[s4e1] Working For Caligula [Windows PREMIUM]

The nights were the hardest. Caligula suffered from chronic insomnia and expected his staff to share it. They would wander the labyrinthine corridors of the Palatine Hill, the Emperor talking to the moon as if she were a fickle lover. One moment, he was a philosopher, quoting Homer with tears in his eyes; the next, he was a tyrant, ordering a senator’s execution because the man’s sandals creaked too loudly.

Caligula laughed—a high, shrill sound that echoed off the marble walls. "No. It’s because you are the only one who doesn't look like you’re waiting for me to die."

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

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.

"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." The nights were the hardest

"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."

"Gather the spoils!" Caligula screamed over the roar of the surf. One moment, he was a philosopher, quoting Homer

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.