.
As if she hadn't cried.
As if she hadn't hurled a vase at the wall last night—because of Antonia's words.
Her pride had been scratched.
All night she lay motionless, waiting for sleep that never arrived.
But no one could tell. No trace remained.
A bath.
A female slave braided her hair in silence.
The scent of something floral folded into her dress.
Rituals. Armor.
Outside, Rome stirred with a hangover.
But not her.
She stood before the mirror—her speculum—and stared herself down without blinking.
The reflection was thinner than she remembered.
Older. Sharper.
Gone was the old Agrippina.
Something had burned away in her this past year.
Or maybe it had only just become visible.
Drusus the Younger was dead.
And Tiberius had not come.
Her mouth twitched.
'You hide in your palatium while your son dies choking on roses. Just as you hid when you had my husband murdered.'
She pressed a pearl pin into her black stola, twisting it with the precision of a blade.
The morning light spilled across the Palatine skyline—red roofs, marble domes, temples in silhouette.
From her window, the palatium loomed like a lion at rest.
Waiting.
But she would not wait.
She turned to the slave girl, her voice low but calm.
"Have the litter prepared. I'm going to the Senate House."
She wanted the chariot.
But if she wanted to make a statement, it had to be the litter.
To show confidence. To show status.
The girl bowed and left her cubiculum.
Agrippina crossed the room and stood at the window.
The breeze stirred her pale blond hair, free from its braid.
There were no heirs now.
Not officially.
Tiberius's son—gone.
His grandson, Gemellus—too young.
Germanicus—murdered. Her eyes sharpened.
Nero Caesar—her firstborn—was often dismissed.
But now?
Now there was space.
She would fill it.
Before dawn, after Caligula came home with a slave in tow, she had sent letters—by fast messengers—to key senators.
Men who remembered her husband.
Men loyal to her father.
Men who hated Tiberius more than they feared him.
She knew them.
Knew how to bend their ambition to her cause.
She would not plead.
She would declare.
And when she stepped into the senate house—the Curia Julia—and palatium later that day, veiled in mourning but with eyes like fire—
She would not speak as a widow.
Not as a mother.
But as power.
"My beloved," she whispered, imagining Germanicus' smiling face, "we're almost there."
She smiled then too—just slightly.
But sharp. Calculated.
Ready.
Then—a knock.
No. Not a knock.
A pounding.
Urgent. Sharp.
Agrippina turned from the window.
The morning light caught her hair, making it shine like bleached bone.
Her heart fluttered once—then settled.
Colder. Slower.
The door creaked open before she could speak.
A blatant disregard for her privacy and status.
Her brow lifted.
Two praetorian guards stepped in, armor gleaming, sweat clinging to their skin, their presence filling the doorway.
The air behind them felt heavy with the unseen presence of more men.
One of the guards held something—someone—by the arm.
A young woman.
Disheveled. Bruised.
Still beautiful beneath the grime.
But her eyes—
They glittered.
Defiance. Or madness.
'The slave from last night…'
Behind them in the doorway stood Antonia, her presence radiating authority.
Although her face looked shocked—her eyes wide.
Hands in her mouth, hiding them.
'Oh,' Agrippina thought. 'What a performer you are.'
The memory of last night's confrontation flared behind her eyes.
"Matrona Agrippina," the lead guard said, voice taut, formal.
"You are summoned for questioning. The Emperor has heard of your involvement."
She blinked once.
"Involvement?"
The slave was shoved forward.
She collapsed to her knees, breath ragged, lips trembling.
Still—she raised her hand.
Pointed.
"She told me to do it. Just like she did with the governor of Syria!" the girl spat.
Her voice rose, gaining strength.
"S-she gave me a v-vial. S-said to wait f-for Antonia's toast—once the slaves g-gave away the wine and bread to the g-guests, I-I was to make s-sure to attend to the e-emperor's son. Make sure he d-drinks it. H-hidden. Unseen. I-I obeyed! She swore she would—"
Her voice broke into a cough.
The room seemed to tilt.
Antonia stepped forward, staring at Agrippina as if for the first time.
Her act in place.
"You would poison the emperor's son?" she said quietly. "Your husband's brother-in-law?"
Agrippina didn't move.
Her mind races.
She was being framed.
'That whore was a pawn,' she's sure of it.
But whose?
Tiberius? Piso's wife? The empress? Antonia herself?
She paused.
'Who among you?'
Agrippina had considered it—yes.
Planned and imagined how it would go.
And yes—she had prepared.
But someone had struck first.
Still—she betrayed nothing.
She lifted her chin. Her eyes were iron.
"You'd take the word of a slave over mine?" she asked, her voice calm as marble.
The accusing guard hesitated.
Sweat rolled down his temple.
"We will search the room," the guard said instead.
"Search," Agrippina said coolly, gesturing with a sweep of her hand.
"If you find poison, it isn't mine. Someone planted it. Perhaps even you," her voice dropped, all steel beneath silk.
"Tell me—who do you serve?"
