Drusus Caesar

Years ago, before Germanicus's family depart to Syria…

Drusus Caesar was just a boy when he first overheard his father speaking of retirement.

It was late, and the domus was quiet, save for the soft splash of water in the atrium's fountain.

The torches in the atrium—the central courtyard, where all the various rooms stemmed—flickered weakly, making the marble statues around the fountain cast long, eerie shadows.

He had snuck out of his cubiculum, too restless to sleep after the triumphal procession in his father's honor.

Drusus wanted to see him—to bask in the presence of his source of pride, his hero.

But what he heard as he stood outside his parent's cubiculum made his heart sink.

"I have served Rome faithfully," Germanicus' voice was steady but weary. Drusus can heard his father moving while saying this.

"I have fought her battles, led her legions. Now that this is all over, I wish to step away. A quiet life, a farm perhaps… far from the politics of Rome.." Then he paused.

A rustling of sheets. And then...

"Will you come with me with the kids, Agrippina..?" His voice was full of wistfulness.

Drusus stiffened. Light blue eyes widening. 'Retirement?'

Moving away from Rome? From Palatine Hill, from everything Drusus had known?

His hands clenched into fists.

'Why?' Why would his father even consider such a thing? Rome was where he belonged.

Rome was where they belonged. His friends, his life—it was all here!

How could his father think to abandon it?

He stepped back carefully, the weight of his father's words pressing heavily on his chest.

Forgetting why he was there in the first place.

Drusus wanted to retreat to his cubiculum and pretend he had never heard any of it.

Maybe if he forced himself to sleep, by morning, it would all be forgotten.

But the indignation bubbling inside him would not let him rest.

No, he needed answers. He needed someone to tell him this was absurd, that it would never happen.

So he went to his older brother.

Nero Caesar was already asleep when Drusus burst into his cubiculum, shaking him awake. "Brother! Wake up. You won't believe what I just heard," He hissed.

His older brother groaned, barely lifting his head. "Drusus, it's late…"

"Father wants to retire!" He blurted, his voice barely containing his frustration.

"He wants to leave Rome—leave everything behind! We can't let him!"

Nero sat up, rubbing the sleep from his blue eyes, but there was no shock in his face, no outrage. His slightly long light brown hair was sticking to all direction.

"If that's what Father wants," He muttered, "then so be it."

Drusus felt as though he had been struck.

"That's it?" He demanded. "You don't care? Don't you see what this means? He's throwing everything away! What about us? What about—"

Nero sighed, already turning over, dismissing him. "Drusus, let it go. He knows what's best."

Drusus stood frozen, disappointment washing over him in waves.

He had come seeking an ally, someone who would share his fury, but instead, he found indifference.

Turning on his heel, he stormed out, heart pounding.

'Fine. He didn't understand. He clearly didn't.' He thought.

"What an airhead.." He mumbled out loud.

Drusus just wanted someone to agree with him, to understand. 'Was that too much to ask?'

Days had passed, but Drusus could not shake the feeling of betrayal.

His father's words gnawed at him, and his frustration only grew when he noticed the strange behavior of his family.

Especially, Caligula. His younger brother.

He had started acting oddly—staring off into the distance with that vacant, almost dazed expression.

At first, he frowned—then dismissed it.

The next day, a muscle ticked in his jaw.

By the third, his fists curled, breath hissing between clenched teeth.

By the fourth, the cold crept in. A chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

But what truly disturbed him on the seventh day was the way their parents doted on Caligula.

His parents had never played favorites—until now. Suddenly, Caligula wasn't just their son. He was their world.

He could understand them fawning over Julia—she was the baby, the youngest, and their mother always had a soft spot for her.

'But him? Why now?'

Then, one day, he learned the truth.

The reason his father wanted to retire. The reason they were to leave the city.

It was because of Caligula.

The moment his mother spoke the words, the world seemed to tilt. And then—snap.

'Of course.' Drusus clenched his fist, nails biting into his palm. 'Of course it was him.'

Caligula was the reason their father wanted to leave everything behind.

To turn his back on Rome, on his legacy—on Drusus.

His irritation became fury. His resentment hardened into resolve.

Then, one evening, a lone messenger from the palatium arrived with a summons.

A decree from Tiberius himself.

Drusus begged—pleaded—to go with Germanicus.

He clung to his father's arm, swearing that he'll behave, that he would not be a burden.

He even shed a tear.

"Take me with you to the palatium, Father! Please!"

Germanicus, worn down by his son's persistence, relented.

And at the palatium, Emperor Tiberius—his grandfather, declared Germanicus would be sent to Antioch.

"The commotion in the East could only be settled by the wisdom of Germanicus," the emperor said in his solemn voice,"...for his own years were trending to their autumn, and those of Drusus were as yet scarcely mature." (excerpt from The Annals of Tacitus)

He compared Germanicus's experiences to those of his own son, Drusus the Younger.

And yet, as he spoke, the emperor's eyes lingered on him. To Drusus. Germanicus' son.

