Chapter 1: From Empress to Emperor
Summary:
In the golden halls of the Domus Aurea, an eunuch named Sporus plots against emperor Nero, the man who destroyed his life and made him into a ghost of his deceased wife. His conspiracy will change the course of roman history forever.
Chapter Text
Nero's wife, Poppaea Sabina, died in 65 AD. This was supposedly in childbirth, although it was later rumored Nero kicked her to death. Two years later, in 67 AD, he married a 10-years-old slave named Sporus, who was said to bear a remarkable resemblance to Poppaea. Nero had Sporus castrated a few days before the wedding, and had the most skilled courtiers work on his wedding dress, make-up and jewelry.
The wedding was a grand event, marked by Nero's signature excesses and debauchery: drunken guests, public orgies and christians burned alive to be used as human torches. But none of those was as gruesome and disgusting as the consummation of the marriage: Nero, in all his depravity and sadism, decided to consummate their union publicly, tearing Sporus’ dress off and raping him in front of all present.
During their marriage, Nero had Sporus appear in public as his wife wearing the regalia that was customary for Roman empresses. He made Calvia Crispinilla, an imperial courtier, serve as "mistress of the wardrobe" to Sporus. Her job was to choose the dresses the boy would wear on each occasion, as well as make sure he was always wearing the make-up and jewels Nero bought for him. Nero ordered her to design the most sensual and revealing dresses to showcase Sporus' body, which was marred by the emperor’s cruel hands, a sign of Nero’s dominance over the boy. The boy’s clothing, like those of a common whore, left little to the imagination, and his neck, wrists and ankles were always covered in the most expensive jewelry.
The emperor had no qualms about sexually harrasing Sporus in public, making sex jokes, slapping his butt and sometimes even forcing him to sit on his lap and throath-kissing him, as if the nightly rapes weren’t enough to satisfy his hunger. When Sporus refused to have sex with him, Nero would beat him mercilessly until he was black and blue. Soldiers who worked at the Domus Aurea during that time reported that the boy’s cries of pain during the nightly rapes could be heard through the hallways. Among other forms of address, Sporus was termed "Lady", "Empress", and "Mistress" by the nobles and senators, altough by his back they would call him derrogatory terms like "Nero's whore" and "The Harlot Empress."
Nero's popularity declined significantly around 68 AD. This decline was fueled by a combination of factors, including his lavish spending, his alleged involvement in the Great Fire of Rome, and his public performances in the arts, which many Romans found inappropriate. Rebellions in Gaul and Spain, along with mass desertions in the Praetorian Guard, further eroded his power.
During this time, Sporus used his privileged access to Nero to position himself as a loyal companion, despite private resentment. Publicly, he performed devotion, even as Nero became more erratic and volatile both in public and private. He subtly fed Nero’s paranoia, pointing to enemies (conveniently chosen to remove his own rivals). He would often whisper in Nero’s ear “They fear you, my love. That’s why they plot against you. They say the gods have abandoned you. Prove them you are still strong, still the emperor of Rome.”
Sporus built quiet alliances with powerful men, like Nymphidius Sabinus, prefect of the Praetorian Guard, who sought power and influence—Sporus offered support in exchange for Praetorian loyalty. Nymphidius saw Sporus as someone he could eventually control, a harmles eunuch with no real power. He also allied himself with Epaphroditus, Nero 's freedman and secretary, and with Tigellinus, co-prefect of the Guard, an increasingly self-serving and corrupt man—he was brought by the boy empress, who became Tigellinus' lover in order to bribe him, although their affair was as coercive and abusive as Sporus’ marriage to Nero. They would secretly meet whenever Nero was away from the capital, and Tigellinus would chuckle and say:
“How lucky I am to have the empress herself to warm my bed. What would your husband say if he found out, hein?"
To which Sporus would calmly answer “I don’t know what he would say. But I do know what he would do: Throw us both to the beasts in the Coliseum, so I suggest you keep your mouth shut and play your part. When Nero is dealt with, you may have me in your bed more often.” Which was a lie, for Sporus had no intention of being anyone's sex toy once Nero was out of the picture. No, his plans were much more ambitious.
Sporus also collected dirt on key senators, using palace gossip and pillow talk to create a web of blackmail and promises. He also secretly communicated with Galba, the governor of Spain, and his faction, telling Galba that Nero was planning to murder him, encouraging his revolt and inflating the scale of his forces. Through his allies in the court, he manipulated imperial intelligence, making the rebellion seem far worse than it was to Nero and exaggerating the emperor’s military incompetence to discredit him before the Guard and Senate.
In March of 68 AD, Sporus leaked forged documents suggesting Nero planned to raze Gaul in revenge. This spurred Vindex (a Gallic governor) into open rebellion. Vindex failed, but his rebellion inspired others—especially Galba. Shortly after this, Sporus encouraged Nero’s irrational responses: ordering executions, fantasizing about fleeing to Alexandria with him. The Senate began to turn. Sporus had quietly begun bribing officials to stall orders or lose dispatches, carefully ensuring all routes out of Rome were sealed—coaches “break down,” messengers “vanish,” ships are sabotaged. In June of 68 AD, Sabinus declared for Galba, offering the Praetorian Guard’s support. This was all coordinated by Sporus, who leaked “confessions” and “divine portents” suggesting Nero had lost the gods’ favor.
On June 9th, 68 AD, Nero awoke to find the palace guards gone. Only his secretary, Epaphroditus, remained, along with a few guards of his own. The freedman told Nero to go with him to his villa outside the city, where his remaining loyalists would be waiting. Nero complied, and fled to Epaphroditus’s villa, along with the secretary and his few remaining guards.
When they arrived in the villa, the place was organized and decorated in a roman funeral style: The air was heavy with incense. Funeral wreaths and black drapery lined the walls. Bronze mirrors reflected flickering torchlight. The walls were hung with mourning veils—as if for a noble's passing. This confused the emperor and the few remaining soldiers with him.
Suddenly, after Epaphroditus gave the signal, soldiers from the Praetorian Guard came out of hiding and killed the soldiers guarding Nero, arresting him and taking him to the villa’s atrium, where Sporus, the senate and the rest of the Praetorian Guard were. Nero was taken before Sporus, who sarcastically greeted the emperor as “husband.” He confronted the mad emperor emotionally, calmly recounting every public humiliation, every violation, every abuse. He told Nero he manipulated every step of his fall, pretending to be his loyal wife all along while scheming right under his nose.
"You made me your wife. You mutilated me, raped me, paraded me. You took my childhood, my body, my name, everything you could lay your hands on, you took it from me. I called you ‘love’, kissed you, sang for you, and played the devoted empress. And all the while, I learned. They (the senators, the guard) feared you. I studied you. Every note you sang, every decision you made, every person you had killed, every flicker of madness behind your eyes—I memorized it, and used it against you without you even knowing about it. Did you honestly think that I believed you loved me? You taught me betrayal, my Emperor. And so I betrayed you. In every kiss, every caress, every whisper. In every step that led you here."
Nero, in his usual dramatics, said “What an artist the world loses in me! They shall never find someone like me again!” To which Sporus replied “If they search Pluto’s fields of punishment, they might” before nodding to a Praetorian Guard. Hounds -great molossian war dogs -were bringed forth and Sporus ordered them unleashed. The hounds ate Nero alive in front of all the gathered.
Once it was all over, Sporus returned to Rome with his allies, claiming they were going to receive Galba in the city as the new emperor. Galba, unaware of Nero’s fate (have only being informed by Sporus the mad emperor would be dealt with by the time he arrived in the capital), marched into Rome, expecting to be greeted as savior. Instead, his arrival turned the city into a massacre. Citizens, senators, soldiers and freedmen resisted, believing Galba and his forces would sack Rome and plunge the city into anarchy, a belief planted by Sporus' web of whisperers. What should have been a triumph became a bloodbath. The first hour of his invasion became known in legend as “The Hour of Pluto”, when blood ran through the streets of Rome in an unprecedented massacre.
Galba stormed the Curia, only to find Sporus seated on the imperial throne, wearing the laurel crown of Nero, surrounded by the Senate and the Praetorian Guard. The eunuch-wife declared himself “Lucius Poppaeus Nero Sabinus Augustus”, a fabricated name tying him to Poppaea (the woman he was forced to become), to Nero (his abusive husband and rapist), and to Rome’s divine bloodlines (by divine right earned through scheming and bloodshed). He claimed that he killed the tyrant, sparing Rome civil war and chaos, and accused Galba of being a usurper from the provinces, unfit to rule. He had Galba and his men publicly crucified, posing as the man who delivered justice to Rome. Galba’s last words as he died on the cross were “Rome has no future under a whore like you!” to Sporus, who was formally and publicly crowned emperor on that same night. The coronation took place in the Domus Aurea, Nero's former residence, which Sporus took for himself after his ascension.
Sporus as emperor was an unprecedented figure in Roman history—his very existence provoked shock, revulsion, fascination, and political tension. The urban plebs were initially delighted by Nero’s death, as he was a man they viewed as decadent, mad, and dangerous. Sporus, seen publicly as the victim, was sympathetically received at first, especially after claiming he killed Nero to save Rome. His spectacle of power (the execution of Nero and Galba, the blood-drenched imagery) stunned the populace into a mix of fearful respect and morbid fascination.
But over time, mockery and rumor began to seep in: Whispers about “the Empress in a man’s toga.” where heard everywhere from the poorest house to the richest villa. Street performers mimicked him in private until the secret police silenced them. Murals and graffiti depicted him as a hybrid figure, half Poppaea, half Nero, with serpents and hounds at his feet. Among women, especially imperial women and patricians, Sporus inspired conflicted admiration: A symbol of survival through subjugation, proof that intelligence and cunning can triumph over male tyranny.
Among slaves and eunuchs, he became a legend: The slave who rose to power, the abused who outwitted his master. Whispers compared him to Hercules, if Hercules had defeated Juno rather than served her. He became a folk figure, but also a volatile symbol. To some, a hero. To others, a blasphemy. The Vestals, augurs, and priests interpreted Sporus’s rule as a divine warning. Dreams and omens were reported: crows nesting in temples, a blood moon over the Forum, children born with neither sex. Some claimed Jupiter had turned his face from Rome. Cults of Cybele and Attis (which included eunuch priests) embraced Sporus, claiming him as a divine instrument. But these cults were already fringe and viewed with suspicion by mainstream Romans.
The Senate was appalled at first: An 11-years-old child, an eunuch, a former slave, wearing the purple. The murder of Galba—a noble and former consul—by someone once used as Nero’s entertainment, was viewed as a humiliation by many. Publicly, they praised him for ending a tyrant and saving Rome. Privately, they whispered of divine punishment, unnatural omens, and plots to restore aristocratic dignity. Some senators sought to use him as a puppet—underestimating his intelligence and political skill. Others turned to religion and superstition, believing Sporus to be a bad omen or even a harbinger of Rome's decline.
The Praetorian Guard, having backed Sporus, were loyal so long as coin and authority flowed. The provincial legions, especially in Gaul, Hispania, and the East, saw Sporus as illegitimate: An unnatural ruler, a dangerous precedent, a fuel for rebellion or usurpation. Men rallied under the banner of “restoring roman manhood” to power, claiming Sporus was just “a whore with a crown”, echoing Galba’s last words. These rebellions were brutally crushed by the Praetorian Legion, the bodies of the rebels being impaled and exposed for days as a warning to those thinking of rallying against Sporus.
However, the warning was not clear enough to Nymphidius Sabinus, prefect of the Praetorian Guard. Though he initially carried out Sporus' orders, he quickly began to resent the eunuch emperor once he realized Sporus wasn't someone he could easily manipulate. He started plotting with Tigellinus, co-prefect of the Guard (whom Sporus had an affair with) to have the boy discredited among the soldiers by having Tigellinus publicly confess in the Castra Praetoria how he “took the empress to bed when she was still Nero's” as Tigellinus phrased.
However, Sporus, always a step ahead, planted false rumors that he and Tigellinus were actually married in secret before Nero’s death. When Tigellinus tried to discredit Sporus by publicly admitting the affair in the Castra Praetoria courtyard, Sporus showed up in the barracks with forged wedding documents and flipped the narrative, accusing Tigellinus of treason and adultery against Sporus himself, not Nero, and bringing forth women whom Tigellinus had affairs with to confirm his version. He also exposed Nymphidius and Tigellinus' plans in front of the whole Praetorian Guard. Tigellinus and Nymphidius were arrested, and later publicly beheaded. Sporus asserted that day that "no man who ever touched the widow of Nero shall rule her.”
Chapter 2: Changing an Empire
Summary:
Sporus has secured the roman throne and eliminated enemies, but being an emperor is not just about getting rid of enemies. It is about making allies.
Notes:
IMPORTANT WARNING: This is my first work and not a beta read. Also, there may be several historical/cultural innacurancies, for which I apologise beforehand. Keep in mind this is fiction, and while some of the characters in this fanfic did exist in real life, parts of their stories and personalities have been altered. Other characters, however, are purely original.
This story contains mentions of blood, violence and sexual abuse. Altought there are no graphic scenes, I seriosuly ask you to not read it if it triggers traumas and/or flashbacks.
Playlist of this chapter:
-The Iron Trials: The Battle by Hans Zimmer and Lisa Gerrard (from the Gladiator movie)
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-Vibia and the Praetorian Guard: Strength and Honor by Hans Zimmer and Lisa Gerrard (from the Gladiator movie)
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-Sporus' reing: Breaker of Chains by Ramin DjawadiDISCLAIMER: I don't claim ownership of any of these tracks. All rights belong to the original creators.
Chapter Text
The deaths of Nymphidius and Tigellinus created a power vacuum. With both Praetorian prefects dead, Sporus had to reestablish order, reward loyalty, and send a message that he was in control—not merely reacting to events. He also had to choose new prefects for the Praetorian Guard before the soldiers began to plot against him again. Begrudgingly, he agreed to host games in the Coliseum to give an air of normalcy in his reign. He also announced the new prefect and co-prefect of the Praetorian Legion would be chosen in the games, and any citizen of Rome’s military class could participate—including common soldiers. The event was named “The Iron Trials” and it was both a political theater and martial contest. “Let them earn their title as I earned my throne: with sweat, blood and tears” Sporus said on the eve of the games.
Among the many participants of the Iron Trials, there was a gladiatrix from Germanic origins, known as Vibia Ferox. Her real name was unknown, and she refused to speak it, believing it died with the people of her village when roman soldiers invaded it and massacred them. She was beaten, chained and taken as a slave to the Roman Empire, where she was sold to a Ludus at Capua at age 10. She was expected to die quickly, but surprised everyone by surviving brutal training meant for grown men, winning her first match by ripping out her opponent’s throat after disarming him at 11, and emerging undefeated in a dozen minor games across the provinces. Her Lanista entered her into the Iron Trials to curry favor with Sporus—hoping she would die spectacularly and he would win a pension for offering a "rare savage". Vibia, who was 13 years old then, hadn't lost a fight in two years, and she defeated every single opponent that day, fighting with grim focus and refusing to look at the crowd. Her kills were precise, performed with the terrifying calm of someone who refused to be an entertainment. After her third kill, the crow began to cheer “Ferox! Ferox! Ferox!” When asked to kneel before the final match, she simply said “I kneel to no man.” Sporus smiled for the first time in weeks.
In the final fight, Vibia faced a brutal, beloved Praetorian named Lucius Crispus, champion of the Guard. He called her a “slave sow” and promised to “gut her pretty for the boy-emperor.” The fight was long, dirty, and savage. Vibia was severely wounded—but killed Lucius by driving her dagger into his open mouth and out the back of his skull. She collapsed before the corpse, bleeding, panting. The Coliseum was totally quiet. Sporus rose and addressed the crowd “She bled for Rome before it ever knew her name. Let it never forget her now. This is your new Prefect of the Praetorian Guard: Vibia Ferox.” His announcement sent shockwaves through the aristocracy: A woman, a slave, a barbarian—given command over the emperor’s life. Among the people, however, there was a wild celebration. Songs were sung. Children pretended to be “the Wolf-Girl” in alleyways.
The Praetorian Guard had mixed reactions, mostly of shock, disdain and outrage. Veterans were the most furious. Many saw Vibia as a barbarian from Germania, Rome’s old enemy, a child and woman with no formal military experience, a slave, (which to them equaled subhuman), and worse, a gladiator, someone trained to entertain, not lead. Officers and centurions whispered about Sporus’ “madness,” seeing Vibia as a tool, a puppet of the “degenerate she-emperor”. Some men refused orders. Some quietly deserted. Others planned assassination or mutiny. But Vibia didn’t try to win them over. She led the way she fought: Silent. Relentless. Just. Merciless. She trained daily with the soldiers, often humiliating arrogant veterans by disarming or outlasting them. She ate with the men, and slept in the barracks, refusing Sporus' offer of a private villa or silk bed. She executed treason and rape cases swiftly, having zero tolerance for cruelty to civilians or servants. She also named loyal, competent and often low-born soldiers to key positions.
Vibia established training regimes that emphasized agility, survival tactics, and street combat—not just parade ground formality. Se also required moral oaths from officers: No rape. No extortion. No unjust punishment of civilians. She was visible and involved, personally overseeing patrols in dangerous districts and investigating corruption and treason herself. Slowly, but surely, a lot of soldiers in the Praetorian Guard came to respect her, and she became Sporus’ right hand, the only person who he really trusted, and the one who executed justice in his name, however cruel it was sometimes.
It is important to note that Sporus' cruelty was not like that of his deceased husband: Where Nero was sadistic and driven by madness, Sporus was cold and calculating, aiming to consolidate power through whatever means required: He had those who mocked him or plotted against him brutally executed, often having them castrated and crucified, but just as often having them dressed as women and throw to the beasts in the Coliseum, while cultivating favor with the people, specially lower classes like women, priests and common soldiers.
