"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 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. [S4E1] Working for Caligula
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
Lucius survived by becoming a shadow. He learned to anticipate the shifts in the Emperor's "divine" weather. When Caligula declared himself a god and demanded to be addressed as Jupiter, Lucius didn't flinch. When Caligula ordered a bridge of ships to be built across the Bay of Baiae just so he could ride across it in the armor of Alexander the Great, Lucius simply calculated the tonnage of grain ships required. Working for Caligula was a masterclass in the absurd
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.
He had been assigned to the personal staff of Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus—better known to the shivering masses as .
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."
"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 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.
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.
Lucius survived by becoming a shadow. He learned to anticipate the shifts in the Emperor's "divine" weather. When Caligula declared himself a god and demanded to be addressed as Jupiter, Lucius didn't flinch. When Caligula ordered a bridge of ships to be built across the Bay of Baiae just so he could ride across it in the armor of Alexander the Great, Lucius simply calculated the tonnage of grain ships required.
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.
He had been assigned to the personal staff of Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus—better known to the shivering masses as .
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."
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