The other younger son. The forgotten one.

Germanicus stood rigid beside him, his entire body betraying his discomfort.

Yet, he said nothing.

Didn't argue. Didn't protest.

Despite the way his jaw clenched, despite the way his shoulders tensed, he had no choice.

Joy, raw and unadulterated, surged through Drusus.

The reasons why doesn't matter to him.

'This was it. Fate had intervened. The god's have not abandoned me yet!'

They weren't leaving Rome for some distant farm. His father wasn't retiring. They are going to Antioch! Travelling!

He would escape the stifling atmosphere of their home, the constant, suffocating attention on Caligula.

'Oh, but all of us are coming. Even Caligula. But still!'

He couldn't wait to share the news with his friends, imagining their envy.

Little did he know, this journey would change everything...

That night, Drusus went home, his steps are light. And for the first time in weeks, he fell asleep with a smile on his lips...

The next week, they left.

Their arrival in Nicopolis, near Actium, had been a grand affair.

A city built by the great Emperor Augustus himself!

The people of Athens greeted them as heroes—especially his father—throwing lavish festivities in their honor.

And Drusus?

He thrived under the attention, basking in the reflected glory of his father's name.

Germanicus. The legend. The hero. Avenging Rome.

Everywhere they went, crowds cheered. Officials bowed. Poets recited verses in their honor.

But not every city rolled out the red carpet.

One stop in Asia still haunted him.

They had met a fortune teller—an old fool—who spewed nonsense about bad luck befalling his father.

"Hogwash!" Germanicus had laughed, brushing it off without a second thought.

His father had always been that way—strong, unwavering, unshaken.

Drusus had laughed along with him.

And they had moved on.

As if fate could be ignored.

Then came Armenia.

A coronation, the forging of diplomatic ties with Parthia.

That was when things began to unravel.

By the time they arrived in Syria, something felt off.

The way Governor Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso and his men treated them.

The heat. The sun.

The endless days of whispers and intrigue.

The glances. The hushed voices.

The disdain that practically dripped from their expressions.

Piso's smirk said everything. He thrived on defiance.

Then the snide remarks about his mother, Agrippina.

That had almost made his father kill the governor..

For all of Germanicus's patience, even he had limits.

And Piso—and his wife, that wretched woman—knew exactly how to push his father.

Smug. Ugly. Disgusting.

His wife is making that seductive look to his father. Whom his father and mother just ignore...

And the Syrians had favored his father.

Drusus had seen it in their eyes, in the way they greeted Germanicus with open arms while treating Governor Piso with thinly veiled contempt.

It had only worsened the tension.

And then came Egypt. One of the important provinces to Rome.

When his father traveled there without imperial permission and decided to open the imperial granary—he distributed grain at a low price, providing much-needed relief to the populace.

This action earned him significant popularity among the Egyptians—a humanitarian act—that stirred a controversy.

Piso's rage had been palpable.

It's because Rome is very strict with those who entered Egypt—the main source of their grain—and Rome wanted to maintain strict control over it.

But Germanicus ignored it all and did what he see fit.

Then one day, Drusus' father began to change.

At first, it was subtle. A lingering weariness in his eyes. A rare sigh of exhaustion.

Then, it worsened.

Fatigue. Fever. Pain.

Germanicus—the invincible Germanicus—was weakening before their eyes.

Drusus had spent endless nights at his father's bedside, listening to his labored breaths.

Feeling the unnatural heat of his skin. Watching as the strength drained from him.

And the rumors began.

Poison. Treachery. Dark magic.

Their mother, Agrippina, had been frantic.

She had tried—desperately, hopelessly—to save him.

But it was too late. Everything happened so quickly that Drusus' head spun.

Now, as he sat stiffly in the slow-moving chariot on their way to the Mausoleum Augusti, the twelve-year-old was full of unanswered questions.

'Who?'

'Who had done this?'

'Who had taken his father away?'

His fingers clenched into fists as his light blue eyes scanned the faces in the crowd.

'What's happening?'

'Why do they look at us like that?'

The chariot jolted over the cobblestones, forcing his hands open.

Drusus Caesar, second son of Germanicus.

He was old enough to understand. Old enough to see what was happening.

And yet, he refused to believe it. A coldness settled in his gut, a premonition of something terrible.

Their expressions weren’t of respect.

They were of pity.

The realization settled deep in his chest, cold and unwelcome.

The same people who once celebrated his father’s name now mourned him.

The streets that had echoed with cheers now swallowed their procession in silence.

Drusus clenched his jaw, staring ahead as the chariot rattled forward.

He hated this.

Hated the silence. Hated what it meant.

Yet suddenly, he felt as if every gaze in the crowd was fixed on him.

Not on his siblings. Not on his grandmother. Not on the chariot itself.

Him.

The weight of their somber stares pressed against his skin, making him shift uncomfortably in his leather-upholstered seat.

The crowd's dark attire blurred together, a sea of muted colors stretching endlessly before him.

Some onlookers were still damp from the earlier rain, their soaked garments clinging to their frail frames.