Sporus’ trauma at the hands of Nero formed the basis of his rule, influencing every aspect of his personal life and public persona. One of his first acts as emperor was to burn the dresses, make-up and jewelry Nero made him wear. From that point on, he never dressed as a woman again, and would always wear full-imperial regalia and modest togas that covered most of his body, even on hot days. He never indulged in lavish banquets, orgies or games, carrying himself as a solemn, hardened boy-emperor, which made him look much older than 11.
Understandably, he didn’t occupy Nero’s chambers after his ascension, due to the countless violations he suffered there during his time as Nero’s wife, but didn’t forbid the servants from keeping it clean. Nero’s statues, however, were another matter entirely, and Sporus had them all teared down. He also went to great lengths to demonize his husband’s memory, hiring scribes and historians from all over the Roman Empire to write Nero as he truly was: a mad emperor consumed by lust, excesses, cheap cruelty and sadism.
Curiously, despite demonizing Nero's memory and tearing down his statues, when questioned or mocked by the Senate, Sporus would say things like "Remember I am Nero's widow. If there is something my husband taught me is how to inflict pain. I can teach any of you if you wish, but I don't guarantee you would survive the lessons." No one but Sporus was allowed to refer to himself as "Nero's widow", "empress", "she" or "her".
His legal reforms were also deeply rooted in his trauma: He abolished sexual slavery and created harsher punishments for rape, as well as laws that protected slaves. Those laws mirrored jewish laws on how slaves, as well as their families, had to be treated with dignity and respect.
He also offered reparations to the christian population of Rome, for all the persecution they faced under Nero's reign and the false accusation of being the ones to burn Rome. Sporus was no christian himself, but he sympathized with them due to also being a victim of Nero’s madness. He lifted the persecution over them and created courts they could appeal to in case of wrongdoing against them. Other religious minorities like jews and the Cults of Cybele and Attis were granted better treatment from the roman government by Sporus orders.
His court was formed of eunuchs, educated women, former slaves, christian elders, jewish scholars, stoic priests and priests of female or minor deities, all of them chosen to replace Nero's former senators and sycophants, who were all viciously hunted down and executed. He didn’t throw lavish banquets, orgies or grand games at the Coliseum like other emperors before him, and didn't take any man or woman for consort or lover. Nero's nightly violations marked him too deeply for that, and his position as an eunuch was a constant reminder of what was robbed of him forever: a normal sexual life.
There were plenty of rumors, however, that the Sporus had feelings for Vibia Ferox, and that she had feelings for him as well, as she was the only person in the court who was truly close to the emperor. Not only was she in charge of the Praetorian Guard, but also his main adviser outside the Senate, and both the plebes and the nobles whispered the most wild stories about "the forbidden romance between the emperor and his prefect."
These rumors were far from reality thought. Sporus respected Vibia immensely, and trusted her with his life, seeing in her a survivor like him, a person who Rome used as a form of enterteinment and now feared more than anything else. Vibia, for her part, was grateful for Sporus for freeing her and giving her power, and was very aware of his story with Nero, but unlike many senators and soldiers, she saw no reason for ridicule in Sporus' past, defending his honor before the Praetorian Guard and brutally punishing soldiers who whispered about the emperor's past with mockery or disdain.
"If this is how you speak about your emperor, the man you are suposed to defend, how do you expect to be respected by the plebes?" She once said after pubicly wipping a soldier for calling Sporus "Rome's harlot empress."
Sporus quickly became a folk hero among the common people, especially among the marginalized. His legal reforms elevated him as a moral, avenging god-emperor, someone who had suffered and emerged as protector of the innocent. The plebe called him “Divine Sporus,” “The Redeemer,” and even “Venus Incarnate”—a living god in a human body, neither man nor woman, touched by divine justice. But the awe was mixed with deep fear. His public executions of mockers and plotters, especially his theatrical use of castration and feminization before death, haunted the streets. His presence on public events became a sacred terror—not quite love, not quite dread.
The aristocracy, however, was outraged by the destruction of Nero’s statues and the purge of the Senate. Sporus’s replacement of senatorial elites with eunuchs, priests, and women was seen as blasphemous and destabilizing: Roman elite masculinity was centered on control, conquest, and legacy—everything Sporus either upended or denied. Many fled to provinces to plot in secret, or try to court eastern legions. When revolts arose, Sporus’s unforgiving response—public crucifixions, symbolic executions—cemented his legend as both protector and punisher.
State cult priests, for their part, were confused, suspicious, and hostile. Sporus violated traditional Roman values by avoiding marriage or public sexual relationships and associating with female and minor deities like Cybele, Bona Dea, Hecate, and Isis. However, some minor priesthoods flourished under him: Eunuch-priests of Cybele gained status and Vestal Virgins and female diviners were invited to court. Sporus subtly reoriented state religion by encouraging female or chthonic deities over martial male gods. This made conservative priests see him as a pollution of the Pax Deorum. Christians, surprised by his sympathy, began to whisper that he might be a pagan Cyrus, even a prefiguration of Christ—especially after the reparations and lifting of persecution.
Regular troops were loyal: They were paid, they were respected, discipline was restored. But some commanders saw Sporus’ moral reforms as signs of weakness, or worse—divine inversion. His lack of sexual partners, absence of banquets and brothels, and the inclusion of women and eunuchs in command stirred resentment. His early military victories, putting down uprisings with clarity and force, helped solidify control—but eastern legions and provincial governors remained plotting, considering him an affront to martial Roman virtues.
Sporus’ court - which quickly became known as The Court of Virtue - became a symbol of the new Rome: Educated women with power, eunuchs with portfolios, freed slaves as governors and judges, jewish law masters, christian elders and stoic philosophers occupying the same space. To outsiders, the court was either a paradise or a perversion: A place of wisdom, tolerance, and dignity to some, and a den of unnatural, unmanly decadence to others.
Proeminent members of his court included Epaphroditus, who continued to serve as secretary under Sporus, and Calvia Crispinilla, the woman appointed by Nero as "mistress of the wardrobe" to Sporus. The eunuch emperor absolved her of the role she played in his abuse, recorgnizing she had been Nero's puppet as much he had. After Sporus ascension she became his Spymaster, collecting secrets on his enemies and whispers on the streets of Rome.
Chapter 3: Building a Family and Healing
Summary:
Every emperor needs a sucessor, and Sporus finds one in the most unexpected way.
Notes:
IMPORTANT WARNING: This is my first work and not a beta read. Also, there may be several historical/cultural innacurancies, for which I apologise beforehand. Keep in mind this is fiction, and while some of the characters in this fanfic did exist in real life, parts of their stories and personalities have been altered. Other characters, however, are purely original.
This story contains mentions of blood, violence and sexual abuse. Altought there are no graphic scenes, I seriosuly ask you to not read it if it triggers traumas and/or flashbacks.
Playlist of this chapter:
-Otho's rebellion: Dracarys by Ramin Djawadi
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-Adopting Zephyrus: Honor him by Hans Zimmer and Lisa Gerrard (from the Gladiator movie)
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-The Senate's proposal/Sporus and Zephyrus: House of the Dragon OST - Rhaenyra's Pageant | Viserys Confronts Rhaenyra by Diego Mitre Music
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-Sporus and Vibia: True Meaning of Loyalty by Ramin Djawadi
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-The wedding ceremony: The Crown Of Jaehaerys (Rhaenyra's Coronation) - House of the Dragon | EPIC VERSION by L'Orchestra CinématiqueDISCLAIMER: I don't claim ownership of any of these tracks. All rights belong to the original creators.
Chapter Text
In the middle of 69 AD, the second year of Sporus’ reign, another rebellion rose against the eunuch-emperor. The core conspirators were highborn senators whose wealth and privilege were eroded by Sporus’ reforms—those who profited from the old systems of corruption, abuse, and slave trading. Many were descended from patrician lines and saw Sporus (an eunuch, former slave, and child) as a personal affront to Roman tradition. They considered themselves custodes traditionis—guardians of Roman virtue. Publicly, they slandered Sporus’ youth, background, and “perversion” of Roman values. Privately, they mourned the loss of their unchecked power. This faction secretly made contact with Otho, a provincial governor in Hispania, known for his ambition and mild popularity with the troops. They promised him imperial legitimacy if he took the throne and restored “order.”
Otho, emboldened by a promise of support from the Senate and several provincial legions, declared himself Imperator Caesar Augustus in a public ceremony, mocking Sporus as "The Widow-Empress" and "Nero’s Eunuch Consort." Several legions in Gaul and Hispania defected, bribed and promised spoils. The rebellion moved swiftly, attempting to seize key grain routes in Africa and Italy to starve Rome and provoke internal unrest.
Vibia, who was 14 years old back then, immediately locked down the capital, purged suspected conspirators, and took personal command of the Imperial legions loyal to Sporus. She moved fast, executing a bold campaign of attrition: striking supply lines and burning forges and granaries used by the rebels. She used knowledge of Germanic ambush tactics learned in childhood to surprise Otho’s forces in a gorge in Northern Italy, leading a flanking maneuver that resulted in a catastrophic defeat for the rebels.
Captured traitors were castrated and crucified, mimicking the punishments often reserved for enemies of the state. In the capital, rebellious senators were publicly shamed, stripped of their rank, and marched through the Forum before being feminized and fed to the beasts in the Coliseum. Otho, knowing his head would not remain on his neck for long if the boy-emperor had anything to say about it, pledged for an audience with Sporus, where he tried to bargain for his life by gifting the emperor one of his own slaves, a 5-years-old nameless boy (whom Otho simply refered to as "Rat"), to serve as a slave in the imperial court.
The boy was terrified, and didn't say a single word as he was presented before the emperor and the court. Sporus didn’t show it, but in that moment, the boy reminded him of his younger self: a scared little boy in Nero's court, given away like property, and this made him even more angry at Otho. In an unprecedented moment, he accepted the boy in his court, but not as a slave: as his heir. He named the boy Zephyrus and adopted him as his son.
Sporus' decision was driven both by emotion and politics: He had no biological heirs, and no way of having them (he was an eunuch), so his death or illness could trigger another large scale rebellion or even a civil war, unless he trained a successor. As gasps and shouts of surprise and outrage echoed through the hall following Sporus' announcement, the emperor sentenced Otho to damnatio ad bestias, ordering him fed to the same hounds that devoured Nero.
Zephyrus, for his part, was initially confused and frightened. But Sporus did not treat him as property—he treated him as heir, as son, as a second self. He chose the child’s tutors personally: Greek philosophers, Stoic ethicists, female scribes, Jewish scholars, Christian elders. He ensured Zephyrus was never alone, always flanked by guards or trusted eunuchs. He had Vibia Ferox train him in combat and self defense so he would never be a victim like Sporus was. Access to the boy was restricted to an almost divine level, in order to keep him safe. “He is my heir and the future of Rome,” Sporus reportedly said once. “Harm him, and you harm the gods.” After a soldier made a lewd comment about Zephyrus while sexually harassing him, Sporus ordered his right hand maimed in public, declaring: “Let the hand that dishonors innocence be made useless to sin again.”
The little boy came to view Sporus with a mix of awe, love, and confusion. At first, he looked untouchable, more deity than parent—he called him “Pater" and followed him around the Domus Aurea, but never hugged him in public. As time passed, he began to understand the weight of Sporus’s trauma, despite his young age, and became the only person Sporus allowed to see him grieving or smiling. The emperor was physically affectionate with the boy in a way he was with no one else, hugging him, lifting him up and spinning him around, holding his hand whenever they were together, allowing Zephyrus to curl against him when reading. He would give the boy scrolls, tablets, armor and greek poetry, pay personal attention to his emotional needs and treat him with a reverence he himself never received from anyone during childhood.
Among the plebes, The adoption was romanticized: The child was seen as a symbol of a new age, hope out of horror. Poets called him “The son of sorrow.” and “The little sage.” Rumors swirled that Zephyrus was a divine soul sent to heal the emperor’s heart.
However, many in the elite saw the boy as a political liability or powder keg. “A child raised by monsters will become one,” some muttered. Others whispered that Zephyrus would be a puppet, a tyrant worse than Sporus. The emperor’s refusal to name any adult as heir was viewed as dangerous and un-Roman. Some spreaded cruel and unfounded rumors of impropriety, even incestuous affection—attempts to tarnish the bond and undermine Sporus’s moral authority.
The soldiers, specially the Praetorian Guard, mostly respected him as the designated heir, due to the fact Vibia herself trained him. Guards who protected him were fiercely loyal (especially after seeing what happened to the man who crossed Sporus). Some in the legions quietly grumbled about the boy’s soft appearance and academic focus—"How is a little schoolar like him going to wield a sword and defend Rome one day?"
After her crushing victory against Otho’s rebellion, Vibia’s legend spread like wildfire: Commoners called her “the Wolf-Mother,” protector of Rome and guardian of the child-emperor. Graffiti depicted her not as a gladiator, but as a warrior-goddess: Mars in feminine form. Children played games as “Ferox and the Lions,” retelling her military feats. Women and slaves saw her as a symbol of strength, survival, and leadership. Some even began comparing her to Romulus and Remus' she-wolf, who raised Rome’s founders—making Vibia the spiritual mother of a new Rome, and by extension, of Zephyrus. However, Vibia herself had no ambitions of being more than the Prefect of the Praetorian Guard, and was fiercely loyal to Sporus.
By the end of 69 AD, the Senate, already disempowered by Sporus’ reforms, was growing increasingly paranoid to to Vibia’s growing popularity. Whispers arose "She commands the Guard. She is beloved by the people. And she is not castrated like the Emperor." A marriage was proposed in the Curia, during a senate session, under the guise of "uniting strength and wisdom, sword and law." Their true motive was clear: control the Praetorian Guard through symbolic assimilation, and force Sporus into a more “acceptable” masculine role. After the proposal was made, a silence fell. Sporus' reply was cold and quiet at first, and then boiling: “I am not a broodmare the Empire can sell out to solve its problems. I was raped on this throne by the last man who called himself Emperor. I will not be raped again by your applause.” He then walked out, leaving the senate stunned.
When hearing about the senate’s marriage proposal, Vibia privately told Sporus: “I follow your banner, not your bed. I may be willing to marry you for duty, but know this: I see you as family, not conquest.” When she realized Sporus felt cornered, she made the decision to publicly renounce the idea herself to protect his agency. “Rome may think I am a wolf, but even a wolf does not mate in a cage.” she proclaimed.
This didn't stop the senate from plotting again however, viewing Sporus’ refusal as weakness and branding it as “The Widow’s Madness”. Some senators began trying to elevate Vibia as a rival ruler or regent. Pamphlets and graffiti appeared all over the capital: “Rome needs a sword, not a skirt.” Vibia was forced to quash her own cult of personality to prove her loyalty— even arresting and executing a splinter of the Praetorian Guard that planned to assassinate Sporus and crown her empress of Rome. “Only traitors say I’d betray my Emperor.” She said after the executions. It didn’t take long for public unrest to brew after this, but Sporus was resolute in his decision to remain a widow.
It was 5-years-old Zephyrus, with his old-soul wisdom, who convinced Sporus to consider the marriage proposal. The boy, who already saw Sporus as a father and Vibia as a mother, watched the chaos erupt around him, and deep inside knew it would only end when his adoptive parents got married. But he understood the depths of Sporus’ trauma, and didn’t push him on it. Instead, he quietly approached the subject with him during a quiet night, when he was curled against the emperor on the bed while Sporus read Greek poetry to him. Sporus layed reclined on pillows, wearing a plain deep-purple toga, his crown set aside for the night. In his lap there was a parchment of Orpheus poetry, his soft voice echoing in the quiet:
“…And Orpheus wept not for the world he lost, But for the silence where her voice had been.” Sporus closed the scroll gently and looked down at the boy. “Still awake?”
Zephyrus’ voice came softly. “I like it when you read.” Sporus smiled faintly and brushed a dark curl from the child’s brow. They sat like that for a long moment, the hush between them as warm and heavy as a woolen blanket. Then, quietly—too quietly—Zephyrus spoke again.
“Pater... why won’t you marry Mater?”
Sporus stiffened. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he exhaled slowly and folded the scroll with careful fingers, as if the act of setting it aside might delay the question’s weight.
“Because peace bought with my body is no peace at all.”
Zephyrus turned his face into Sporus’ side, frowning into the folds of his toga. “It is because of him, isn’t it?”
Sporus froze. He didn’t need to ask who “him” was. The boy never said his name. Neither of them did. After a long pause, Sporus murmured, “How much do you know?”
Zephyrus lifted his gaze—calm, ancient, unblinking. “Some of the guards talk when they think I’m not listening. And once, I heard a senator laughing about… a wedding dress. He said… he said you were ‘ruined like a woman. That he made you wear dresses. That he… hurt you. A lot.”
Sporus closed his eyes. His jaw clenched so tightly the veins stood out in his neck. He said nothing, but the silence shuddered between them. Zephyrus gently took his hand. His voice, still soft, now carried a trembling honesty.
“But they say things about me too. That I was a gift. That I’m not really your son. That I’ll be a puppet like you were. That I’ll end up a slave again.”
Sporus turned to look at him, sharp and sudden—but Zephyrus’s gaze didn't waver.
“I don’t believe them. Not about me. And not about you. You made me free. Not just from Otto. From being that scared boy. You made me a name, and a place, and a way to be clean again. But you still live like you’re in his bedchambers. Like he’s watching. Like you’re still his.”
