Primus
The atrium of the imperial palace gleamed under the midday sun, its marble floors a pristine reflection of wealth and power. Statues of past emperors lined the hall, their stone gazes fixed in silent judgment on the young man who sat on a stone bench in the corner, lost in thought.
Remus Lupin, heir to the empire, kept his hands folded neatly in his lap as he waited for the call to dinner. The thick folds of his toga covered his slender frame, his posture straight and composed. But beneath his calm exterior, a faint tension ran through him—one he worked tirelessly to hide.
He closed his eyes for a moment, the heat of the day pressing against his temples. A strange sensation—a slight tremor—crept into his right hand, hidden beneath the fabric. His jaw tightened. He had long since learned to ignore it, even as a small voice in his mind whispered doubts he refused to entertain.
The sound of hurried footsteps broke his reverie.
“Remus!” Peter’s voice echoed through the hall. His cousin appeared in a flurry of motion, his short tunic askew, cheeks flushed from his rush. “Your father is expecting us. If we’re late, you know what he’ll say.”
Remus stood, moving deliberately to steady himself. His first step faltered—a momentary stumble that sent Peter’s eyes flickering downward.
“Are you all right?” Peter asked, his voice lower, almost cautious.
“Fine,” Remus replied quickly, his tone clipped. He adjusted his toga with a quick tug and gestured toward the dining room. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”
Peter hesitated, his mouth opening as if to say something further, but then he thought better of it.
The dining room was a grand, elongated space, its walls painted with sprawling frescoes depicting Rome’s conquests. At the head of the table sat Lyall Lupin, emperor of Rome, his sharp eyes taking in the room with the ease of a man accustomed to command.
To his right sat his sister, Claudia, resplendent in a golden stola. Beside her were her children: Peter, fidgeting nervously with his goblet, and Lily, her auburn hair catching the candlelight as she arranged her robes with quiet precision. Lily was serene, unflappable, and sharp-eyed—a contrast to her younger brother’s restless energy.
Remus entered last, his steps deliberate. He inclined his head to his father, then took his seat across from Lily.
“Finally,” Lyall muttered, his voice a low growl.
The slaves began to serve the meal, placing platters of roasted meats, olives, bread, and wine across the table. For a while, there was only the sound of eating and the occasional murmur of gratitude.
But peace was not to last.
“Claudia,” Lyall began, breaking the silence, “I hear the Senate is divided on the matter of expanding the grain dole to the provinces.”
Claudia raised a delicate eyebrow, her tone clipped and even. “And why should it not be? Expanding the dole would cost the treasury dearly. The provinces should manage their own resources.”
“Resources?” Lyall scoffed. “You mean the same resources we drain to fund our wars? The grain is their due—what we take, we must return.”
Claudia set her goblet down with precision. “And what of Rome itself? The city is swelling with new citizens every day, and you know how quickly the people grow restless when their bread rations are cut.”
“They grow restless because senators like you whisper fears into their ears,” Lyall shot back.
Peter shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing toward Lily, who maintained her composure, her expression unreadable.
Remus watched the exchange silently, his hand tightening on his fork beneath the table. This was an argument he had heard many times before, a clash of ideals between his father’s pragmatism and his aunt’s fierce loyalty to Rome’s elite.
The tension broke when Lyall turned abruptly to Remus.
“And what say you, son?” he asked.
Remus hesitated, carefully placing his utensil on his plate. “I think,” he began, his voice steady, “that Rome’s strength has always come from balance. We must care for our people in the city, yes, but the provinces provide the foundation upon which our empire stands. To neglect them is to weaken our own position.”
Claudia’s eyes flickered toward him, and for a moment, there was a hint of a smile on her lips. “A wise answer,” she said, though her tone held a touch of irony.
Lyall grunted, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, but the faintest glimmer of approval crossed his face.
The conversation shifted to lighter topics as the meal progressed.
“Have you heard of the new champions in the Colosseum?” Claudia asked, addressing no one in particular. “Sirius Black and James Potter. The people of Rome cannot stop speaking of them.”
“Sirius Black,” Lyall said with a dry chuckle. “The boy from the distant kingdom of Aquila. I hear his mother sold him to the arena after declaring him unfit to inherit.”
“Unfit is an understatement,” Claudia said, swirling her wine. “She made his younger brother, Regulus, heir in his place. I hear she plans to attend the games next week—with Regulus at her side.”
“And James Potter?” Peter piped up.