The heavy scent of wet stone, damp earth, and lingering incense filled the air.

As the skies cleared, he saw it clearly—their pity. Their sympathy.

Heat crept up his neck, frustration simmering beneath the surface.

He straightened his back. He was riding in a luxurious imperial chariot.

Let them see him as something more.

His eyes flickered over the elaborate chariot—one of the many belonging to the imperial family.

An exquisite five-seater, its intricate carvings adorned the wheels, each detail reflecting their lineage.

The rail gleamed under the dull light.

Four noble brown horses, gifts from his grandmother, pulled them forward with steady grace.

Drusus lifted his chin, peering down at the gathered plebeians.

For a fleeting moment, he imagined himself as a ruler surveying his people.

And for the first time in days, the thought made him feel strong.

Drusus turned to his siblings.

His youngest sisters sat beside their grandmother, oblivious—so clueless to the weight pressing down on them all.

Irritation flared in his chest.

'Why?' He didn’t even know.

He sucked in a breath, filling his lungs with the scent of worn leather and the faint perfume of his grandmother.

It did little to calm him.

He scowled.

It didn’t even smell good.

His gaze shifted to Antonia—his grandmother. Her face, lined with age, bore the weight of both years and sorrow, yet her eyes still held warmth, kindness.

She was the niece of Emperor Augustus.

And yet…

She looked so old. So small.

His fingers clenched as he remembered their last stop before entering Rome.

She had tried to feed them then. Urging them to eat before continuing to the Mausoleum.

"Drusus, here, eat," she had said, offering him a panis focacius—a bread—with a gentle smile.

Instead of comfort, it filled him with dismay.

'You are a member of the imperial family. Act like one!.'

He wanted to shout it at her. Shake her.

But he said nothing.

Instead, he let his expression speak for him, twisted with silent displeasure.

Antonia had met them halfway from Syria, bringing her own chariots and fresh horses.

His mother, Agrippina, refused. She still rode in his father’s chariot.

Drusus' gaze shifted to her.

His mother.

Agrippina.

She had gone mad.

She rode ahead in silent devotion, her back stiff, unmoving.

She hadn’t spoken a word since his father died.

Her vacant eyes. Her hollow face.

She looked insane.

Something twisted in his chest—a bitter mix of anger and something else. Something he couldn’t name.

Drusus turned to his older brother, Nero.

Nero sat still, calm. His eyes fixed on some unseen point ahead.

'How?' How could he be so composed?

'Didn’t he see? Didn’t he understand?'

'Our family has fallen!'

Drusus wanted to grab him by the collar and shake him until the same anger burned in his eyes.

But instead, his gaze drifted—

To him.

'Caligula.'

The younger brother who sat quietly, doing nothing.

That empty stare again.

That cold, unreadable gaze.

Drusus felt something snap inside him.

'You attention-seeker!'

His fingers trembled as his anger boiled over.

The boy who was always so fragile, so sickly—

'You should have been the one to die.'

Not Father.

Never Father.

A surge of bitterness swelled in his chest.

This brother.

The one who had stolen their parents' attention.

Caligula.

Drusus had once been the favorite—the golden son basking in their father’s praise, their mother’s warmth.

Now, he was nothing more than a footnote. A mere afterthought.

The chariot’s steady vibrations pulsed beneath him.

Drusus forced himself to look away from Caligula, tried to push down the fury twisting in his gut.

He clenched his jaw, fingers curling into his tunic.

Their father had wanted to leave Rome.

Not for peace. Not for retirement.

For him. For Caligula.

The disappointment. The betrayal.

Drusus clenched his fists. His blue eyes burned with resentment as he glared at his youngest brother.

'You stole them from me.'

'Father. Mother. All of it.'

Then he heard him sing… Seikilos Epitaph.

'HOW DARE HE?'

The beautiful, yet melancholic melody, clawed through Drusus’ skin, sinking into his blood.

A violent heat erupted within him, blurring his vision.

His hand shot out, a blur of motion.

A loud, sharp crack echoed through the stunned silence.

Caligula’s head snapped to the side, his cheek blooming red, a thin line of blood appearing.

Gasps filled the air, and Antonia’s hand flew to her mouth.

Drusus' chest heaved, vision a red haze.

He clenched his fists tighter, his knuckles white.

Let them fear him instead. That is better.

********************************

(INDEX:)

AN//  OH! There is nothing to index is there? Hehe. Or is there? Hmm.. This one actually has 6 different versions. Hah. The hardest chapter yet!

NOTES:

"The commotion in the East could only be settled by the wisdom of Germanicus for his own years were trending to their autumn, and those of Drusus were as yet scarcely mature."—(credits to The Annals of Tacitus)

CREDITS:

This story draws upon historical accounts of Germanicus's time in the East, particularly Tacitus's "Annals," which offers a comprehensive account of the era, and the works of Suetonius and Dio Cassius—They are known historians.

The details concerning Rome's control over Egypt's grain supply and the political conflicts are derived from these ancient sources.