Sporus swallowed. His voice was hoarse when it came “Sometimes it feels like I am. Still. Like no matter what crown I wear, I’m always on my knees again. Do you really think I can forget what he made of me?”
Zephyrus shook his head. “Not forget. Just… not let it win.” There was a quiet bravery in his eyes. The kind of strength that knew pain, and still reached out. “Vibia isn’t like him. She would never hurt you. You know that. She fights for you. Fights for me. She doesn’t think you’re broken. I don’t either.”
That line hit something Sporus didn’t know he’d left exposed. His breath faltered. Zephyrus’ small fingers closed tighter around his own.
“You don’t have to marry her. But maybe… maybe don’t say no just because of him. Say no for you, if you still want to. But not for him. He’s dead. You’re not.”
Sporus looked down at their joined hands. His fingers—long, elegant, once manicured by Nero’s own “mistress of the wardrobe”—were trembling. Slowly, he released his hand and brushed the boy’s curls from his forehead. He leaned down, pressing his lips to Zephyrus’s temple. “You’re too wise for a five-year-old,” he murmured with a smile, to which Zephyrus sleepy replied “Someone has to be.”
The next morning, before sunrise, Sporus summoned Vibia for a private meeting with him in the imperial gardens. He waited for her beneath a laurel tree, wearing a dark imperial toga, modest as always. Vibia approached from the eastern gate, dressed in simple armor, hair tied back, sword at her hip. She stopped a few meters away from him, and said:
“You summoned me before sunrise. Either Rome is burning again…Or you want to talk.” Sporus answered dryly “Just words. No executions. Not yet.”
Vibia raised an eyebrow. She walked to the stone bench opposite him and sat. They studied each other in comfortable silence for a few moments, until Sporus said “The Senate still wants us married.” To which Vibia answered “They’d marry me to a goat if it made them feel safe.”
“A goat might be easier to talk to.” Sporus said nonchalantly. “True. Less scheming. More headbutting.” Added Vibia with a smile. A brief smile formed on Sporus’ lips. Then a pause—he sobered “Zephyrus asked me about it last night. The proposal. He asked why I refused. I told him…’Because peace bought with my body is no peace at all.’”
“That 's truth.” Vibia acknowledged. Sporus continued “Then he said something that stopped my breath. He said… “You still live like you’re in his bedchambers. Like he’s watching. Like you’re still his.”
Vibia 's jaw tightened. But she didn’t speak. Sporus sighed “He’s five. And yet… he saw through me like I was glass. He told me I don’t have to be his anymore. That I could be free from Nero’s shadow.”
“He 's right.” Vibia said vehemently, to which Sporus quietly answered “I don’t believe him. But gods help me… I want to. He said his past doesn’t define him anymore. That I gave him a name and a place. And then he asked why I couldn’t let someone do the same for me.” He looked up at her then. Vulnerable, but steady. “He’s too wise for his age.”
Vibia gave him a small, wry smile “Of course he is. He was trained by me, after all.” Sporus let out a soft laugh, almost involuntary. “He’s right about something else, too.” Vibia added gently “I don’t see you as broken. Or cursed. I’ve buried cursed men. You don’t smell like one.”
“What do I smell like?” Sporus asked dryly. “Like old iron.” Vibia answered with no hesitation “Like someone who lived through fire and didn’t melt.”
“If I ever did… consider the idea. Of marriage. Would you despise me for it?” Asked Sporus after a long moment of silence. Vibia looked at him with genuine surprise “No. But I would only agree if you did it from strength. Not surrender. Not because the Senate barked loud enough.”
“I don't love you. Not like that.” Sporus said plainly.
“And I don’t love you.” Answered Vibia in the same plain tone “But I trust you. And I know how many knives have pointed at your back that didn’t reach you because I stood in the way.”
“If we ever did it… it would be symbolic. Like an oath.” Sporus said. “Then let it be that, and nothing else.” Vibia answered “When—if—you’re ready.”
And so, after weeks spent on reclusion and deep thought, Sporus made his decision: To present a counterproposal to the senate, stating his and Vibia’s conditions for the marriage. In the next senate session, he entered the Curia Julia in full imperial regalia, accompanied by Vibia, who wore a crimson cloak over her armor. Zephyrus, walking between them, watched silently, already an imperial figure in the making. Sporus then addressed the senate, his voice clear, cold, and deliberate: “Rome has whispered that its emperor must marry, that strength and virtue must share a bed. So be it. Let Rome watch. Let them witness not the union of man and woman, but of iron and will.” Then he read the terms of his counterproposal aloud - one by one.
- Vibia Ferox would retain full military command as Prefect of the Praetorian Guard, with additional status as Imperatrix Praetoria.
“The sword does not rust because it is kissed.” - She would have freedoms denied to all empresses before her: the right to command legions, own property, speak in the Senate, and pass edicts in the emperor’s name when delegated.
“The wolf does not need permission to hunt.” - Their private life would be theirs alone.
“Rome may crown us, but it shall not undress us.” - Should either party break the terms, the marriage was void under imperial law, without needing Senate approval.
Once he was done, a stunned silence filled the chamber. One senator finally spoke, trying to protest: “This is not how marriage works!” Sporus turned his gaze on him, calm as winter: “Then consider it not a marriage, but a treaty. Between equals.”
Sporus and Vibia’s wedding ceremony was held not in the traditional temples of Juno or Jupiter, but in the Forum itself, surrounded by the Senate (forced into attendance), the Praetorian Guard (fiercely loyal to Vibia) and foreign emissaries, religious leaders, freedman and common citizens. Sporus was dressed in full imperial purple, not a trace of femininity or submission. Historians say his regalia was designed to evoke both Augustus and Aeneas—an emperor of blood, ash, and myth. Upon his shoulder, there was a brooch shaped like a phoenix—a creature reborn from fire.
Vibia, on the other hand, wore a modified centurion’s armor, polished to silver, with a crimson cloak clasped with laurel and iron. She carried a ceremonial sword, not a veil. A carved wolf’s head formed her pauldron, and the dagger she used to kill Lucius Crispus in the Iron Trials was sheathed on her belt. She and Sporus recited personal oaths before the people and the priests of Vesta:
“I will not claim your body, nor chain your spirit." Sporus vowed to Vibia "I give you this laurel not as a husband gives to a wife, but as an emperor crowns a general. Stand beside me. And should I fall, strike my enemies down with the fire you carry.”
“I ask for no bed, no crown, no claim to Rome." Vowed Vibia "I ask only this: To fight for you, and for the child who carries both our shadows. So long as I wear this laurel, no blade shall reach you that does not pass through me.”
As they spoke, the Praetorian Guard knelt, and Sporus and Vibia exchanged gifts instead of rings: Sporus gave Vibia a laurel crown, dipped in molten bronze. Vibia gave Sporus the dagger she used in the Iron Trials. The pact between them was sealed.
Not long after their marriage, the streets of Rome buzzed with talk. Graffiti appeared overnight across the walls of the Subura and Aventine: “The Wolf and the Salve, crowned in laurel and steel”, “Hail to the Empress of the Sword!”, “Sporus burns, and Ferox bites—Rome is safe.” Plebeians celebrated not the wedding, but what it meant: A woman with a sword could lead, a survivor could rule, power no longer came from bloodlines, but earned loyalty. Women, in particular, gathered in the forums and temples, laying down laurel wreaths in Sporus’ name and iron bracelets for Vibia. A lot of them claimed the union was blessed by Bona Dea and Hecate, rather than Juno.
Meanwhile, conservative senators seethed. They called the terms of the marriage "a mockery of Roman dignity". Some pushed anonymous pamphlets denouncing Sporus as “the eunuch whore”, “Juno in a toga” and “an emperor who speaks of rape like a temple courtesan!”. There were also pamphlets denouncing Vibia as “A barbarian whore leading the Guard!” However, they didn’t dare act openly. The people loved the emperor, and Vibia commanded the very guards who protected the Senate steps. As for the religious orders, the Vestals support the union, calling it a sacred balance of Mars and Vesta. The Cults of Cybele and Isis saw the marriage as a divine sign—a slave-emperor uniting with a warrior-woman. State cult priests, however, warned of ominous omens: A hawk found dead in the temple of Jupiter. A goat birthing a child with two heads. “The gods do not look kindly on this blurring of roles,” one pontifex said—and was later found hanging from the temple rafters with a wolf’s tooth embedded in his tongue.
Chapter 4: The Past Comes Back
Summary:
The past comes back to haunt Sporus in the worst way possible.
Notes:
IMPORTANT WARNING: This is my first work and not a beta read. Also, there may be several historical/cultural innacurancies, for which I apologise beforehand. Keep in mind this is fiction, and while some of the characters in this fanfic did exist in real life, parts of their stories and personalities have been altered. Other characters, however, are purely original.
This story contains mentions of blood, violence and sexual abuse. Altought there are no graphic scenes, I seriosuly ask you to not read it if it triggers traumas and/or flashbacks.
Playlist of this chapter:
-Sporus and Vibia's first time: House of the Dragon OST - Rhaenyra and Ser Criston Cole by Diego Mitre Music
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-Intimacy aftermath: House Hightower Theme (Emotional Version) | House Of The Dragon Soundtrack | HQ COVER by Crystilo Music
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-The Fall of Jerusalem/Gaius' uprising and Sporus' reaction: Bloodlines Will Burn by Ramin Djawadi
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-The Mourning for Jerusalem: Lucerys's Funeral | House of the Dragon S2 E1 | OST Cover by Diego Mitre Music
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-The Senate Session/Gaius' letter: I Want Aemond Targaryen - House of the Dragon S2 Orchestral Cover by Attack on Orchestra
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-The Widow's Wrath: The Throne is Mine by Ramin Djawadi
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-The Legio Fidei and Gaius' coalition: All Must Choose by Ramin Djawadi
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-Sporus and Faustina/Faustina's speech: Break the Wheel by Ramin DjawadiDISCLAIMER: I don't claim ownership of any of these tracks. All rights belong to the original creators.
Chapter Text
The year of 70 AD was a tumultuous one for both Sporus and Vibia. After a few months of symbolic marriage, they both agreed to try intimacy—not out of love, but out of curiosity. But after it Sporus felt dirty and soiled, not because he didn't enjoy it, but precisely because he enjoyed it, and he didn’t feel like it was something he was supposed to enjoy. His past trauma made him see sex as 1) something forced onto someone (like with Nero) or 2) a tool for blackmail (like with Tigellinus), not something done out of pleasure, which is why he felt so disgusted at himself: for enjoying something that only ever brought him pain.
He avoided Vibia for days after it, treating her with formality and privately bathing several times a day, sometimes scrubbing his skin raw, particularly his inner thighs and arms, as if trying to erase what happened. During a council meeting, he snapped at her for the first time in months—later he wept privately for it, collapsing in his chambers and breaking down emotionally. Zephyrus later found his father hugging himself in the ground, his face buried in his knees and his shoulders shaking violently. He approached him quietly, and when Sporus saw him, he hugged him tightly.
Vibia, for her part, was confused, but not angry. She suspected what was happening. She tried to give Sporus’ space, even defending him in front of the Senate. As a coping mechanism, the emperor had commissioned a golden funerary mask of Nero’s face, and had it secretly delivered to him once it was finished. He kept the mask in his chambers, and sometimes spoke to it when alone, as if debating with a ghost. When feeling weak, he taunted the mask as if it was Nero himself, boasting of his victory over his abuser.
Meanwhile, the First Roma-Jewish War, a conflict inherited from Nero’s reign, continued to go on in the province of Judea. Though Sporus issued no direct orders, Roman legates and generals—especially veterans loyal to old-line Roman values—used the ongoing unrest in Judea as a chance to prove martial strength and gain glory. The Roman army, led by Titus, surrounded Jerusalem, cutting off supplies and starving the population. Roman forces breached the city walls, and the Second Temple, a central religious and cultural site for Jews, was destroyed. After breaching the walls, Roman soldiers engaged in widespread killing of the remaining population. Many more were enslaved or forced to leave the city.
Days after the Temple fell, a man named Gaius emerged, not as a general, but as a theatrical messiah. He appeared amid Roman celebrations of the victory over Jerusalem. He rode through the ruins on a white horse, wearing a red cloak like Mars and a laurel crown. When he entered the ruins of the Temple of Jerusalem, he declared it a new Temple of Apollo, “liberated from false gods.”
“Behold! The gods have spoken in fire. The city that rejected Rome’s truth now burns in it. And who did they cry to? Their boy-emperor? The eunuch-queen who weeps in purple robes? Where was he? Hiding behind books and whores in Rome while the righteous brought justice! The gods struck down Jerusalem not in spite of Sporus, but because of him. This is not a tragedy. This is a sign!”
Gaius claimed to be the true son of Nero, a bastard born from one of Nero’s lovers—a courtesan whom Nero never married. He presented evidence, a signet ring of Nero passed down from mother to son, as well as a birth record from a rural temple where his mother gave birth in secret. If that was not enough proof, his appearance certainly left little doubt about his parentage. He was tall, with features eerily reminiscent of Nero: the same chin, the same laugh. He claimed that as Nero’s trueborn son, the Roman throne was rightfully his, and not Sporus’. His court was made up of exiles, sadistic veterans, and failed senators who saw him as a return to “strong Roman manhood.”
That night, Gaius staged a mock play named “The Widow of Rome”, which took place in a stolen synagogue turned amphitheater. The play was grotesque, half-pornographic satire, half political ritual. All Roman soldiers were ordered to attend. An actor played Sporus in tattered imperial robes, mimicking effeminacy, stammering, flinching at every touch. Another actor played Nero as a ghost, rising from Erebus to “ravage Sporus” again, laughing that even in death he owned his whore. The “climax” of the play featured the fake Sporus joyfully begging for more—a cruel inversion of what actually happened. The chorus singed:
“All Rome weeps for a bleeding crown,
Yet bows to the boy who lay down.
Not with sword, nor wit, nor flame—
But with legs spread wide, and no name.”
As the mock play ended, trumpets blared. A six-years-old girl was brought forth, dressed as Vesta. Gaius introduced her as his daughter Faustina, his heir, claiming she was the reincarnation of the goddess Vesta, goddess of purity and hearth. He claimed she spoke divine verses in her sleep and that she “blessed” Gaius with divine visions when he touched her brow. “She is the goddess reborn”, Said Gaius “the fire Rome forgot. Not a foreign child raised by degenerates like Zephyrus, but the hearth-flame of our ancestors returned.”
Faustina, drugged and glassy-eyed, recited lines clearly rehearsed “I am the goddess reborn. Rome must be clean again. The empire must bleed its sickness, and my father must be crowned emperor.” Soldiers cheered. Captive jews wept. Gaius pointed to the Jewish captives and mocked: “Behold! The children of the eunuch’s faith. They cried to Sporus, their golden whore. He wept... and stayed home. He did nothing. Their blood waters my throne.” The captives were forced to kneel before Faustina. Those who refused were viciously whipped. The night ended with Gaius proclaiming war on “Sporus the Eunuch Widow” and demanding the legions recognize him.
Back in Rome, a courier, bruised and sunburned, arrived panting, scroll in hand. Vibia read it first. She paused. Silent. Sporus, weary from another bath, noticed. “What is it?” Vibia replied softly: “Jerusalem has fallen.” The Emperor nodded, distant “I feared that.” Then Vibia added “And a man named Gaius claims your crown.” Sporus blinked “Gaius?” Vibia hesitated, then said: “He says he is Nero’s bastard.”
Sporus didn’t speak. Just took the scroll. As he read Gaius’ declaration, as he saw the transcriptions of the mock play, his breath quickened. He dropped the scroll. His lips began to move, whispering “I buried him. I watched him die. I watched the dogs eat him. I burned his name.” He clawed at his chest, suddenly frantic. Then he runned. Past Vibia. Past the guards. Into his chambers, where he broke down. In a fit of rage he took Nero’s golden mask and broke it against the ground, injuring himself and falling on his knees. Alone, Sporus wept and spoke aloud—half to himself, half to the broken shards of Nero’s mask.
“You’re dead! You’re dead and gone, and I wear your corwn like armor! But you still speak. Still make plays out of my skin. Still poison the mouths of bastards! Will I ever be free?” He pulled off his crown. Threw it across the chamber. “You taught me pain. So I taught Rome mercy. You made me your bride. I made myself your executioner. But it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough! And now there’s a child. Another girl dragged onto a stage. Another body claimed by gods she never asked for. Just like me.” His voice cracked. “I wanted to be clean. I wanted to forget. I wanted to... to like what I felt with her. And I did. And I hate myself for it.” He crumpled. Bleeding from where he scratched his skin too hard earlier. “She touched me like I was whole. And now I feel broken all over again.”
Vibia found him later, curled on the ground, the shattered mask in front of him. She didn't speak. She simply sat beside him. After a long silence, he said quietly “He put a little girl in a dress, made her a spectacle like his father did to me. And now can’t breathe.” She replied, just as quiet “Then we cut the play short. And we end his curtain call with a sword.”
After the Fall of Jerusalem and Gaius’ uprising, Sporus ordered mourning for Jerusalem in Rome and held a massive jewish memorial in the capital. Incense was burned for the dead, and Sporus had Zephyrus read a Hebrew prayer, aided by his tutors. The emperor declared Jerusalem a “sacred wound” in the empire’s body.
Sporus spent days locked in his chambers in grief. When he finally returned to his political life during a Senate session in the Curia Julia (tear-stricken and disheveled), the Senators presented him a letter sent from Judea by Gaius, not looking Sporus in the eye or explaining what the letter was about. Sporus opened the letter and read it out loud. In the letter, Gaius addressed Sporus as "stepmother" and described how he would rally followers and conquer Rome, how he would gut Vibia Ferox in front of Sporus and let his men "take turns" with the eunuch emperor in front of Zephyrus before killing him. Sporus read even the most graphic details, his voice not faltering once, though his hands trembled at some points.
