Warning! This chapter includes disturbing content and may be upsetting to some readers. Please take care while reading.
An epigraph:
"In the crucible of cruelty, a fragile soul is remade—one scar, one sorrow, each step forging the darkness within."
The time was now meridies..
Caligula sat atop a high cliff, overlooking the sea.
One foot dangled in the air, the other tucked beneath him, propping up his head—like a lost child.
The emperor's villa loomed just a few steps behind, a presence he could feel even without turning.
His eyes stayed on the cruel waves, though his mind was miles away.
The wind was hot, but soft.
It tousled his blond hair like fingers that didn't belong to him.
He could smell the salt in the air.
The sea—strong, clean, already familiar.
His face was still. Quiet.
But his back ached.
His lip was split.
One eye swollen.
Turning purple.
A red hand print lingered on the circle of his neck.
It stung when he breathed.
He remembered what happened earlier—after everyone in the court had gone home.
Tiberius had suddenly dismissed the others.
Mood worsening.
The scriba, librarius and the praetorian guards, too.
Told all of them to leave.
Except for Caligula.
Once the door was closed, he bowed, like always.
'It feels suffocating..'
Arms at his sides.
'Not today please..'
Posture perfect.
'Please!'
Waiting for permission to relax.
It never came.
The emperor just stared at him.
Said nothing.
Gave him no relief.
Caligula stood still while his mind pleaded.
Too still.
His muscles started to shake.
His heart beat faster than it should.
He could feel the mood coming off Tiberius like heat.
'What did he read in that last scroll?' Caligula wondered.
Anger. Resentment.
And something else, too.
Something worse.
The emperor studied Caligula closely.
Coldly. Like a thing.
Delicate, yes. Still young.
His skin pale as milk, even after five years on the island.
Delicate build. Like a girl.
And growing into something… pretty.
Something enticing.
Tiberius felt something stirred.
His fingers tightened around the whip now resting on his lap.
Remembering the times he whipped those silky skin.
How easily it marked. How red looks good on the boy's skin.
His eye twitched.
And lately…
Lately, Caligula has been growing more and more.. like his father.
That effortless charm.
'How can I break you even more?' Tiberius wondered.
His mind is already imagining how to degrade this boy even more.
'He still has his own will.'
The silence dragged on. Thick and slow.
Finally, Tiberius spoke—dry and flat, like an old scroll being rolled.
"Your sister is to marry…" A pause. "...Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus."
Caligula didn't move.
It echoed in the sudden silence, a discordant note in the already oppressive atmosphere.
Ahenobarbus.
Where had he heard it—
Then it hit him.
His breath caught.
'That man?'
The thought was a jolt, a sickening lurch in his gut.
Tiberius didn't seem to notice.
Or maybe he did.
"At ease."
Only then did Caligula shift his stance, just slightly.
His head still bowed.
But his mind was already far away.
Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus.
That name.
That reputation.
Even on Capri, even when it was cut off from the real world, Caligula knew him.
Knew which family he came from.
Tiberius made sure of it—made him study every noble and their bloodlines like some twisted game.
And that man was going to marry his sister?
Who?
'Which sister?' the question clawed at him.
'Julia? Drusilla? Or little Livilla?' he felt sick.
Like whatever he'd eaten earlier was clawing its way back up.
They were all too young, too fragile to be yoked to a man like that.
Ahenobarbus was a relic, a man whose vices were as well-known as his lineage.
He was a predator, not a partner!
A nightmare!
And everyone knew it.
Even Tiberius knew.
So why?
No.
No, no, no.
Tiberius's voice cut through the storm in his head.
"Tell me, boy—why does your mother chase alliances with men like Lucius Cassius Longinus? What is she playing at?"
Caligula glanced up—blurry—then looked away.
"I… I don't know, my emperor."
"You don't know?" Tiberius's tone sharpened.
"Or you won't say?" the emperor took a step closer.
"Does she still plot against me? Like she did with my son Drusus?"
Each word landed like a slap.
"You're her pawn," Tiberius said, quieter now.
"A boy sent in exchange for the throne—to secure your brother's future—while she sharpens knives behind closed doors."
He stepped back. The air in the room shifted.
"I won't be played, Caligula. Not by Agrippina. Not by anyone."
Then came the worst part.
Tiberius stepped forward again.
A whip in his hand.
Caligula hadn't noticed it before.
His attention was consumed by the Emperor's words
He swallowed hard.
What fresh hell awaited him again now?
**
Back in the present..