Everyone held their breath.
Antonia's face was now unreadable.
Watching how well her daughter-in-law would play this one out.
Her fingers twitched at her side.
The guards moved—slow, methodical.
They searched the shelves, the chests, the silks, the bedding.
The incense burners.
Nothing.
The lead guard looked from Antonia to Agrippina.
Agrippina smiled. Slowly. Not warmly.
"Curious," she murmured. "How quickly you searched. How little you found," implying that their search was orchestrated.
Silence.
Then—from the doorway—a desperate hiss:
"She…she m-must have hidden it inside her dress!" the girl cried. "S-she wanted him dead! She said so!"
'N-no! The order was to make sure they t-take her away! My daughter's safety is at stake, no!'
Agrippina stepped forward, halting the slave's thoughts.
Her presence swallowed the room.
"Then why are you still breathing?" she asked, her voice smooth, cold.
She pretended to appraise the girl.
"If I truly wanted him dead… I wouldn't have sent you."
The girl's mouth opened. Closed.
Agrippina's voice sharpened.
"I would've done it myself."
Silence.
Then she turned to the guards. "I dare you to search me."
But she was met with silence.
The guards hesitated—gulped. Her gaze pinned them like a blade.
"You won't?" she asked. She stepped away from the slave.
Then she stopped walking. Her back ramrod straight.
"Tell Tiberius," she said, her voice like polished iron.
"He seeks a serpent in my chambers—but he'll find only a Roman woman wronged. And make sure he understands—"
She turned her head slowly to the girl.
"I do not fall quietly…"
Her gaze returned to the guards.
"And I do not fall alone."
The guards stiffened.
Antonia said nothing.
But in her eyes—
A flicker.
Of doubt.
Of fear.
Recognition.
And when they left—silent, shame-faced, like defeated specters—
Antonia lingered for a moment, watching Agrippina like a new creature.
Then turned, trailing behind them.
Agrippina stood alone in her chamber.
Unbothered. Perfect.
She waited until she heard the final footsteps fade beyond the corridor.
Then, slowly, deliberately—
She reached into the folds of her stola.
Slid her fingers into the seam near her breast.
And pulled out the vial.
Still warm from her skin.
A faint trace of violet inside.
Thick as syrup.
The kind of poison that didn't stain the cup. Only the blood.
She looked at it. Then laughed—once, low and sharp.
"Fools."
She slipped it back, kissed her own fingers with a deliberate reverence, silent, almost sacrilegious imitation of a Vestal Virgin's piety.
She turned to her speculum.
Time to go to the Senate...
***************************
Later that day.
The Curia Julia buzzed like a disturbed hive.
Senators—some draped in mourning, some shifting nervously with fear, and others with carefully blank expressions—were gathered.
Drusus the Younger was dead.
And Rome held its breath, uncertain of the tremors to come.
But Agrippina?
She arrived in her litter, head held high. Her burly slaves moved in perfect precision, then stopped.
They laid the litter down and bowed to Agrippina.
Waiting for her to step down from the litter.
And step down she did.
The slaves parted.
Inside, the senators murmured. Some stood, others did not.
All their attention was now focused on Agrippina.
Her face did not wear the expected mantle of grief.
She wore command, a stark figure veiled in black.
Her hair was sculpted, a rigid frame for a face set like marble.
Her eyes, however, held a sharp, almost triumphant gleam.
She stepped into the senate house as if it were her birthright.
Agrippina's sandals struck the stone floor with rhythm.
She moved like memory—like vengeance.
Her gaze swept across the assembled senators.
And then she spoke. Clear. Commanding.
From the center of the chamber.
"I come not as a widow," she said.
Not even a greeting.
"I come not as the daughter of Agrippa or the blood of Augustus."
Silence.
"I come as Rome's remaining claim to the future."
One senator coughed. Another blinked.
But none interrupted her.
"My firstborn is your heir, born of my womb, bearing Germanicus's name and my father's blood. If you deny him—if you let my family be devoured one by one—"
She paused.
"Then Rome will belong not to emperors, but to murderers."
Murmurs now.
More than murmurs.
Men shifting in their seats.
"You all knew Germanicus," she said. "You know he was loved by the army, by the provinces, by the people."
She let the weight of her words hang.
"The people remember. And they will not forgive cowardice."
Silence. You could hear a pin drop.
"Now, who among you," her voice resonated through the sudden hush, "will accompany me to the palatium? It is time the emperor heard the voice of Rome."
A ripple went through the senators. Then, a few voices, bolder than the rest, rose in support.
"Yes! Let's go!" shouted one, a known supporter whose loyalty stretched back to Germanicus.
"To the palatium!" echoed another, his face alight with a mixture of conviction and opportunism.
'Oh…I've got you now.' Agrippina smiled a victorious smile.
***************************
INDEX:
Vestal Virgin- the most prominent and highly respected female religious figures in Rome. Sort of like a priestess that are dedicated to the goddess Vesta and played a crucial role in the state religion