When he finished the letter, there was silence in the Senate, until Sporus burned the letter in a brazier and said "Seems like Nero's bastard thinks himself a conqueror, like Julius Caesar. But he forgets even Ceasar fell. Tell my stepson I will keep the roman throne, which I fought for with my own body. And that I will have his head displayed at the Forum once this is all over." The Senators hesitantly told him the mock play staged by Gaius had been reenacted in several places across Rome and in other parts of the empire as well. When asked what they should do about this, Sporus said "Hunt them down and kill them all. Let the Tiber run red with their blood."
The days that followed were marked by purges all across the empire. The Praetorian Guard, led by Vibia, organized rapid raids across theaters, forums, and private villas where the play was reenacted. Actors and playwrights were publicly castrated and crucified in feminine garments. Some were executed in the Coliseum, devoured by beasts while a silent crowd watched—no music, no cheering. Sporus attended some executions, but never cheered. He simply watched, unreadable, like a god passing judgment. The guards started referring to him as “Pater Irae” in the hallways.
While blood runned on the streets, Sporus sent secret missives to all legates in Asia Minor and the Levant, beginning to prepare for war. He wouldn’t march yet. But he began to tighten the noose. In exchange for their loyalty, Sporus offered Roman citizenship for key generals, forgiveness of old debts, and hostages exchange for loyalty.
“Rome calls upon its allies not for conquest, but for protection of the world from a false flame. The bastard of Nero seeks to reignite the madness that once consumed us all. Stand with us—not to save the emperor, but to save your people’s future.”
To reinforce his moral high ground and sway neutral provinces, Sporus created a new legion formed of Jewish survivors, freed slaves and christians. They were called The Legio Fidei - The Legion of the Faithful. Their symbol was a phoenix breaking free from chains. They became a living rebuke to Gaius’ cult—a reminder that Rome was no longer only Roman. They were also the first and only Jewish/Christian legion in roman history. Vibia marched through Egypt and Palestine with elite legions and the new Legio Fidei, leading the campaign against Nero’s bastard.
Sporus also passed an imperial decree forbidding:
- Mockery of the dead of Jerusalem.
- Desecration of religious sites (Jewish, Christian, or Roman).
- Performance of “The Widow’s Play” or any cultic ritual connected to Gaius or Faustina.
Gaius, for his part, fed images of Sporus’ brutal executions to the provinces, claiming “The eunuch queen now kills playwrights. Your laughter is a crime. Your thoughts, a rebellion.” He published propaganda scrolls titled The Widow’s Bloodlust, circulated in Gaul, Hispania, Syria, and Alexandria. The scrolls contained illustrations of Sporus devouring children, bathing in blood, etc. He formed a coalition of bitter legates, ex-senators, Roman traditionalists, and provincial leaders, claiming he would l purge the empire of effeminacy and degeneracy and promising a “restoration” of true Roman manhood—a purge of priests, slaves, women in power, and Jews. Provinces who declared for him had statues of Sporus torn down, mass executions of religious minorities (especially christians and jews) and temples of Faustina built to prove their allegiance. They also sent troops to Gaius so he could build his army.
He also declared Faustina a living goddess, forcing captives, generals, and even Roman citizens in Judea to worship her image under penalty of death after capturing their cities. Cult practices included blasphemous ritual theater, blood rites involving recitation of “The Widow’s Play” and temple prostitutes dressed in Empress-like garb, forced to reenact Sporus’ trauma for coins. Gaius would force Faustina to speak prophecies, drugged and groomed by temple seers. One of these “prophecies” was sent to Rome: “Rome shall burn. The widow shall die bleeding in bed like she was meant to. The throne shall return to man.”
As Vibia and the roman army, along with the new Legion Fidei, reconquered cities and provinces, temples of Faustina were destroyed and priests pubicly executed. In response to the destruction of the temples, Gaius declared that Faustina would walk through a sacred fire to “prove divinity” before the year’s end. Calvia Crispinilla's agents revealed she was drugged regularly, kept in isolation, and spoke only in scripted phrases.
During a war council in Rome, Zephyrus proposed a secret mission to rescue Faustina, believing she was like him—a child used by powerful men. Vibia opposed it at first, fearing it was too risky. Sporus eventually agreed, believing if Faustina was freed publicly, the cult would fracture. He greenlighted a secret mission to rescue her before the fire ritual. Vibia, along with Calvia Crispinilla, selected a strike team composed of 6 members:
- Calvia Crispinilla – The Spymaster and team leader
- As imperial spymaster, she was the obvious choice to lead the team.
- Knew the language of performance and cults.
- Dressed as a wandering prophet of Faustina to gain access.
- Epaphroditus – The Secretary and Forger
- As an imperial secretary, he had a cordial and approachable attitude, making it easy for him to gather information.
- Was secretaly a master at forging documents and fake seals.
- Planned on bringing Faustina to Rome under the guise of a sick merchant's child.
- Tullus Decimus – The Braws and Blade
- Former urban gladiator, friend of Vibia.
- Silent, terrifying, and absolutely loyal to Sporus.
- Used only in case of extreme combat or extraction failure.
- Azar ben Nethanel – The Ghost of the tunels
- Jewish survivor of Jerusalem.
- Knew the tunnels and secret passageways under Caesarea.
- Added to the team to honor the fallen—and because no one knew the city’s old bones like him.
- Merope – The Healer and Poisoner
- A female herbalist and poisoner; once part of a Cybele mystery cult, now Calvia's apprentice.
- Specialized in altering appearances, disguises, and undetectable tranquilizers.
- Posed as a priestess-in-training.
Intelligence reported that Gaius was using Caesarea as his court and cult capital, and that the ritual would take place there. Gaius transformed Caesarea’s grand amphitheater into a “Temple-Theater” where Faustina performed “divine” rites and staged visions. The old Temple of Augustus had been refitted into her private shrine—a gilded, incense-drenched prison. The harbor was heavily guarded; access in/out was tightly controlled. Faustina was kept in the upper sanctum of the Temple, where she was drugged regularly (opium and priest-crafted tinctures), forced to wear ceremonial regalia at all the times (heavily gilded, uncomfortably ornate) and was attended by handlers. Her only form of “play” was arranging her laurel wreaths or drawing pictures in the sand. She spoke rarely and mechanically. When not drugged, she hummed fragments of songs she didn’t remember learning.
The strike team, disguised as pilgrims, infiltrated the cult at Caesarea. Calvia and Epaphroditus posed as new cult initiates, carrying fake holy tokens. They attended a public “Divine Performance,” allowing them to study the guards and temple layout. Tullus, Azar and Merope entered separately via sewers beneath Caesarea’s old aqueduct, emerging inside the lower levels of the amphitheater. Merope poisoned the wine of Faustina’s guards—not to kill, but to delay their reaction times and make them hallucinate or fall asleep. Calvia and Epaphroditus used olive oil and hay to cause a fire in one of the temples' wings, creating momentary chaos and crowd distraction. During the chaos, Tulus, Azhar and Merope reached Faustina’s quarters via a back tunnel. They found her semi-drugged, dressed in ceremonial regalia, eyes glazed. She didn’t resist—but didn't trust them either. One of her guards confronted them—Tullus, hidden in the shadows, appeared and snapped his neck silently. Merope quickly washed Faustina’s makeup and replaced her clothes with that of a sick peasant child. Calvia and Merope smuggled her out via a covered merchant cart leaving for Tyre. Faustina said nothing the entire trip. But she clutched a small wax seal she found in Azar’s cloak—a broken menorah. She wouldn’t let it go.
The team arrived in Rome under the cover of night, and were received by Vibia. The empress, silent and grim, carried Faustina herself into a secluded area of the Domus Aurea. Zephyrus watched from the upper balcony. No words. Just quiet recognition in his eyes. Sporus went to see her only after days of fasting and prayer. When he finally entered her chamber, she was asleep. He knelt beside her cot, whispering: “You do not know me yet. But I know you. You are not your father’s mouth. You are not your grandfather’s heir. You are not a goddess. You are a child. And I will protect you... even from myself, if I must.” Sporus decided to keep her presence in Rome a state secret for a time, so Faustina could recover in peace, away from the spotlight, allowing for healing and deprogramming, while also avoiding public scrutiny for kidnapping a “goddess” child. He declared her a ward of the emperor, not a prisoner.
Faustina remained in a secluded area of the imperial palace during her recovery, guarded by eunuchs, Vestals, and Vibia 's most loyal female officers. Medical care was handled by a Jewish physician and a Christian herbalist. She was taught to read and write again—properly, not as memorized chants. Zephyrus visited her often, bringing her carved toys, ink and books of mythology. Days after speaking to the girl’s sleeping form, Sporus finally decided to really talk to her for the first time.
He entered the room alone, dressed simply—not in imperial regalia, but in an unadorned black toga. Faustina was awake, lying still beneath heavy furs. She didn’t flinch when he entered—just watched him. He approached slowly and knelt beside her couch, not too close “Do you know who I am?” he asked. Faustina, after a beat, nodded and whispered “You’re my grandfather’s widow.” She didn’t say it with contempt. She said it like a recited fact—a strange, heavy truth she had been made to repeat to herself during endless rituals. Her gaze didn’t falter.
“And do you know what that makes you?” Sporus asked softly. Faustina blinked, and he answered for her “My step-granddaughter.” The girl frowned. “But I’m his blood. His... heir.” Sporus shook his head: “You are a child. A child forced into the role of a goddess.” A long silence took place. Then, in a small voice, Faustina asked “Will you...will you put me on a stage like him?” Sporus shutted his eyes for a moment. Then leaned forward slightly and said—not as an emperor, but as someone who once was her “Never. You are not my prisoner. You are family. The Senate wants you dead. But I won't let them lay a hand on you.”
This made Faustina look up at him, eyes filled with confusion, and ask “Why? Don't you hate me?” Sporus quietly answered “ I thought I would. I thought I would look at you and see him. But I only see myself.” Faustina thought about it for a moment, before finally asking “Do I have to call you grandmother? Pater? Or Emperor?” To which Sporus simply answered “Call me what makes you feel safe.”
And so, Faustina continued to recover under her step-grandmother’s care. Slowly, she started drawing. Then playing. Then asking questions. Then... laughing—the first time, Sporus was nearby. He dropped the scroll in his hand when he heard it.
Eventually, when she was well enough to speak in public, Sporus had her make a public announcement at the Forum, denouncing her father and his cult. The people gathered. On that day, the Senate was present. So were ambassadors and foreign priests. Sporus ascended the Rostra with Zephyrus beside him. Then, from behind a veil, Faustina appeared. Dressed not in goddess robes, but in a simple white tunic, her hair undone, a laurel around her neck.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Sporus spoke first “Rome has seen her on stages. In chains. In gilded lies. Let her speak now—not as a goddess. Not as a vessel. But as a child.”
Faustina stepped forward, hands trembling. And then, in a voice still recovering, she spoke “My name is Faustina. They called me a goddess. But I was not. I was a girl drugged and dressed to pretend. I do not remember all the things I said. But I remember the pain. I remember... how they made me call Sporus a whore. I didn’t know what it meant. But I knew it made them laugh. I was never divine. I was afraid. And he”—she pointed toward the east—“is no father. He is no emperor. He is no god. He is a man who hurts children and calls it prophecy. I do not follow gods who watch and do nothing. I follow the man who saved me.”
She turned and knelt before Sporus.“Let me serve the empire—not as a goddess. But as a child who lived.”
Chapter 5: The Widow Goes to War
Summary:
A series of events forces Sporus to do something he never wanted to do: Go to battle with his soldiers.
Notes:
IMPORTANT WARNING: This is my first work and not a beta read. Also, there may be several historical/cultural innacurancies, for which I apologise beforehand. Keep in mind this is fiction, and while some of the characters in this fanfic did exist in real life, parts of their stories and personalities have been altered. Other characters, however, are purely original.
This story contains mentions of blood, violence and sexual abuse. Altought there are no graphic scenes, I seriosuly ask you to not read it if it triggers traumas and/or flashbacks.
Playlist of this chapter:
-Gaius' reaction to the news of Faustina: Daemon and Caraxes Leave Dragonstone | House of the Dragon S2 E2 OST by Diego Mitre Music
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-The assassination attempt: Peace Will be Restored by Ramin Djawadi
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-Sporus joins the roman army: Fight for Our Queen ft. Rhaenyra's Theme | #houseofthedragon Season 2 Finale OST Mashup by Jeremy Brauns Music
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-Sporus vs Gaius: Don't Die With a Clean Sword by Ramin Djawadi
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-Zephyrus and Faustina save Sporus/Gaius' defeat: The Children by Ramin Djawadi
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-Sporus and the children return to Rome: Now We Are Free by Hans Zimmer and Lisa Gerrard (from the Gladiator movie)DISCLAIMER: I don't claim ownership of any of these tracks. All rights belong to the original creators.
Chapter Text
Gaius was outraged by this turn of events. But deeper than rage was a shattering sense of betrayal. In his mind, Faustina didn’t denounce him. She betrayed her role in the script. He believed Faustina was his divine vessel, that Sporus had corrupted her with lies and weakness, and that her public words were either forced, or worse: proof that Sporus’ trauma was a contagion, spreading even to divine blood.
He staged a mock funeral for Faustina. She was declared dead—not physically, but spiritually. “The child once filled with Vesta has become a husk. The Widow's venom runs in her now.” Gaius proclaimed. He paraded a wax effigy of Faustina, dressed in chains and black, through the streets of Caesarea. In a dramatic climax, he burned it in front of his followers while screaming “Let the false bloodline burn! I make no daughters—I make gods!” The ceremony ended with a new heir being introduced: a young boy, just 4 years old, renamed Lucius Mercurius Divinus, Gaius’ son and Faustina’s half-brother. He was dressed in silver with winged sandals and a caduceus. The cult claimed: “Vesta has withdrawn. Mercury speaks now.” The child was raised with even more intense indoctrination than his older sister, made to recite counter-speeches, and denouncing Sporus, Zephyrus, and Faustina as “decay in purple.”
After this, Gaius began "Cleansing the Empire" of weakness. He ordered The Widow's Play to be performed again—only this time, it ended with the character of Faustina executed live on stage using captured girls made to play her. He declared whole towns “tainted” if they spoke in defense of Sporus or Faustina, and had those towns razed. Priests of Cybele, Isis, or female deities were crucified upside down in front of temples. Jewish scholars who supported Sporus were dragged in chains through the cities’ ruins and forced to wear bronze masks of Sporus’ face before execution. These events were filmed by scribes, turned into illustrated scrolls, and smuggled into Rome as a warning. One of these illustrated scrolls ended up in Faustina’s hands, causing the girl to have a severe panic attack. Servants tried to calm her down, but she wouldn’t stop crying and whimpering “I want my pater!” She only calmed down once Sporus took her in his arms.
Letters were sent by Gaius to the Eastern and African provinces, declaring Sporus “a polluted sovereign” and offering: Land, temple rights, legalized slavery, restoration of elite privileges and positions in his future court, mocking Sporus’ reforms. Some Roman garrisons began to defect. Others went silent, unsure which side to choose.
Gaius also issued a sacred decree: anyone who brought Faustina’s head—or her living body—to him would be named a High Priest of the Flame. Assassins, bounty hunters, and disguised cultists were sent toward Rome. The assassination attempt took place during the Quinquatria Festival at the Forum. It was Faustina’s first festival as a “citizen”, not a goddess. Sporus had encouraged her to go after the scroll incident, so she could relax and have a chance to experience a normal childhood. She appeared publicly with Zephyrus—the empire’s “sacred children,” not divine, but living symbols of rebirth. The people were beginning to love her: some called her “The Little Muse”, others “Rome’s White Dove.” The assassin was disguised as a festival performer, wielding a venom-coated blade. The objective was to kill Faustina publicly, turning her into a martyr in reverse—proving Sporus couldn’t protect what he “stole.”
The assassin lunged through the crowd during a slow procession. Zephyrus pushed Faustina down. Vibia intercepted the blade mid-strike, disarming and killing the attacker—but not before she was cut across the side. The moment was chaotic. Guards seized the crowd. Faustina began screaming—not out of fear for herself, but for Vibia. When Sporus arrived at the Forum, moments after the attack, Faustina was safe. Zephyrus stood protectively over her, shaking with adrenaline. The crowd had either fled or been dragged away. The attacker’s body lay crumpled on the marble—face twisted in death.
Vibia lay on the ground, arm and side bloodied, eyes fluttering in and out of consciousness. A dark purple stain began to bloom around the wound. Sporus arrived late—he had just left the Partenon when it happened. When he saw her he didn't cry. He didn’t scream. He stopped breathing. He knelt beside her, gently moving Faustina out of the way. She smiled faintly up at him and said “I didn’t fall for you to weep over me like a widow.” He replied, voice cracking “And yet that’s all I’ve ever been.”
She closed her eyes. The medics rushed in. He didn’t move—just watched her be carried away. His hands, wet with her blood, trembled, but his face was stone. That night, Sporus retreated to his private quarters and washed his hands until they bled. Vibia was carried to the healer’s wing of the Domus Aurea. Her wound looked small but festered quickly. The imperial medics found venom laced with powdered lead—meant to kill slowly and painfully. The antidote was rare, and while it saved her life, she was bedridden for weeks, feverish and hallucinating. This made Sporus do something he never thought he would ever have to do: take command of the military forces and go to battle with them. He had no sword or combat training, and was never particularly fond of soldiers due to his trauma at the hands of Tigellinus. The emperor later wrote in his private journal “I was never meant to hold a sword. I was never meant to give orders to killers. The only man who ever commanded them made me warm his bed and smile through it. But they follow me now. Me, the boy who wore a bridal veil soaked in shame. And if I let them ride without me... I become him again. A ruler who watches, not a sovereign who protects.”
