All Chapters of LOVE AND HONOR: The Mad Emperor (BL): Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

The next day…After being scolded and struck by his father's wives—the matronae—until noon, Lepidus returned to his cubiculum and slept.He woke at dawn, his battered body still aching. But he was used to it.'Well, sort of...' He groaned and tried to find a comfortable position.Then he found a bowl of vegetable soup next to his head. Covered with a lid.'Must be Nubias,' He thought.He lifted the lid slowly, his arms trembling, and smelled it.His stomach growled. But he had no strength—not yet, not freshly woken and in the state he was in.Lepidus sighed instead. 'They forgot a ligula.'He breathe in. The smell from last night was still there.Minus Caligula's scent.. that he already forgot even when he imagined it in his head.'A whole day, wasted. A whole day without seeing… or even drawing… anything..' Or anyone.Now that he was awake, he wouldn’t be able to sleep again. So he let his memories run...And just like that, time slipped past him.Before he knew it, rays of morning l

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. Distrac

It had been a while since Asprenas and his two classmates had entered the Circus Maximus.They’d weaved through the throng of sweaty, noisy bodies with the ease of experts until they reached their designated seats.The rest of their classmates were already there, mingling with noble boys and girls Asprenas recognized.Then, his attention snapped to the arena—drawn instantly to the fight between the murmillo and the thracian—both gladiators—as he sat down.The air reverberated with a deafening crash as the two gladiators’ weapons collided, the sound of shattering steel echoing through the arena.BOOM BOOM BOOMHe couldn’t help but shout—momentarily forgetting Caligula, who was supposed to be trailing behind them.Asprenas cheered, immediately joining the roaring crowd.His blood surged with excitement.Then the fast-moving thracian stepped back, danced around the heavy, sturdy shield of the murmillo, looking for a way to attack.“Gracchus! Gracchus!” The well-built murmillo roared in re

August 31, 23 AD-Caligula's birthday party.The air was thick with the kind of laughter that only comes when people are trying far too hard.'Too hard.' Plancina thought. Pretending at grace. Playing at power.Antonia's villa urbana sprawled across the Palatine with the smug quiet of power—close enough to hear the forum's echoing debates drift up on the wind, but distant enough that no uninvited footsteps ever reached its gates.Her hortus had been transformed.Lyres and flutes echoed through the air.Garlands of roses were draped over every surface, their sharp perfume slicing through the honeyed scent of spilled wine and ripe figs.Citrus trees in painted pots lined the paths like sentries—their branches heavy with fruit, straining under too much sweetness.Even the statues—Venus, Minerva, a slightly too-smirking Apollo—seemed to disapprove, their marble gazes cool and aloof, as though the whole affair were far too extravagant for their taste.It was too much—especially for a child,

The sun had gone down.But Lepidus’s eyes, trained to see in the dark, still picked out the rocky path without a torch.He already memorized this road, a dozen, no, a hundred times.He jogged uphill toward the gates of Antonia’s villa urbana, his worn saccus bouncing against his back with every step.Scrolls rustled inside. Ink, charcoal. His drawing materials.Although there is one scroll that was already finished, mixed among them.More important than the rest.A portrait.His best yet. Of him. His goddess.The handprint on his cheek had almost faded completely, save for a small patch of a bruise too faint to see easily.Only if one looked closely. His body, too, was almost healed.He tugged at the frayed strap of the saccus, grimacing.He should’ve left the other scrolls behind, carried only that one drawing—the one he’d poured his time, his breath, his heart into.His gift.But he thought, ‘What if Caligula didn't like it? And asked him to draw another?’The patched leather dug int