"Remember," his predecessor had whispered while packing his bags with trembling hands, "never look him in the eye, but never look away. Never laugh unless he laughs, and for the love of the gods, if he asks you to dinner, bring your own taster."
Lucius went back to his scrolls, his heart hammering against his ribs. He knew the truth: in the court of Caligula, you didn't work for a man, you worked for a storm. And the only way to survive a storm was to be as flexible as the reeds he used for pens.
One evening, Caligula leaned in close to Lucius. The smell of expensive wine and madness was overwhelming. "Do you know why I keep you around, little scribe?" [S4E1] Working for Caligula
Lucius kept his voice steady. "Because I record the glory of the son of Germanicus, Caesar."
Working for Caligula was a masterclass in the absurd. By noon, Lucius was documenting the emperor’s "victory" over the sea. He stood on the shores of the Mediterranean as legionnaires—the fiercest warriors in the known world—viciously stabbed the waves with their gladii. "Remember," his predecessor had whispered while packing his
He had been assigned to the personal staff of Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus—better known to the shivering masses as .
"The horse is the new Consul," Caligula announced, his voice a melodic rasp. He turned to Lucius, eyes gleaming with a manic, unblinking intensity. "Scribe! Draft the decree. Incitatus requires a marble stable and a house with furniture. He shall host dinner parties for the Senate." And the only way to survive a storm
The air in the imperial palace was thick with the scent of roasted peacock and the metallic tang of fear. For Lucius, a junior scribe who had spent years mastering the delicate art of bureaucratic indifference, his new assignment felt less like a promotion and more like a death sentence.