Before leaving to the battlefield, he went to see Vibia at the healers’ wing. He sat beside her bed. For a long time, neither spoke. Vibia looked older. Fragile. But not diminished. She was the one who finally broke the silence by saying “You hate armor.” to which Sporus replied “I hate what it makes me remember. But I’m going anyway.”
After a moment of silence, Vibia spoke again “Then say what you came to say.” Her request was followed by silence, until Sporus finally said “You never touched me without asking. You never took. You waited. And I ran.” Vibia gently answered “I didn’t ask you to run. But I understood why you did.” to which Sporus said “I thought if I enjoyed it, I would become what he made me. That... loving you would mean I forgave him.” He turned away, ashamed “I scrubbed my skin because I thought desire meant betrayal. That if I let myself want, I was weak. I didn’t know how to separate you from him in my body.”
Vibia reached for his hand. Her grip was weak, but steady “Then let me say what I never did: I was afraid too. Not of you—but of how much I wanted you to let me in. And I didn’t know if that was mercy... or conquest.” Sporus whispered “And now I may lose you. And I will go to war carrying a wound I never let close.” He looked at her directly then, and for the first time in a long time, he let his voice soften “I don’t know what I’ll become out there. I’ve never led an army. I’ve never held a sword. But if I don’t come back, I want you to know... I never hated you. I hated that I could feel safe... and still feel broken.” Vibia smiled faintly “Then come back. And feel safe again. And feel broken. I’ll still be here. And next time,” she added, eyes fluttering closed, “let’s just... talk about it.”
Sporus rose. He leaned forward. He didn’t kiss her—but he rested his forehead against hers, eyes shut. “You said I was a crown of ash. But you—you were the one who taught me to rise from it.” Then he pulled back. And left. The door shuttered quietly behind him.
When the Senate was informed that Sporus would take command of the roman empire while Vibia healed, their reaction was a mix of horror and awe “An emperor with no sword? He’ll die on the first charge.” The common people, for their part, whispered on the streets “He wore silk and now wears steel. May the gods watch over us.”
Sporus arrived at the forward campaign camp near Damascus and Tyrus, where some of Gaius’ loyalist outposts have begun consolidating. His first speech to his soldiers was not of glory, but of grief and sacrifice: “Do not ride for me. Ride for every child who was abused. For every temple burned. For every innocent slaughtered in cold blood. If I must march with you, know this: I do not ask for obedience. I ask for conviction.” He didn’t try to assume command by force. Instead, he sat on every war council, listened carefully, and asked questions others avoid, like “Where do deserters flee to?”, “Which town keeps sending grain to both sides?”, “How is the soldier’s morale?” Veteran officers initially scoffed. One even called him “the Perfumed Strategos.” Until… he correctly predicted a nighttime supply raid from Gaius’ scouts, and stationed non-combat engineers and freedmen along the canyon pass they used to cause an avalanche and prevent the raiding party from escaping. When they captured the raiding party alive, Sporus merely said “I watched Vibia train with the guard every morning. She taught me what I needed.”
Sporus refused to carry a sword at first, wielding only a hooked staff engraved with his former title: Sporus, Empress of Pain. He also dressed plainly in a white tunic and light armor, instead of the standard roman military regalia. He would train with the soldiers every day to enhance his technique and make up for his lack of formal military training, and was not ashamed to ask questions and feedback. A soldier named Adrius Felix once mocked him for his weapon of choice, calling Sporus a “grandma with a stick.” Sporus didn’t lash out. Didn’t even show anger or annoyance. Simply answered “Then you will have no difficulties taking me down in a duel” Adrius blinked a few times in surprise before accepting the emperor’s challenge. All the legions gathered to watch their fight. At first, it looked like Sporus would lose, for he would often deflect blows and circle his opponent instead of attacking him. But when everyone less expected it, he lunged forward with his staff and used the hook to disarm Adrius, sending his word flying before knocking him down with a head blow. The duel ended with the emperor helping Adrius to his feet and casually saying “I am not so bad for a grandma with a stick, am I?” Adrius laughed at it, along with the gathered soldiers.
There was initial resentment from veteran officers. Many saw Sporus as soft, unnatural, unworthy of command. But something began to shift when they noticed that he rode alongside them without complaints, that he didn't dine apart—he ate what they ate, and listened to their grief, and he ordered that no captured civilians be touched, under pain of execution. Soldiers who raped captive civilians were punished with public castration, which Sporus performed himself. “A man who was once broken,” one centurion said, “makes damn sure no one else will be.” They began calling him Imperator Silens – the Silent Commander.
Sporus did not think like a soldier—and that’s what made him dangerous. Gaius expected brute force, Roman pride, and predictable routes. Sporus brought asymmetry, psychological warfare, and symbolic disruption. Some tactics Sporus employed included ordering plays reenacting Gaius’ descent into madness, with Faustina's real testimony included. These plays were performed near towns still loyal to Gaius—by captured cultists, forced to play their roles after severe torture. It caused mass desertions. Sporus would also send spies ahead of major assaults—not to sabotage, but to talk. They would speak to peasants, mid-rank officers, and slaves in Gaius’ camps, offering them clemency, land, or reunification.
Back in Rome, 6-years-old Zephyrus, who was running things in the capital and caring for Vibia in his father's absence with the help of his tutors, was approached by Faustina one day. She told him quietly about her half-brother, who Gaius had renamed Lucius Mercurius “There was another… in the temple. My brother. Four years old. Curly hair. He called me ‘Fausta.’ But after I was taken… I never saw him again. If Father still has him... he’s next. Next to be drugged and brainwashed. Next to be turned into a god.”
Zephyrus, shaken, looked toward a map of Caesarea. He knew the armies were weeks behind them “If we wait… he dies on a stage.” She nodded “Then we don’t wait.” With help from Calvia Crispinilla and Epaphroditus, they escaped the palace using the old sewer path beneath the Palatine Hill. They rode disguised as pilgrims, hiding under a religious caravan heading east. The journey was tense, exhausting, dangerous—especially for two 6-years-old children. But they pushed forward.
The last confrontation between Sporus and Gaius took place in the site of Gaius’ original Temple-Theater in Caesarea Maritima, half-ruined and scorched from a past uprising, but still symbolically powerful. The confrontation took place in the charred skeleton of the stage where the first Widow’s Play was performed.
Sporus led a combined force of freedmen, Jewish survivors, loyal legions, and The Legio Fidei. Gaius commanded fanatical cultists, defected cohorts, and his last elite personal guard. Before dawn, Sporus offered a final choice to Gaius’ men: “Lay down your arms and walk away. Let the monster burn alone.” Some did. The rest stayed. As the battle slowed, Gaius appeared on the ruined stage, golden armor gleaming, Lucius Mercurius beside him—drugged, dressed as a winged god. Behind him, burning standards. He was grinning as he said “I thought you'd hide behind your guards, Stepmother. But here you are! How kind of you to come and see me personally!” Sporus, mounted, dismounted quietly and walked into the theater ruins. He was still wearing his white tunic and simple armor, his hooked staff in hand. He replied coldly “Stepson. Did you come to meet your father's end? Because I will gladly give it to you.” They circled each other. Soldiers held the line. No one interfered.
Gaius was a trained killer - strong, fast, sadistic. Sporus was no trained soldier, but he watched Vibia train with her soldiers every morning, and knew a few moves. He was wounded early—a cut across the side. But he didn’t cry out. He didn’t fall. Just laughed. A dry, bitter sound. “Is that all? My husband did worse before I was twelve.” to which Gaius sardonically replied “You don’t fight so bad for a ruined woman, stepmother.”
It was in that moment that Zephyrus and Faustina arrived near Caesarea, and were struck by what they saw: The city was under siege. Fires blazed across the horizon. And at the center, the burned theater. They reached it just in time to see Sporus and Gaius dueling on the blackened stage, surrounded by silence. Gaius landed a brutal blow, knocking Sporus to the ground, gladius poised at his throat. Gaius shouted in triumph “I always knew you’d crawl again, little bride. On your knees. Just like he made you.”
Faustina screamed “NO”. Zephyrus charged forward—he didn’t have a sword, but he tackled Gaius from behind, using his full weight to throw him off balance. Faustina pulled Sporus away from the blade, struggling under his weight but refusing to let him go. The breathless emperor asked “What... are you doing here?!” to which Faustina replied “Finishing what you started!” Zephyrus added “We came for the boy. But we’ll end him too.”
Gaius rose, furious, charging at Faustina to punish her betrayal. Sporus, despite his wounds, stood up and stepped between them—just like Vibia did at the assassination attempt. As Gaius rushed forward, Faustina came from behind Sporus and threw sand into her father’s eyes, making him stumble and drop his sword. Zephyrus grabbed Gaius' fallen blade and ran it through his back. Nero’s bastard collapsed, blood coming out of his mouth. Sporus approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder, his expression as hard as stone “Your father raped me. You performed him. That’s all you ever were: a song in his voice.” Then he unseathed a dagger from his belt and slitted Gaius’ throat with it. Gaius died on the same stage where he mocked Sporus’ pain. The eunuch emperor threw his stepson’s body into the sea himself.
Post-battle, in a quiet corner of the Caesarea governor’s residence, converted into a makeshift war camp hospital, Faustina’s young half-brother, the four-year-old boy Gaius named Lucius Mercurius, was cleaned, wrapped in simple cloth—not gold, not ceremonial garb. He was sitting on the floor playing with an olive pit, humming to himself softly. As they approached, Faustina whispered to Sporus “His name was Tiberius. But Father called him Mercurius.” Sporus knelt before the boy, not saying anything at first. Tiberius stared at him—eyes wide, hesitant. He did not speak. But he flinched slightly when Sporus’ hand reached out and caressed his face. The emperor said softly “I’m not here to dress you like a god. I’m here to see if you remember being a boy.” Tiberius didn’t respond. But his breathing calmed.
Sporus sat cross-legged beside him. Slowly, he held out his hand—palm open. “My name is Sporus. Once, I was told I was someone’s wife, someone’s queen, someone’s property. It took me a long time to remember I was a child before all of this.” Tiberius whispered “You’re the man Father hated.” to which Sporus smiled faintly “A long list, I imagine. But yes. I suppose I was.” Tiberius finally asked “Will you hurt me?” Sporus answered “Never. I’ve spent my whole life trying to stop people like your father. And your grandfather. I won’t become them now” There was silence, and then Tiberius slowly extended the olive pit “I found this. It’s not shiny. But I kept it. You can have it.” Sporus reached out and took the pit like it was the most precious object in the empire. He pressed it to his lips and whispered: “Thank you, Tiberius. You’re the first one in your family to give me something.”
Weeks later, the gates of Rome were draped in red, white, and violet cloth—colors of mourning, peace, and rebirth. Crowds lined the streets. The surviving legions marched battered but proud, followed by a cart bearing the broken armor of Gaius, burned and displayed on a pike. It was not a trophy. It was a warning. At the front of the procession stood Sporus, Zephyrus, Faustina, and little Tiberius, who rode beside Sporus on a smaller horse, clutching the olive pit like a talisman.
At the gates, stood Vibia, flanked by high priests, Vestals, and senators. She wore her armor beneath her robe—still healing, but standing strong. When she saw them, her face hardened, she strided down the steps and marched straight to Zephyrus, glaring daggers. “You are grounded for the rest of your natural life.” she said, then turned to Faustina “And you—do not think looking cute and innocent will save you. What in Jupiter’s bloody name were you thinking?” Faustina opened her mouth to answer, but Vibia interrupted her “No, don’t answer. I’m still recovering from the last disaster. If you give me a reason to respect your rebellion, I might cry.” Then, arms open, voice cracking, she said “But gods damn it... come here.” She pulled them both into the tightest, fiercest hug imaginable. They clinged to her. Zephyrus shook as he returned the hug. Faustina buried her face in her shoulder. The crowd, once cheering, fell reverently quiet. Then Vibia looked up at Sporus. Their eyes met. No words were spoken—but he dismounted and walked to her. She cupped his cheek and kissed his forehead, before softly saying “Welcome home, husband.”
Tiberius stepped forward, unsure. Vibia knelt and held out her hand “You must be little Tiberius” He nodded, “Do you like olives?” She asked “Only the bitter ones,” he whispered “Me too,” she said. She lifted him into her arms and turned back to the gates of Rome “Let’s go home.”
Shortly after the triumphant return to Rome, Sporus held a formal address from the Rostra, with Vibia, Zephyrus, Faustina, and Tiberius beside him “I was made a bride against my will, and mocked for what was taken from me. These two were made heirs by force, puppets on a burning stage. And still, they chose to jump from the fire, not become it. They are my family. Not by blood, but by defiance. Faustina and Tiberius are now under my protection, and by law, my step-grandchildren. Let Rome remember: we do not punish children for the crimes of gods, ghosts, or tyrants. Let them live. And let them teach us how to heal.”
Some senators were outraged. A hardline conservative faction (many from patrician families loyal to Otho or Galba) began whispering about “the cursed bloodline surviving under the imperial roof.” A few called the adoption a "blasphemy", likening it to keeping vipers in the cradle of Jupiter. Some even claimed Faustina or Tiberius would one day “reclaim their birthright”—becoming the next tyrants. Sporus only answered once “If they become tyrants, it will be because we taught them cruelty again. I will not.”
Zephyrus, for his part, stood by them publicly, saying “My siblings are not defined by their blood, just like me, pater and mater are not defined by our past as slaves. They are free now to heal and be their own persons." The young boy quickly became an older brother figure to Faustina and Tiberius, teaching them how to be children again.
Chapter 6: The Serpent in the East
Summary:
A new enemy rises to challenge Sporus' rule, but this time, they are from beyond the Roman Empire.
Notes:
IMPORTANT WARNING: This is my first work and not a beta read. Also, there may be several historical/cultural innacurancies, for which I apologise beforehand. Keep in mind this is fiction, and while some of the characters in this fanfic did exist in real life, parts of their stories and personalities have been altered. Other characters, however, are purely original.
This story contains mentions of blood, violence and sexual abuse. Altought there are no graphic scenes, I seriosuly ask you to not read it if it triggers traumas and/or flashbacks.
Playlist of this chapter:
-The Healing Period: The Wars to Come by Ramin Djawadi
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-Rome learns of Sporus' capture: I Declare War | House of the Dragon S2 E2 | OST Cover by Diego Mitre music
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-The journey across the desert: Sorrow by Hans Zimmer and Lisa Gerrard (from the Gladiator movie)
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Sporus' defiance at Ctesiphon: Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken by Ramin DjawadiDISCLAIMER: I don't claim ownership of any of these tracks. All rights belong to the original creators.
Chapter Text
The beginning of 71 A.D. is referred by many historians as “The Healing Period” that followed the war against Gaius and his cult. Vibia, now 16, was still healing from her injuries, leaving Sporus, now 14, with more direct military and political burdens. They decided to slowly try to be sexually intimate again. Sporus, although still foreign to the concept of being intimate with someone in a healthy and respectful way, no longer felt soiled or tainted for enjoying his intimate moments with Vibia.
They continued to raise Zephyrus, Faustina and Tiberius together, teaching them politics and combat, but also giving them love and safety. Faustina was blossoming intellectually but remained psychologically fragile. She still had ritualistic tics, like brushing her hair with her fingers for comfort. Tiberius was quiet and reserved but prone to fits of melancholy and dissociative trances. He had become particularly attached to Sporus. Zephyrus became a stabilizing sibling figure to both.
After leading the final stages of the war against Gaius when Vibia was injured, Sporus now commanded deep respect among certain Roman generals. He even began wearing armor—never ornate, but symbolic. His hooked staff, once mocked, became a symbol of resilience. Adrius Felix, the soldier who once mocked Sporus for fighting with a hooked staff instead of a sword, became one of his most loyal soldiers.
However, all was not perfect: Remnants of Gaius’ cult, fractured but fanatical, adopted a martyrdom rhetoric. They were led by Cassia Severina, a former Roman noblewoman turned zealot-priestess who was Gaius’ lover. She claimed Faustina was still divine, but “possessed” by the Widow’s demons. The cultists performed assassination attempts on pro-Sporus senators and coordinated attacks on temples sympathetic to his reforms. Streets whispered of a “Widow's End.”
Vibia, once fully recovered, led elite squads to crush them—brutal and efficient. But some of the cultists managed to escape to the Parthian Empire and obtain support from king Vologases I, who funded their activities. Parthian leaders, disgusted by Sporus’ eunuch rule and Rome’s perceived “softness,” harbored cult fugitives in their states and also helped the king fund insurgencies in Roman territory. They styled themselves as the “Restorers of Order.” Scrolls circulated portraying Sporus as a hermaphroditic plague; Vibia as an unsexed monster; Faustina as a corrupted goddess. A staged “Oracle of Mithra” in Parthia declared Rome would be cursed until Sporus was crucified and “true manhood” restored.
Sporus learned of this alliance once Cassia Severina was captured in a villa raid by Vibia and revealed under torture that some cultists fled east and gained Parthian patronage. Parthia denied involvement, but there were signs of military buildup near Rome's eastern provinces. Cassia was executed by Vibia herself. The empress proposed a bold plan: secretly infiltrate Parthia with a disguised Roman agent to expose their support of the cult remnants. The infiltration plan was overseen by Calvia Crispinilla herself.