“A Briton,” Claudia replied. “Captured during the rebellion. I am told he’s made a name for himself with his strength and speed—an unusual mix.”
“Both have,” Lyall said, leaning back in his chair. “The people love a good rivalry, and the pair are favorites in the arena. It’s rare to see men survive so long in that blood-soaked sand.”
Remus listened in silence, his mind flickering to the lives of those who fought for sport. Gladiators. Heroes to the crowds, but slaves all the same.
“Perhaps we’ll see them fight when we attend tomorrow,” Lyall continued. “It will do you good, Remus, to witness their strength firsthand.”
As the meal concluded, Remus excused himself early, leaving his father and aunt to resume their verbal sparring. In the quiet of the palace corridors, he allowed his mask to slip.
His hand trembled again, a small but relentless reminder of the battles he fought—not in the Colosseum, but within himself.
The cheers of the Colosseum crowds seemed very far away.
-
-
In the later hours of the evening, Remus sat on a cushioned stool, his toga draped loosely over his shoulders, the fabric pooling around his waist. In his hands was a scroll—a translation of Homer’s Iliad into Latin. The words were familiar to him; he had read them before, but tonight, they felt heavy.
The lamp flickered as a faint breeze drifted through the open window, carrying with it the distant sounds of the city: the clatter of hooves on cobblestone streets, the occasional shout from a merchant or a passerby. Rome never truly slept, even when the palace did.
Remus adjusted his grip on the scroll. His hand trembled slightly, and a faint crease formed between his brows as he steadied it. The tremor wasn’t enough to disrupt the reading, but it was enough to remind him. Always, it was there.
A soft knock at the door broke his concentration.
“Enter,” he said, setting the scroll carefully on the table beside him.
The door creaked open to reveal Lily, her figure framed by the dim light of the hallway. She stepped inside, her sandals barely making a sound against the polished floor.
“You’re up late,” she said, closing the door behind her.
“I could say the same about you,” Remus replied, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles.
Lily crossed the room and settled into a chair opposite him, her green eyes studying his face. “Reading Homer again?”
Remus nodded. “It seemed appropriate tonight.”
“For inspiration?”
“For distraction,” he admitted.
Lily’s gaze flickered to his hands, now resting on his knees. “Is it your hand?”
Remus stiffened, his jaw tightening. “It’s nothing,” he said, a little too quickly.
“It’s not nothing, Remus,” Lily said gently. “You don’t have to pretend with me. Or, you know, you could have a Medicus look upon it.”
He sighed, leaning back against the chair. “And what would you have me do after that? Announce it to my father? To Rome? That the emperor’s son—the heir—has hands that betray him?”
“No one expects you to be invincible,” Lily said, taking his trembling hand in hers, squeezing it lightly.
“Yes, they do,” Remus replied bitterly. “Every senator, every citizen in the Forum. My father. Even you.”
Lily’s expression hardened. “Not me,” she said quietly. “I expect you to be human, nothing more.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
After a time, Lily leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Do you ever think about leaving?”
Remus blinked, surprised by the question. “Leaving Rome?”
“Obviously,” she said, rolling her eyes at his daftness. “Not forever. Just… for a while. Away from the Senate, the games, the constant judgment. Don’t you think it might help to see the world beyond these walls?”
Remus considered her words. There had been moments—fleeting, half-formed thoughts—when he had imagined life beyond the palace. Beyond Rome itself. But those thoughts always felt more like fantasies than possibilities.
“Rome is my duty,” he said finally.
“But is it your life?” Lily countered.
Remus didn’t have an answer.
“Have you ever spoken to Peter about this?” Lily asked, shifting the topic slightly.
Remus shook his head. “Peter has enough to worry about. He’s always trying to prove himself to my father. I won’t add to his burdens.”
“And me?” she asked.
“You already carry more than your share,” he said, a flicker of warmth in his voice.
Lily smiled faintly. “We all carry things, Remus. But some burdens aren’t meant to be carried alone.”
She rose then, smoothing the folds of her tunic. “Don’t stay up too late. Your father will want you at your best tomorrow.”
Remus nodded, though he made no move to leave his seat. As she reached the door, her hand on the frame, she paused and looked back.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, “you’re not failing anyone. Not me, not Peter. Not even him.”
Before he could respond, she slipped out, leaving him alone with the flickering lamp and the words of an ancient poet.
Remus picked up the scroll again, but his thoughts were far from Troy and its heroes.