Caligula's pain returned with each breath.
Every blink.
Every movement of his lips.
He now stared out at the waves crashing against the rocks below.
Black and white.
The sun was tucked behind thick clouds.
'At least it won't hurt my eyes today,' he thought.
His achromatopsia—usually a curse—gave him a little mercy in the dimness.
The harsh colors of the world faded.
Everything was softer now.
Less sharp. Less cruel.
Off to the side, Macro stood.
Silent. Watchful.
Like always.
For a while, only the sea spoke.
A steady rhythm.
The wind brushing over stone and skin.
Capri didn't feel like a prison in these moments.
It felt almost… still.
But peace was always short-lived.
The ache in his chest didn't go away.
'Lepidus.'
The name appeared in his mind like a whisper.
'Was he still drawing somewhere? Still sketching whatever caught his eye?'
The portrait he once gifted on Caligula's disastrous birthday years ago was gone now.
Disappeared with the rest of his old life.
The memory of it—of him—was slipping.
Blurring.
And it hurt.
Then his thoughts turned to the marriage again.
To his unlucky sister that would be picked to marry. To that man.
'Why would mother allow this?'
A heat he suppressed for so long inside him started to rise.
Anger, slow and sharp.
'Are we just pawns to you? Just things you move around to win the game?'
'You already used me. Sold me off.'
'And now my siblings?'
'Why?'
His breath hitched again.
For the first time in years, the tears slipped down quietly.
He didn't want them.
But they came anyway.
A silent cry.
He hated it.
But what could he do?
He was helpless.
'I want to leave this island.'
The dangerous thoughts that he was trying not to form has now easily flowed in his mind.
'Anywhere...!'
'Somewhere!'
He thought of Lepidus again.
'Come get me,' he thought. 'Please.'
But no one came.
Nothing changed.
Just the waves. Just the salt air.
Then a shift in the breeze told him Macro was closer now.
His aura. He can feel it.
But Caligula didn't turn.
And for a while no one spoke.
Just the sound of wind, and sea, and the soft sniff of his quiet tears.
Then, finally, he said—trying to keep his voice even:
"What is it?"
Macro answered gently.
Almost kindly.
"You've been summoned."
'Again?' a silent question. 'It hasn't even been an hour yet...'
The knot in his gut twisted tighter.
There was only one person on the island who would summon him.
Tiberius.
'He's getting crueler to me.'
Then his head turned to Macro.
The side that doesn't show his other blackened eye.
Eyes pleading.
Trained in Macro's blurry face.
Caligula didn't know what face he was making.
But realized:
'He was just a guard. He'll be killed if I ask for his help.'
Caligula's expressions changed. A fake bravado.
He forced himself to stand, a weary attempt at nonchalance in his movements.
Readied his mind. His body. Of what to come.
He dusted his white tunic, a small, jerky gesture that didn't quite mask the tremor in his hands.
Gave Macro an awkward nod.
Not showing his whole face.
There was a small pause—then Macro led the way.
Each step back toward the villa felt heavier than the last.
The wind turned colder.
His heart was beating hard again.
Macro led him not to that airless chamber.
Where time stops.
The one that smelled like fear.
He wanted to stop.
Turn back.
Run!
But he didn't.
Couldn't.
It was like there were invisible chains around his feet, dragging him forward.
Inside, Tiberius was already waiting, sipping his wine.
He wasn't wearing his royal robes.
There was nothing.
Macro hesitated at the door.
Eyes catching on the emperor's nudity.
He paused. Just for a second.
Then lowered his gaze.
And shut the door behind him.
**
Macro stood just beyond the door.
The handle was still warm from his hand.
Behind him, the corridor was empty—stone and shadow. Silent.
But not for long.
The sound came softly at first as he put himself in place.
His back was now on the wall.
Macro stilled.
It was the first time—like that first time he'd ever stood outside to guard.
Usually, there were no sounds. Just movements inside.
A single cry.
Muffled.
Then a sharp, sudden gasp.
And then—the sound no soldier ever forgets.
A scream.
High. Raw. Human.
It hit something deep in Macro's chest.
Made his spine lock.
His jaw tighten.
Another scream followed.
This one sharper, broken in half by something wet and guttural.
Macro stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on nothing.
He'd heard a lot in his years.
Especially back in the munera—
The desperate cries of a gladiator before they hit the sand.
Desperate to survive. Only to have their life cut short.
But this—this was different.
This was a boy.
A boy he'd watched grow. Like his brother.