The agent returned from Parthia, bearing proof of the alliance. Rome’s border provinces began to question Sporus’ legitimacy again, worried about another war and a possible parthian invasion. The Senate was divided. Some wanted to appease Parthia. Others pushed for all-out war. Some saw this as a chance to quietly get rid of Sporus—sending him to die in the East. Sporus too, was divided: Publicly, he was reluctant to wage imperial war. Privately, he knew that appeasement would only embolden enemies. After much thought, he issued a war declaration—not in the name of conquest, but protection of the realm from zealotry and tyranny. “Let it be known: The Widow shall not weep again. Let the East feel Rome’s fire.”
Weeks after the war declaration, the remnants of Gaius cult, funded by the Parthian government, launched their most daring attack yet: The destruction of a temple of Hecate in the city of Aigio, close to the border with Parthia. The temple was runned by priestesses loyal to Sporus' reforms and tolerant of women, slaves, and mystics. Hundreds died, including women, mystics, and oracles. Survivors reported the temple burned from within—sealed doors, fire from beneath the altar, whispers of curses. They also whispered of men in robes and scale armor pouring oil, chanting “The goddess must burn.” Greek fire was used (symbolic: Hecate's own element, turned against her). A blackened laurel crown was found among the rubble—a symbol mockingly placed by the attackers. Sporus received reports of the catastrophic explosion days later.
Sporus decided to go to Aigio in person—both as a sovereign and a symbol. His goal was to assess damage, speak with survivors, pay respect for the dead and overall be a present emperor in times of need.“Rome mourns through me,” he said. He insisted on taking Zephyrus, who was 7-years-old then, with him, to teach the boy imperial compassion and leadership firsthand. Vibia remained in Rome with Faustina and Tiberius to run things during her husband’s absence. Adrius Felix was the one to lead the Praetorian Legion during the imperial visit.
Upon arriving in Aigion, the emperor was emotionally shaken by the carnage: many of the victims were women, children, and priests he knew personally. Zephyrus saw his father weep in public for the first time.
Priests of Hecate led Sporus through what was left of the temple—burnt bodies, scorched effigies, melted altars. The city was hushed, thick with smoke and grief. Survivors gathered in blackened courtyards. Zephyrus talked with local guards, and spotted a few inconsistencies, like missing guards and patrols pulled from city walls days before the attack. Adrius Felix also noticed strange Parthian coins in the city market, and a “pilgrim camp” on the city’s outskirts that looked more like a military encampment.
As the sun set, howls and chants echoed from the hills. Cultists in blackened vestments and Parthian auxiliaries disguised as pilgrims stroke the imperial party. Adrius Felix led a counterattack with the Praetorian Guard, but many of the guards were killed. Sporus used his hooked staff in combat—a brutal, desperate defense—but he was overwhelmed and captured. Rather than beg or panic, he shouted to Adrius to protect Zephyrus.
The soldier, heavily wounded, grabbed the boy and escaped with him during the fight between the imperial forces and the parthian/cultist forces. They escaped the city through the sewer tunnels, covered in soot and blood. The young boy and the wounded soldier began the harrowing return to Rome.
Vibia was in the Senate when Adrius and Zephyrus—exhausted, ash-streaked, still in bloodied travel gear—bursted into the Curia, shocking the entire assembly. Vibia rose the moment she saw them. Zephyrus walked past the stunned senators and collapsed in her arms, whispering with a voice older than his years “They took him. Parthia has him.” Adrius explained they were ambushed by parthian troops and cultists, and that Sporus ordered him to escape with Zephyrus.
The Senate erupted. Some claimed Sporus was dead or deposed and called for new leadership. Vibia assumed immediate emergency power as Imperial Regent, declaring martial law and saying “Until the emperor returns, I am the sword of Rome.” When news of Sporus’ capture reached the streets of Rome, there were massive protests. Crowds flooded the streets. Murals of Sporus in chains appeared. Mourners wailed “They took our Emperor. They spit on our Caesar. Will Rome do nothing?” The atmosphere was one of panic, fury and mourning.
After his capture, Sporus had his clothes removed and his hands tied in front of him, dragged behind a horse during the journey to the Parthian capital of Ctesiphon, forced to walk naked and barefoot under the brazing deserts’ sun and beaten with clubs when he stumbled until he got back up. At night, he was forced to sit with his hands tied behind a post and left outside in the cold desert nights, with only a horse blanket to cover his nudity. Many of the soldiers suggested “having fun” with him while they could by “taking turns” with him, but an older, superstitious soldier advised them against it, saying that it would bring bad luck to “mate with an eunuch”. So they resigned themselves to spitting and beating on him.
Once they arrived in the city, Sporus was bound in golden chains and dressed in a parody of Roman empress attire, echoing what Nero once made him wear. His lips and nails were painted, his neck and wrists adorned in gold and silver and a crown was placed on his head. He was forced to march barefoot on the streets of Ctesiphon, flanked by Parthian cavalry and masked cultists of Gaius, still dragged behind a horse. The Parthian streets roared—not just with cheers, but mockery, especially from men shouting “Where’s your sword, Widow?” Jeers, feces, rotten food, and animal guts were thrown at him. Bards played songs mocking Sporus’ trauma.
When they arrived at the entrance of the king’s palace, King Vologases I was waiting for them. Sporus was untied, grabbed by the hair and thrown at the king’s feet. Vologases proclaimed to the people “Behold, citizens of Parthia: Rome’s wombless whore. The empress who made a temple of her shame. Sporus, Nero’s degenerate widow, now kneels before the empire, which Rome has always mocked and despised”
Sporus stood tall despite his feminized state, head held high. The Parthians expected tears. He gave them a dry, cutting laugh. “Ha! You certainly have a lot of experience to talk about kneelig with such property, don't you, your majesty?” A wave of shocked murmuring ripples through the crowd. Sporus continued “Shall I remind you, Vologases I, that you piss sitting down since getting syphilis from your Iberian concubine? That your wife seeks pleasure in the arms of others because of your premature ejaculation? Or shall I recite your letters to the boy courtesan in Palmyra?” The entire square fell silent. “You speak of shame. But I read your secrets in Latin and Greek thanks to my former mistress of the wardrobe. You drape yourself in gold and jewels, but I know your empire is rotten inside.”
Furious, Vologases backhanded Sporus across the face, sending him sprawling—but still not breaking. The king gave the emperor an ultimatum “Rome will soon belong to Parthia, like its empress. Denounce your edicts. Curse your Roman ‘court of virtue.’ Call Rome your shame. Swear loyalty to Parthia, and I will name you prince of Ashur. Deny this... and your empire dies. I will let your wife rule, until my armies burn her alive inside her armor. I will raise your children as pages in my court. Zephyrus will sing for coins. Faustina will marry a stablehand. The little one will have to whore himself out to survive, like his father. You’ve built a palace of dreams. Choose: let it crumble—or kneel and save the ruin.” Sporus didn’t flinch, didn’t even react outwardly. His answer was calm, cold and controlled:
“When Nero tried to break me, he used pain, humiliation and shame. You use the same weapons as my dead husband. I survived him. What makes you think I won’t survive you? I would rather see Rome burn to the ground than live as your puppet in a gilded cage. You let your soldiers drag me through the desert like a carcass and march me through your capital in a dress. You think you can break me by making me relive what I lived with Nero. This makes me wonder: Who is the naive child here? Me, or you?” Vologaes narrowed his eyes, then spoke softly “Then Rome shall burn with her empress in a cage.”
Sporus was confined to lavish but claustrophobic chambers in the palace. There was a cold protocol regarding him: he was attended by eunuchs trained to avoid all eye contact and speech, reinforcing a sense of objectification and psychological isolation. His only connection to the outside world was the balcony, overlooking the gardens and distant city—symbolizing unreachable freedom. There was no torture, but constant symbolic humiliation: he was gifted robes meant for consorts and concubines, perfumed oils, and embroidered slippers—all reminders of his “emasculation.” The meals were excessive, decadent. Even music was played from behind a screen, denying him even a performer’s face. The walls where adorned with pornographic paintings depicting rape, forcing him to look at his past trauma everyday.
Vologases knew torture wouldn’t break Sporus, and public cruelty had already backfired. So he sent his son, 18-years-old prince Artaban, to extract secrets from Sporus about Roman morale, troop movements, and Vibia’s strategy without torture. Artaban was to report on Sporus’ mental state, beliefs, and political leanings. It was also a form of humiliation through inversion: Forcing the heir to “study” the eunuch was Vologases’ way of showing Sporus that the eunuch emperor wasn’t even worth military interrogation. What Vologases failed to predict was Artaban’s philosophical bent—he believed that all rulers, even enemies, deserved dignity in captivity. He approached Sporus with respectful curiosity, not contempt. This shattered the script Vologaes wrote.
In their first meetings, Artaban arrived as a dutiful observer, respectful but detached. He would address Sporus with formality: “Your Majesty”, never “you.” Sporus would respond with sardonic wit or unsettling silence—testing boundaries. Their early conversations were guarded: Artaban asked about Rome’s court, Nero, military reforms. Sporus either deflected or reframed them into philosophical questions. Artaban was frustrated: “You answer with riddles.” Sporus replied: “You ask like a conqueror. I respond like a captive.”
One day, Sporus recited the Greek tragedy of Edipus. Artaban unexpectedly finished the verse. They laughed—for the first time—at the absurdity of it. Artaban confessed that he studied under a Roman tutor as a boy, despite Vologases’ disapproval.
They became verbal sparring partners after this. Artaban asked hard questions about Roman decadence; Sporus retorted with Parthian hypocrisy. Eventually, mutual respect emerged. They began meeting even when not commanded—under the pretense of debating history or law. Artaban revealed his disillusionment with his father’s rule. Sporus revealed to him that Volgogases was involved with the remnants of Gais’ cult, which shocked the prince.
One night, Sporus woke from a nightmare of Nero raping his son Zephyrus as he did with Sporus. The eunuch emperor was deeply shaken, sobbing and crying with his face buried in his hands. Artaban, who was walking nearby when it happened, runned into the chambers, expecting to find assassins and a scuffle, only to find the roman emperor having a breakdown. He didn’t console him with words—but sat silently beside him with a hand on his shoulder, breaking protocol. He called him “friend” for the first time that night.
Some days after it, Artaban formally pledged loyalty—not to Rome, but to Sporus as a person. Together, they began forming plans: how to sway palace factions, how to destabilize Vologases’ authority and ultimately expose his ties to the cult of Gaius’ remnants. Artaban began smuggling coded scrolls to Sporus, giving updates on Rome and Vibia’s regency. Sporus used the balcony’s shadows to pass notes via birds or disguised gifts to servants loyal to the parthian prince. He learned palace gossip and feuds and weaponized this, passing tips to Artaban. A rival vizier was disgraced thanks to Sporus’ advice. Artaban’s influence grew, and he began assembling his own faction.
Chapter 7: The Wolf Empress of Germania
Summary:
Now empress regent of Rome, Vibia must rally allies to fight Parthia, but she may have to return to her germanic roots to achieve this.
Notes:
IMPORTANT WARNING: This is my first work and not a beta read. Also, there may be several historical/cultural innacurancies, for which I apologise beforehand. Keep in mind this is fiction, and while some of the characters in this fanfic did exist in real life, parts of their stories and personalities have been altered. Other characters, however, are purely original.
This story contains mentions of blood, violence and sexual abuse. Altought there are no graphic scenes, I seriosuly ask you to not read it if it triggers traumas and/or flashbacks.
Playlist of this chapter:
-Vibia and her allies storm the Curia - House of the Dragon OST - King Viserys' Entrance | Protector of the Realm [EPIC VERSION] by Diego Mitre Music
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-Vibia forms the Triumvirate and leaves for Germania: LOKI x Game of Thrones | EPIC EMOTIONAL VERSION (Glorious Purpose x Goodbye Brother) by L'Orchestra Cinématique
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-The meeting with the germanic chieftains: The North Remembers by Ramin Djawadi
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-The germanic tribes join Vibia: I Need you By my Side by Ramin DjawadiDISCLAIMER: I don't claim ownership of any of these tracks. All rights belong to the original creators.
Chapter Text
Back in Rome, the Senate was already taking advantage of the chaos caused by Sporus’ capture: Vibia’s regency was not well accepted by most of the conservative politicians. Senators called a secret emergency session. They proposed stripping the Court of Virtue, appointing a “masculine” regent. They drafted a motion to assign power to an Eastern general, citing “moral instability.” But Vibia, warned by Calvia Crispinilla about the secret meeting, stormed the Curia in full armor, with Adrius Felix, the Legio Fidei and the Praetorian Guard at her back. She slapped the motion onto the altar of Concordia and burned it before the full Curia. “Let Rome know this: I did not bleed in the sand for cowards to crown themselves. I am Sporus' wife and regent. I am Rome’s iron. And I do not bend, nor do I need permission to execute traitors.” She had the senators present at the meeting executed, seized senatorial estates funding dissent, and began mass military mobilization all across the empire. She also issued a bounty on Parthian collaborators and doubled down on religious loyalty—priests of Cybele, Hecate, Isis, and Bona Dea were called to support Rome’s cause. A Parthian embassy was burned to the ground in retaliation for Sporus’ capture, beginning the open war phase.
Vibia refused to let Zephyrus be used as a puppet heir. Instead, she trained him harder, knowing that if something happened to her or Sporus, he would rule. At only 7, the little boy, still shaken by the ambush and struggling with survivor’s guilt, took his place beside the regent, sitting in on war councils, reading reports, drafting scrolls. Faustina, also 7-years-old, was both a source of counsel and comfort for Zephyrus, reminding him: “He chose you, not because of blood or status—but because you see Rome as more than an empire built on war and conquest. You are the heir. But you do not need to be Sporus. You need to be you.” Little Tiberius, feeling guilty for what his blood father's cult did to his adoptive father, became even more quiet and withdrawn. One night, Zephyrus and Faustina found him trying to burn a wooden toy from Gaius’ time. Zephyrus stopped him, saying “Burning it won’t burn him out of you. Living right will.” Faustina also comforted her young half-brother, saying “You did not burn the temple, nor did you orchestrate Sporus' capture. Our father’s cult did. We are not him.” Tiberius cried in their arms for the rest of the night, whimpering “I want father back.”
With Zephyrus’ charm, Faustina’s wit, and even Tiberius’ innocent symbolism, Vibia was able to win over wavering governors and client kings to the Roman cause, like the Mauretanian king, impressed by her discipline, and the Cappadocian governor, fearful of Parthian expansion. But it still wasn’t enough. The Parthians’ might, wealth, and eastern alliances (Bactria, Elymais, desert mercenaries) balanced the scales. Rome needed a force the Parthians have never prepared for, genuinely feared and couldn’t easily bribe or predict. A dreadful idea came to her mind: to ally with the Germanic tribes. Vibia herself was Germanic, but she hadn't had contact with her people since she was captured in a roman raid and enslaved at 9. Now she was the empress of an empire who oppressed the Germanic tribes, the leader of the same army that brought death and destruction to her village years before. She knew she would probably not be well received. She could be killed on sight by tribal warriors who saw her as a traitor. Germania might fracture further if she was seen as a Roman tool. But if successful, Rome would gain a chaotic force Parthia couldn’t match—unpredictable warbands with deep grudges and guerrilla tactics. But she couldn't leave the children alone in Rome's nest of vipers, and she couldn’t take them with her and leave a power vacuum. The Senate, despite its recent defeat, would strike the moment Vibia left.
So Vibia formed a Triumvirate made of the children and appointed Adrius Felix as their protector. Before leaving, she made the soldier promise her to protect the children with his life if necessary, and that if she died or disappeared, Zephyrus was to be crowned regent emperor until his father returned or died in Parthia. Epaphroditus and Calvia Crispinilla also swore to do everything in their power to protect the children. Vibia disguised her mission to avoid unwanted attention from ambitious senators. Officially, she claimed to be visiting Illyricum to inspect garrisons.
The meeting with the Germanic leaders took place deep within the Teutoburg Forest. Members of the Cherusci, Chatti, Marcomanni, Bructeri and Semnones tribes were present. Each tribe was ruled by a chieftain-king or warrior-queen, each one fierce, proud, and steeped in anti-Roman sentiment. Germanic rulers and war-chiefs were divided. Some accused Vibia of being “Rome’s dog wearing a wolf’s skin.” Others refused to look her in the eye, addressing her only as “the widow’s sword.” One elder asked “Did you come to lead us, or leash us?” The Council of War declared that Vibia would speak only after completing three trials to prove her strength, spirit, and allegiance. These were based on ancient Germanic rites of leadership.
The first trial was the Trial of Bone: In which Vibia had to track, kill, and carry a beast alone while poison ran through her veins. Before leaving for the hunt, she was held down by Germanic soldiers while a shaman injected her with European adder poison, which made Vibia suffer from nausea, sweating and blindness. Despite her condition, she used her sharp senses of hearing smell and touch to track a bear. She slayed the beast with her own blade, returning covered in blood, limping—but upright.
The second trial was The Fire Vigil: Vibia had to spend a full night alone on the cliffs, wrapped only in a wolf pelt, with no food, water, or weapons. During the night, she was forced to face visions conjured by a shaman using herbs and chants. The visions showed Sporus dying in chains, blaming her, the ghosts of her family and tribe calling her a betrayer and Rome burning while her children cried for her. At dawn, she climbed the cliff edge and howled back at the forest—a call of defiance, and survival.
The final trial was the Trial of Blood: Vibia had to face five warriors—one from each of the main opposing tribes—in successive one-on-one duels, her only weapon being a piece of bone, while her opponents each used a different weapon (axe, flail, spear). She chose to wear no armor. Despite broken ribs, bones and bloodied hands, she defeated all five—not with brute strength, but cunning, precision, and endurance.
After completing the trials, Vibia was given a single night to convince the tribes to fight not for Rome—but for legacy. She stood tall before all the gathered tribes and said: “You call me traitor? Then know this—I was forged by both Rome’s cruelty and our fury. The Parthians mock our name, our dead, our gods. They call my husband a ‘whore’ and me an ‘abomination’. But if they burn Rome, they will march for your forests next. And you will fight them alone. Or we fight them as one flame, not separate sparks.”
Her speech was followed by silence. Then, the young Chatti chief stood and slammed his axe into the fire pit “Then let us march with you.” Each tribal ruler gave a drop of blood, poured into a ceremonial iron cauldron. Vibia cutted her palm and mixed it with theirs. They declared her “Blood-forged Queen of the Germanic Tribes”, proclaiming “We march not for Rome. We march for vengeance. For fire. For Sporus.”
Meanwhile, Zephyrus and his siblings ruled Rome as a Triumvirate, under the watchful eye of Adrius Felix, Epaphroditus and Calvia Crispinilla. They were not rulers who grew into power—they were orphans who were thrown into power by necessity. Every decision they made carried the echo of Sporus’ voice and Vibia’s strength. Zephyrus represented Rome publicly: He appeared in festivals, gave speeches at the Forum, attended Senate sessions, and invoked Sporus’ name with firm conviction. Senators scoffed at first—“a boy reciting verses”, they said—until his words started to spark loyalty. But privately, the 7-years-old boy faced his own struggles: He had constant dreams of Sporus being hurt, often waking Faustina to sit with him at night. He felt like someone who was meant to die but didn’t. When alone, he would speak to statues of Sporus and Vibia and write poems only Faustina and Tiberius were allowed to read. He hated when people knelt to him—“It feels like they're bowing to someone who isn't here,” he once admitted to Faustina.
Faustina trained with Calvia Crispinilla, quietly building a network of informants among slaves, tutors, and market women. She was gentle and observant, always noticing what others missed. Her kind and open demeanor had a way of putting people at ease, and they would end up speaking in her presence more than they usually intended, which she always took advantage of. Rumors said she whispered into Zephyrus’ ear before he made decisions. She also had an incredible memory for faces, patterns and behaviors, keeping a secret book hidden under her bed and mapping court alliances in childish notes and drawings. Privately, she would brush Tiberius’ hair while humming songs from their early childhood and speak to Vibia’s armor as if she was still there. She would also write notes to servants when she wanted things done—because she felt too shy to speak them aloud.
Little Tiberius, for his part, would not speak at all in court. But he was able to solve puzzles in minutes, and understood power better than he should. He stared at senators during sessions long enough to make them uncomfortable. He also used the secret and passages of the Forum and the Domus Aurea to spy on suspiscious nobles, recording their words and later adding them to Faustina's notes.
Despite holding imperial titles, the children lived largely in a golden prison: A rotating council of adults (loyal generals, eunuchs, tutors) carried out actions in their name, but never without their signature or nod. With the help of Adrius Felix, they would hold secret meetings in a hidden room deep in the Domus Aurea, filled with candles, cushions and maps. A carved wooden raven sat on the table—Vibia’s old war totem. The hidden room was the only place where they dared express themselves openly. In public, they would speak through games, stories and riddles, knowing the walls had ears. The Senate was largely unsettled by the children, while the people cheered them as “heirs of the Wolf and the Phoenix.”
The Triumvirate ended when Vibia returned to Rome with several Germanic tribes at her back—not as a Roman commander, but as a war-sister of Germania. She rode into the capital beneath both the eagle and the wolf banner. She also wore a hybrid regalia—Roman imperial cloak over Germanic wolf pelts. Her arms were marked with tribal sigils, earned through trials. The Germanic troops marched with her but did not bow—signaling alliance, not submission. Roman crowds were awed and divided—some saw Vibia as a barbarian queen, others as Rome’s savior.
Chapter 8: The Widow's Third Marriage
Notes:
IMPORTANT WARNING: This is my first work and not a beta read. Also, there may be several historical/cultural innacurancies, for which I apologise beforehand. Keep in mind this is fiction, and while some of the characters in this fanfic did exist in real life, parts of their stories and personalities have been altered. Other characters, however, are purely original.
This story contains mentions of blood, violence and sexual abuse. Altought there are no graphic scenes, I seriosuly ask you to not read it if it triggers traumas and/or flashbacks.
Palylist of this chapter:
-Vologases arranges Sporus and Artaban's union: You are No Son of Mine by Ramin Djawadi
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-Rome learns about Sporus betrothal to Artaban: Kill Them All by Ramin Djawadi
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-Sporus marriage to Artaban: The Rains of Valyria | House of the Dragon Soundtrack by Diego Mitre MusicDISCLAIMER: I don't claim ownership of any of these tracks. All rights belong to the original creators.
Chapter Text
Back in Parthia, Sporus and Artaban continued to plot and work together to sway palace factions and destabilize Vologases I authority, so they could expose his involvement with the remnants of Gaius’ cult. The king, frustrated with the growing political instability and knowing Artaban and Sporus were behind it (tough he couldn't prove it) devised a plan to humiliate both his son and Sporus: In the throne room, Vologases made a grand pronouncement before court, priests, and foreign envoys. He declared the marriage between Vibia and Sporus invalid, as Sporus was not a “man in full” and thus violated divine masculine order and Parthian law. He said a new marriage would be held between Sporus and his own son, Artaban—a sacred union meant to heal empires, claiming it followed divine signs (fabricated by court astrologers). He presented it as “mercy”: Sporus, instead of execution, was “elevated” into Parthian royalty.
Vologases motivations for this were many, but the main one was to humiliate Artaban and Sporus by turning both men into parodies of themselves: the prince-who-bended, and the eunuch-who-wedded kings. He also intended to destroy Sporus’ symbolic power in Rome by making him “belong” to Parthia—recasting his love for Vibia as theatrical sin. His union with Artaban would bind Rome and Parthia through mockery—a “peace” born of shame. Vologases knew that if Artaban became king with a eunuch Roman consort, he would never be taken seriously by hardline nobles.
Artaban acted outwardly calm in court, but privately, he was shaken. “This is not only a political trap, but a public unmaking of your dignity,” he told Sporus the day after his father’s announcement. He considered fighting Vologases and rejecting the betrothal outright, but Sporus stopped him “Let him believe he has tied the knot. We will make a noose of it instead.” The Roman emperor also suffered inwardly with the parthian king’s decision. The nullification of his marriage to Vibia was deeply wounding—emotionally and symbolically. But he recognized the political opening “If I am to wear chains, let them be gold enough to cut with fire,” he told Artaban. Now that he was betrothed to the crown prince, he was given the liberty of walking through the palace as he pleased, though he was not allowed to leave its walls. He publicly played the role of the dutiful consort-to-be—but privately worked with Altaban to turn the wedding into a final political act.
When news of the upcoming wedding reached Rome, the reaction was instantaneous and ferocious. Crowds burned Parthian banners, attacked Parthian merchants on the streets and held torchlit vigils at the temples of Cybele, Hecate, and Bona Dea. Mass protests erupted in the Forum Romanum, led not only by Sporus’ loyalists but by former slaves, women, reformist intellectuals, and even veterans who fought in the war against Gaius. Graffiti and plays mocked the union: Sporus depicted as a chained god, Artaban as a “serpent in silks”, Vibia weeping blood in a widow’s veil. A small faction of the Senate tried to argue that the marriage was a “clever peace tactic.” The children (Zephyrus, Faustina, Tiberius) publicly denounced the announcement. Zephyrus spoke in the Forum “They say our father has been married again. We say he is not theirs to bind. We do not recognize this ceremony of chains.” Vibia, deeply wounded, remained silent at first. But then, she gave a chilling decree “If Parthia has taken my husband’s name, I will take their breath.”
In Parthia, the old guard saw the marriage as madness and blasphemy. The younger nobles, more Hellenized and curious, began to admire Artaban and Sporus’ resilience and grace under humiliation. Some started viewing Sporus as a symbol of divine subversion—a eunuch who defied fate and kings. Zoroastrian priests debated whether the marriage was sacrilegious. One elderly noble whispered to Artaban during a feast “If you survive your father, you will do so by marrying not the man, but his mind.”
Sporus, for his part, played the bride in form, but not in spirit: he publicly declared he “accepted the union only in the eyes of the gods who hear pain, not kings who shout.” This created dual meaning: complying in appearance, resisting in soul. He and Artaban leaked a letter to Rome (via Artaban’s agents) telling Vibia and the children Sporus was working from inside, biding his time. These gestures reassured them that Sporus was still in control, playing a long game.
The wedding ceremony took place in the royal gardens of Ctesiphon, converted into a ceremonial oasis with incense, gold peacocks, flowing water, and flame altars. The ceremony was attended by satraps, generals, priests, court nobles, foreign observers (some from client states). The entire palace was decorated in ceremonial black and red—colors of binding and loyalty. The royal astrologers proclaimed the stars favored “unity over discord.” Sporus was adorned in Parthian bridal attire, veiled, wearing jewels gifted by the king. Artaban, in gold and black, was presented as the ideal crown prince—dutiful, dominant, Parthian.
Despite everything that was done to humiliate him, Sporus’ posture was not submissive, but erect and deliberate, evoking Roman statues of god-emperors. He took the first step in the procession, breaking the custom where the “bride” walked behind the groom. Sporus and Artaban washed each other’s hands with perfumed water before the priest, and then performed the shared drink rite. When offered the drink, Sporus touched the cup to his lips but did not swallow. Artaban did the same. Then the couple walked three circles around a sacred fire, symbolizing transformation. They walked in perfect synchronization—not with Sporus trailing, but side by side with Artaban. Gasps rippled. This was a clear defiance of Parthian marital hierarchy.
When the couple finished the third circle, the priest tied a silken cord around their joined hands and pronounced a prayer to Mithra. Sporus flexed his fingers during the bidding, gripping Artaban’s hand slightly. The Parthian prince repeated the gesture. The high priest announced that Sporus would take the title “Zandan Nahir”, meaning “Consort Bound by the Stars.” Artaban was named Heir of the Everlasting Flame. Instead of repeating the vow as scripted, Sporus spoke “If I am bound by stars, let them burn clear. I will not be hidden.” The priest hesitated—this wasn’t the exact wording. Vologases narrowed his eyes, but did nothing. As their veils were lifted, Sporus and Artaban did not kiss. Just touched their foreheads against each other.
At the final toast, the couple offered gifts to each other and the guests, solidifying alliances. Artaban presented Sporus with a ring forged not in Parthian style, but Roman signet form, subtly inscribed with the wolf of the Capitoline hill. Sporus gave Artaban a carved token of the god Janus—two faces: one weeping, one smiling. Altaban then stepped forward and broke custom by offering toasts to “future peace and shared crowns.” The word “shared” rattled the court.
During the couple’s wedding night, Sporus entered the marital chamber expecting to perform a role. Artaban had promised him earlier that he wouldn’t touch him, and he expected the Parthian prince to uphold his word—but still braced for pressure, expectation, or at least a knowing silence. So when he saw two beds, each in an opposite end of the room, he was utterly confused, his hand touching the doorframe as if bracing himself. He looked to Artaban, and the prince explained quietly, carefully "I had a second bed commissioned without my father's knowledge. What you went through with Nero is no laughing matter to me. You don't have to sleep with me if it brings bad memories back. You have been strong enough during the ceremony. You don't have to be strong now."
Sporus went still. His breath stopped. He stared at the bed as if it was an illusion. That kind of unsolicited respect, coming from someone outside of his family, was almost alien to him. He walked slowly to one of the beds, sitting down as if in a trance and touched the linens, then turned back to Artaban “Why…?” he tried to ask, his voice breaking. Artaban replied simply “Because you’re not an offering. You’re a person.” That broke something inside Sporus—not in a destructive way, but like a thaw. He began to cry without realizing it, “No one outside my family has ever said that to me,” he whispered. Artaban said nothing more. He moved to his own bed, removed his crown piece, and laid in facing the wall—giving Sporus full autonomy. Sporus, after a long moment, moved to the window and stood there for a while. Then quietly said “I will never forget this.”
Chapter 9: The Festival of Mithra
Summary:
The Festival of Mithras approaches, and Sporus and Artaban coordinate with Vibia and the roman/germanic troops to end Vologases reing once and for all.
Notes:
IMPORTANT WARNING: This is my first work and not a beta read. Also, there may be several historical/cultural innacurancies, for which I apologise beforehand. Keep in mind this is fiction, and while some of the characters in this fanfic did exist in real life, parts of their stories and personalities have been altered. Other characters, however, are purely original.
This story contains mentions of blood, violence and sexual abuse. Altought there are no graphic scenes, I seriosuly ask you to not read it if it triggers traumas and/or flashbacks.
Playlist of this Chapter:
-Artaban becomes king/Sporus is freed: Mhysa by Ramin Djawadi
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-Sporus and his family return to Rome: House of the Dragon OST - Rhaenyra Returns to Camp by Diego Mitre MusicDISCLAIMER: I don't claim ownership of any of these tracks. All rights belong to the original creators.
Chapter Text
Vibia, Zephyrus, Faustina, Tiberius and the Germanic chieftains formed a high command. Vibia faced pressure to marry again, even symbolically, to cement alliances, since her marriage to Sporus was annulled by Vologases. She refused, saying her soul was “bound to the chained emperor.” Rome sent emissaries demanding Sporus’ release—Vologases refused, but it ignited public debate in Parthia and made Vibia and her troops begin their invasion into Parthian territory. Sporus sent a secret letter to Vibia, telling her about the Festival of Mithra, an important event in Parthian culture where he and Artaban planned to expose Vologases’ involvement with the remnants of Gaius’ cult, depose the king and crown Artaban. The letter told her to prepare the Roman/Germanic troops to infiltrate Ctesiphon on the day of the festival.
In Parthia, Artaban hosted a “private council” one week after the wedding ceremony with five key satraps. He revealed to them his plan to publicly accuse his father of heresy for aligning with cultists who desecrated Zoroastrian doctrine. Sporus was present at the meeting, and presented evidence of Vologases’ involvement with the remnants of Gais’ cults, as well as his own testimony of how the cultist captured him with the help of Parthian soldiers. He also intentionally leaked knowledge of Rome’s army buildup and Vibia’s alliance with the Germanic tribes, who were advancing quickly through parthian territory—not to threaten, but to show the straps they would be annihilated if Parthia kept supporting Gaius' cult. After much discussion, the five satraps sworn loyalty to Artaban and Sporus.
In the days that followed this meeting, Artaban “requested” noble sons from distant satrapies to join his Honor Guard—a subtle way to build a loyal private army. He also began to slowly build trust with mid-level satraps and reformist priests, promising a peaceful Parthia led by reason, not fire and cruelty. Meanwhile, Sporus discreetly formed alliances with nobles disillusioned with Vologases’ rule. The king, for his part, was not blind to their plotting. But even as he felt the foundations cracking beneath him, he doubled down on Sporus’ public degradation: Coins were minted with Sporus’ and Artaban’s faces—Sporus depicted in stylized femininity. He invited foreign emissaries that were invited to the Festival of Mithra to view Sporus as a pet, calling him “The Queen of Chains” in jest—daring Roman spies to report it back. Public plays and puppet shows mocked Sporus’ love for Vibia, portraying him as an aberration who “married upward.” Blackmailed priests staged a false prophecy claiming Sporus was destined to betray his empire and become a goddess of subjugation—weaponizing superstition.
Sporus and Artaban’s relationship was one of deep mutual respect, layered with shared trauma, silent strategy, and cautious vulnerability. Artaban was Sporus’ shield in public, protecting him from the worst of Vologases’ humiliations, and Sporus was Artaban’s compass in private, giving him political advice and planning the minutia of their future coup. They did not romanticize each other, but shared late-night talks about philosophy, literature, and survival. When Sporus had nightmares, Artaban stayed up, helping him calm down. They ate together many times, neither needing to speak.
On the eve of the festival, Sporus and Artaban reviewed the final version of the public accusation scrolls, including testimonies, intercepted cult communications, forged letters, and records of royal treasuries diverted to fund cultist cells. Sporus wrote the exact words he would use in the festival, practicing like an actor preparing a role. Artaban told him “You speak like a priest and strike like a dagger.” to which Sporus answered “Rome taught me how to survive theater.” They coordinated with Vibia, using Artaban’s most loyal slave courier to deliver a pendant engraved with the Parthian sun split in two—the agreed signal for the army to move.
On the day of the festival, the court, generals, priests, and foreign emissaries gathered for the Tauroctony—the slaying of the sacrificial bull, a symbolic recreation of Mithra’s triumph over chaos. A “prophetic play” was scheduled to follow, a dramatization of the emperor’s divine right to rule. Sporus already knew this would include a symbolic burning of Rome and the “false she-emperor.” Vibia and the disguised Roman-Germanic troops blended with festival guards, dressed in Parthian attire. They awaited a signal to strike—Artaban drawing his sword. At the climax of the ritual, Artaban stepped forward, seemingly in ecstasy, calling for a “holy confession from his wife” before the gods. Sporus removed his veil—not tearfully, but with imperial stillness. He addressed the assembled court: “You crowned Vologases King of Kings. But look beneath the crown, and you’ll find the sigil of Gaius carved in the gold. You thought the cult died with the tyrant. But it was fed—here. In this court. In this palace. With your taxes. With your sons.”