Yes, he had kept an eye on the prince. It felt like it.
He'd observe him for five years.
A boy who tried to walk tall even when he was limping.
Who hid his face.
Now he thought—maybe Caligula didn't hide his face from Macro because he looked down on a soldier like him.
Maybe it was to hide the pain.
The bruised cheek. The swollen eye.
The strangle marks on his slender neck.
That's why he doesn't come out of his cubiculum sometimes.
A boy who had smiled at him that time—when he'd asked for Macro's name.
Another crack—like leather snapping.
Then another cry. Hoarse. Wordless.
Macro's hand curled into a fist.
He didn't move.
He couldn't move.
He was a praetorian guard. He obeyed.
That was the rule. That was the oath.
The screams came again. Softer now.
Hoarse from use.
Then a silence.
Not peace. Not rest.
Just absence.
Macro exhaled.
Slowly. Carefully.
As if afraid the noise might somehow be heard.
He didn't look at the door.
Because if he did—if he let himself care too much—he'd break the rule.
'Although I think I already broke that.'
Observe. Report. Do not engage.
'No.' Macro countered himself. 'What I broke was Sejanus' orders. Not the emperor's.'
If he broke the emperor's rule...
He wouldn't survive the night.
Macro closed his eyes.
The screams inside didn't last. It slowly fades. Like a nightmare.
But as if to prove him wrong—another one tore through the silence.
This one was different.
Bone-chilling. A kind that would never leave you.
He can feel the small hair on his back rise.
Then, eventually, the cries dulled—faded into broken sobs, then whispers, then silence.
But not the kind that brought relief.
No.
This was the kind that pressed against the walls.
That clung to the skin.
That made a man feel like he couldn't breathe.
Macro stood at his post, the torches burning low.
His jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Inside, he could hear something else now.
Not words.
Just the rhythm of breath—Tiberius's breath.
Low. Animal. Grunting.
Disgusting.
Macro thought he might be sick.
He forced himself not to flinch.
Not to move.
But his hands were trembling.
Not from fear.
From rage.
He was a guard.
Trained to kill. To defend.
But he couldn't lift a finger here—not for the one person behind that door who maybe, just maybe, still had something good left in him.
Another soft sound.
A whimper.
Then nothing.
Nothing for a long, long time.
The hours passed like centuries.
The oil in the torches burned low.
The stars began to fade.
And then—
The door creaked open.
Tiberius emerged.
Barefoot. Now dressed in his expensive robes—it was loose around his shoulders.
Not a word. Not a glance.
His face was unreadable.
His shadow passed over Macro like a curse, then disappeared down the hallway without a sound.
Macro's heart pounded.
He looked at the door.
He shouldn't.
But he did.
He stepped inside.
The air hit him like a wall—rank with herbs, sweat, wine, and blood.
And there he was.
Caligula.
Lying on his stomach, limbs twisted as if they'd stopped obeying commands.
His right cheek was pressed on the bloody marble floor.
It's like a crime scene. But the victim was alive.
Caligula's skin shone with sweat and blood.
His tunic was in pieces.
His golden hair was sticking everywhere.
Welts marked his white back—the same back Macro had seen when he nursed him after illness.
Now it was just red.
Some fresh.
Some reopening old scars.
Scratches ran down his back legs like claw marks.
His neck was blotched with bruises and red burns.
His lips have dried blood all over.
But it was the eyes that broke Macro.
Red.
Hollow.
Tears still wet.
His other eye turned purple.
He looked like he hadn't blinked in hours.
Like a soul had been scooped out and left behind.
Macro didn't speak.
He couldn't.
It's like there were some rocks blocking his throat.
He stood there, at the edge of the ruined silence, unsure if he should step forward—or fall to his knees.
But he didn't have to choose.
His body did it for him.
He knelt.
Caligula looked at him.
Just looked.
Their eyes locked—eyes unfocused.
No words.
None needed.
Whatever was left of the boy was in those eyes—
And whatever had been taken was gone forever.
Macro wanted to comfort the boy.
To say something.
But there was nothing he could say that wouldn't make it worse.
So he didn't move from where he was kneeling.
Crying for the broken shell of a boy.
"I want to leave the island, Macro." Caligula said, eyes looking to somewhere far away.
"Help me," he whispered.
The boy—who now, more than ever, looked like something dangerous was beginning to stir beneath the hollow silence.
**
INDEX:
meridies- midday
Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus- a patrician noble belonging to the Imperial family
Lucius Cassius Longinus- a consul- ally of Agrippina