At his gesture, temple scribes loyal to Artaban came forward. The forged scrolls were unrolled by them, proving Vologases had funded the cult, citing intercepted letters and seals. They bore the royal seal. Undeniable proof. Sporus stepped forward before the fire and threw his veil into the flames, declaring “This is the cost of silence. I wore it once, when a madman crowned me his bride. I will not wear it for another.” Artaban drew his sword and slayed the effigy of Sporus meant to be burned, crying: “No false gods in Mithra’s temple!” Chaos erupted. Vibia gave the signal. Her soldiers threw off their disguises and stormed the temple, surrounding Vologases' loyalists.
The king was dragged before the crowd and made to kneel before Sporus, who looked the king in the eye and said “You crowned me to humiliate me. You thought me broken, soft, weak. But it was never the softness you should’ve feared. It was the silence. For silence hides the sharpest blades. I warned you that making me relive my trauma wouldn’t destroy me. You should have listened. But alas, here we are. And it is not my job to end you.” Vologases was executed publicly by his own son, solidifying internal legitimacy. The festival ended with a new Tauroctony. This time, Artaban slayed the bull, with Sporus crowning him King of Kings, Defender of Mithra’s Light. Artaban’s first edict was to outlaw the Cult of Gaius across all Parthian provinces, punishable by death. Sporus removed his wedding ring, threw it in the fire, and said to Artaban: “No more chains between us. I was called husband, wife, widow, whore, bride, beast. Let the fire take them all. I will be none. Only emperor.” Artaban threw his own ring beside it, saying “Let Parthia rise again—not by tyranny, nor cult, nor conquest—but by truth.”
The temple echoed with chants of "Artaban, King of Kings!", until Vibia stepped onto the ceremonial platform with no announcement, no guards, no fanfare. Her crimson cloak was stained from the skirmishes, her sword now sheathed—but her presence quieted the crowd. Sporus approached her, and for a moment, all sound cutted. No politics. No gods. Just the boy-emperor seeing his wife again. “You look like war” he told her “I am war” replied Vibia dryly with a smirk before scrunching her nose and jesting “You smell like incense and blood.” Sporus, quiet and hoarse, replied “And you smell like home.” And he stepped into her arms. Not as a ruler. Not as a spouse. But as Sporus, the orphan who never expected to survive that long. She held him tightly, arms braced around his ribs, like she was afraid someone would take him again. And then, three small cries came from behind Vibia “Father!”
It was Zephyrus, Faustina and Tiberius, who had insisted with their mother to allow them to go with her and the Roman/Germanic forces to infiltrate the festival. When Sporus saw them, his eyes filled with tears, and he knelt with his arms wide open. The children ran to him, hugging him with all their strength. “My children…My beautiful children…” Sporus whispered against their hair. The crowd watched in reverent silence—confused, uncertain, but sensing something sacred unfolding.
Artaban, now wearing the mithraic cloak of kingship, walked to the center of the dais. He raised his hand for silence. Then, before both Parthian nobles and Roman/Germanic soldiers, he spoke: “I was crowned a king today. But before I wear that crown, I must cast off the chain my father placed on a man greater than any king I have known. The forced union between myself and Emperor Sporus was a humiliation dressed in silk. It was meant not to unite our peoples—but to disgrace him. And I stood by it, for I too was a victim of my father’s schemes. But I am no longer a victim today. I hereby annul this union. I name it sacrilege, and I name its author a traitor to Parthia’s gods.”
He turned to face Vibia and Sporus “Rome does not kneel to Parthia. It stands beside its emperor and his sword. The Phoenix and the Wolf. I acknowledge their union as sacred. Born not of ceremony, but of battle. Not of conquest, but of loyalty.” He knelt briefly—not to submit, but to show honor to both. This stunned the crowd. A King of Kings kneeling to Rome’s Widow-Emperor and the Iron Empress “To the Roman legion, I say this: What my father did to your emperor was an affront to Parthian law, honor, and dignity. Today, I return what was stolen—by fire, by steel, and by truth.” Then he stood and proclaimed “Let it be written: As long as me and Sporus draw breath, there will be peace between our peoples.”
The day after the Festival of Mithra, preparations were underway for the return of the Roman court and their Germanic allies to the empire. Horses, banners, and gifts from the Parthian court awaited. Sporus and Vibia had finalized departure arrangements with Artaban and his generals. Meanwhile, the children—Zephyrus, Faustina, and Tiberius—had planned something quietly among themselves. They were dressed in travel garb, formal but light. Artaban stood alone on a stone terrace overlooking the Parthian plains, flanked by columns, when he heard footsteps—three sets—approaching from behind. “King Artaban?” Zephyrus asked softly. Artaban turned. His expression, normally controlled and authoritative, softened when he saw the children.
Zephyrus spoke first. He stepped forward with a slow, deliberate grace, like a prince already trained in how to speak to power—but he spoke from the heart: “Our father told us about the bed. The second one you had made. How you did it in secret. So he wouldn't have to… pretend.” Faustina nodded and added “He said you never touched him. Not even when you were expected to. That you gave him back the choice that others stole.” Tiberius, quiet and shy, added “That’s why he didn’t cry at night here. Not even once.” Zephyrus finished “So we wanted to say thank you. For protecting our father.”
Then, all three stepped forward and hugged him. First Zephyrus, then the others. They wrapped around him—not ceremonially, but as children do: warm, sudden, real. At first, Artaban didn’t move, stunned. He was a man used to bows, not hugs. Especially not from children. His arms hovered awkwardly—then, slowly, he embraced them. One arm around Zephyrus, one around Faustina and Tiberius' shoulders. “He protected all of you from gods and emperors. The least I could do was guard his sleep.” He said softly “He was never mine to harm. Only mine to shield.” From a nearby balcony, Sporus watched the embrace silently. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t announce himself. But when Artaban lifted his gaze and met Sporus’ eyes across the courtyard, there was a quiet moment of mutual respect. No words needed. Just a nod—subtle, but meaningful.
The imperial/germanic forces returned to Rome bearing both Roman and Parthian symbols—a subtle message: Sporus returned not conquered, but triumphant, and made allies of former enemies. The people lined the roads with the wild cheers of a victorious general. Vibia rode ahead in her bronze armor, sword sheathed at her hip. Sporus rode besides her in a deep purple cloak, the silver laurel resting on his brow. He wore no armor, a reminder that he won this war without blood on his hands. Zephyrus, Faustina, and Tiberius rode in a modest chariot behind their adoptive parents. And just behind them, the united roman-germanic forces marched together. The people chanted “Ave Sporus. Ave Vibia.” Flowers and laurel branches were cast at their feet, not only the usual red petals of triumph, but also white lilies and cypress—symbols of grief, rebirth, and mourning overcome.
The senators, who once feared Sporus was too weak, too broken, or too humiliated to rule, now saw a man who overthrew a foreign monarch with nothing but speech, planning, and quiet defiance. Some tried to praise him as a god, offering sacrifices. Sporus refused with quiet finality, saying “I am no god. I am the wound Rome tried to forget. I survived, and that is enough.” Instead, he reaffirmed the power of the law “ Let my return not be myth, but proof that Rome no longer bows to madmen, or cults, or mad kings.” He demanded a public declaration of peace with Parthia under Artaban, and a formal outlawing of any remnant cults of Nero or Gaius.
Later that day, Sporus appeared in the Roman Forum, not on a dais, but walking through the crowd. The people reached out—not to touch him like a divinity, but to talk to him. Vibia stood watch nearby, silent and protective. Zephyrus and Faustina were approached by other children, timid and wide-eyed. After a subtle nod from Sporus, they played with them like average children, not imperial heirs. Tiberius, for his part, kept to the emperor's side, happy to have his adoptivefather back. Sporus lifted him up and kissed his forehead, telling him quietly “No one will take me from you again. Not even the gods.”
That evening, in the Emperor’s private residence, Sporus stood at the balcony overlooking the city, his cloak discarded. Vibia joined him. For once, she was unarmed. The children slept in the next room. Below, Rome glowed with lanterns. Some people still walked the streets, while others retired to their homes. They watched the city in silence, until Sporus said “They saw me humiliated. They watched as I was given away like an offering. And still… They welcomed me home,” to which Vibia answered “Because you survived, Sporus. And Rome loves nothing more than what it cannot kill.”
Chapter 10: The Phoenix Trials
Summary:
One year after his ordeal in Parthia, Sporus' pain is used against him one more time, forcing him to prove himself a capable emperor before both the Senate and the people of Rome.
Notes:
IMPORTANT WARNING: This is my first work and not a beta read. Also, there may be several historical/cultural innacurancies, for which I apologise beforehand. Keep in mind this is fiction, and while some of the characters in this fanfic did exist in real life, parts of their stories and personalities have been altered. Other characters, however, are purely original.
This story contains mentions of blood, violence and sexual abuse. Altought there are no graphic scenes, I seriosuly ask you to not read it if it triggers traumas and/or flashbacks.
Playlist of this chapter
-The Omen and the Senate meeting: House of the Dragon OST - Rhaenyra Lands at Dragonstone by Diego Mitre Music
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-The Trial by Beasts: A Lion's Legacy by Ramin Djawadi
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-The Trial by Fire: House of the Dragon OST - Light of the Hightower | Queen Alicent's Entrance feat. Light of the Seven by Diego Mitre Music
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-The Trial of Silence: The Night's Watch by Ramin Djawadi
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-The Trial By Sacrifice: The Dagger by Ramin Djawadi
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-Sporus triumph: Khaleesi by Ramin DjawadiDISCLAIMER: I don't claim ownership of any of these tracks. All rights belong to the original creators.
Chapter Text
72 A.D. had just started, and things were calm in Rome for once. There was peace between the Roman Empire and Parthia. Sporus, now 15-years-old, resumed his duties as emperor of Rome while also training Zephyrus to succeed him someday. He and Artaban exchanged letters every once in a while. One day, the emperor received a diplomatic missive from the Parthian king—warm, respectful, formal. In it was written “They thought chaining us to marriage would humiliate us. But I have learned more from your silence than from their proclamations.” It included a pressed laurel from Parthian soil. Sporus read it quietly in the imperial garden, with Zephyrus practicing philosophy under a shaded portico nearby with one of his tutors.
The boy, now 8-years-old, was trained both in sword and rhetoric. He would spar with guards under Vibia’s watchful eye and recite law codes before Sporus at dinner. Once, during a public event, he answered a question from a senator with graceful logic—and then accidentally humiliated the man by quoting his own flawed legislation. Faustina, also 8-years-old, continued to grow intellectually, and showed a lot of interest in the teachings of Cybelle, making Sporus consider having her trained by the goddess’ priestess. 6-years-old Tiberius, for his part, liked to follow Vibia around during troop inspections and observe how she commanded the soldiers, silently learning from his mater.
Vibia, now 17-years-old, despite still leading the Praetorian Guard in the streets, took up a major political role as a bridge between Rome and it’s new germanic allies, ensuring roman troops respected Germanic autonomy and helping Sporus draft laws that protected the native tribes of Germania.
In sum, Rome was mostly stable. No civil wars. No major famines. The lower classes revered Sporus as “The Phoenix Emperor.” But the elite grew quietly uneasy. They muttered among themselves “First he was married to Nero. Now to a foreign prince?” Conservative senators met in private, under the cover of night. They saw the peace with Parthia not as victory, but as shame. They whispered, “He bent the knee in the East. He did not return a victor. He returned as a bride.” One night, the Senate hosted a formal celebration to honor the one year of peace between Rome and Parthia. Toasts were made. Tribute was offered. Everything was formal and “respectful.” Then a senator formally congratulated Sporus for surviving “his nuptial ordeal abroad,” calling it “a triumph of Roman resilience over… exotic hospitality.” The room laughed—politely, awkwardly. Sporus responded only with “Thank you for confirming that cruelty still finds its place in the Senate.”
In the morning after the celebration, an anonymous pamphlet began circulating through the streets of the capital: “If Sporus lay with a Parthian prince, is he still Emperor—or Empress of the East?” Vibia brought it to Sporus, who replied “They don’t believe it. They just want it to be true. Because if I am violated again, they can steal Rome back while I bleed.” Vibia asked, “What will you do?” Sporus answered “Nothing. Not yet. Let them sharpen their knives. I will dull them with fire.”
It didn't take long for the Senate to begin plotting against the emperor again. This time, their plan started with a forged omen. Weeks after the peace celebration, a sacred white bull, reserved for sacrifice during the annual Feriae Latinae, was found dead and mutilated in the temple of Jupiter at the Capitoline Hill—its throat ripped out, entrails missing, and its blood used to write “She-wolves do not sit on the Roman throne” A Vestal screamed. Priests claimed they saw crows nesting on the statue of Jupiter earlier that morning—another bad sign. Public panic brewed quickly. Whispers of “Jupiter’s wrath” spread like wildfire. Later, Vibia found the bull’s lead rope cleanly severed, not torn, suggesting an inside job. A ring found near the scene bore the crest of an old senatorial family.
An emergency session was called in the Senate. The atmosphere was tense. Rumors swirl. Some senators entered wearing mourning togas. An elder senator named Aurelius Decimus stood and said “The gods no longer whisper their displeasure—they scream it in blood across our temples. The divine order is ruptured. Jupiter rejects a Rome ruled by scandal and softness. We must restore the pax deorum—by ritual. By rite. By trial.” another senator added “Let him who bore chains in Parthia show Rome that he is still Emperor. Let him bleed once more—not in shame, but in sacrifice.” and another sneered, “Unless, of course, he would rather rule from a Parthian bed than a Roman throne.”
Sporus arrived late—Vibia having warned him of what was happening. He entered in full imperial regalia, with Zephyrus, Faustina and Tiberius at his side. He listened. Silent. Letting them dig their own graves with words. Then calmly said “You say the gods scream. But I hear only men moaning in despair, afraid that Rome no longer kneels for them. You want a spectacle? Rome has always loved blood. And I have bled more for her than any of you ever will. If a trial of worth is demanded, then let it be named—clearly, publicly, legally. Not as a rumor. Not as a whisper. Let the cowardly roar they crave.”
Aurelius Decimus proposed it formally “The people must see the emperor stand as Romulus stood: unshaken, untainted, and alone.” The Senate voted narrowly in favor. The religious conservatives, noble families, and traditionalists swayed the vote. Moderate senators remained silent. Later, in the imperial chambers, Vibia said to Sporus “They want you broken. Not just beaten—shamed, dragged, undone in front of the people.” Sporus took a sip of wine before answering “Then we do not give them shame. We give them spectacle. And at the end of it, we give them nothing at all.” Zephyrus, watching from the doorway, said quietly “Then let them build the stage. And we’ll set it on fire when they’re done.”
The first challenge was “The Trial by Beasts”, where Sporus had to face wild beasts (lions, panthers, etc.) in the Colosseum, unarmed. He had to survive with wits alone. “He must face man, beast, and fate—as all emperors once did.” the Senate claimed. The arena was booby-trapped with collapsing platforms, hidden pits, and spears disguised as roots by the senators. They also bribed the beast-keepers to starve and enrage the animals with drugs beforehand, making them unnaturally aggressive and disoriented. Zephyrus, suspicious, uncovered the traps the night before the trial, with help from Faustina, Tiberius and Vibia, and replaced them with harmless ones, turning the Senate's sabotage into slapstick failure.
On the day of the trial, rather than fighting and killing the beasts, Sporus rubbed his body with animal scent balm before entering the arena. When the first animal, a lion, was released to attack him, he simply knelt and extended his hand towards it. The lion leaned into his touch instead of attacking him. The crowd was stunned. This was perceived as a divine sign. But when more aggressive beasts, like tigers and hyenas were unleashed, they turned on the handlers instead (due to the drugs), causing chaos. Sporus used this to create a moment of control, by distracting the beasts with a shiny mirror hidden in his clothes and leading them into traps within the arena structure. The Senate secretly arranged for Molossian hounds to be released on the last round, the same breed that killed Nero, as a form of psychological warfare. Sporus outwitted the hounds using his knowledge of animal behavior (learned from Vibia’s military dogs). He used their own aggression to trick them into fighting one another. One of the handlers panicked and tried to intervene to ensure the emperor was killed—only to be captured. Vibia arrested the handler on the sand itself, while Sporus stood bloodied but unbroken before the roaring crowd. Later, under torture, the handler revealed the sabotage, naming Senator Aurellius as his patron.
The second trial was “The Trial by Fire”, where Sporus had to walk barefoot on burning coals and glass shards on the Temple of Vesta without screaming. “If the gods deem him pure, let him walk through sacred fire.” it was declared by the Senate. Hidden among the shards where iron barbs designed to embed and make each step rip more flesh. Someone smuggled a salve meant to dull pain to Sporus before the trial, but it was actually laced with a slow-reacting corrosive, which worsened the burns. During the trial, a state priest (bribed by the Senate) declared Sporus had to kneel at the end of the walk to "submit to Vesta"—forcing extra agony. Sporus stumbled many times, but stayed upright, biting his inner cheek throught the pain. Instead of screaming, he recited imperial law with each step: every line was a decree protecting slaves, children, or the innocent. Zephyrus, Faustina and Tiberius stayed nearby as he walked, shouting encouragement to their father. The people, moved by Sporus' pain and endurance, began chanting “He bleeds, but does not bow.”
The third trial was “The Trial of Silence”, where Sporus had to wander the wilds for 7 days with no food and no water beyond rain. He was also forbidden to speak. Saboteurs were sent to stage a “natural bandit attack”—hoping Sporus would either speak, ask for help, or die. Sporus defeated them silently with his hooked staff (the only weapon he was allowed to take). Later, one bandit survived and confessed under interrogation by Vibia that he was sent by Senator Aurellius. A small statue of Nero was left in a cave Sporus sheltered in—meant to torment and mentally destabilize him. He crushed it underfoot without speaking. He then used its bronze fragments to carve a sigil of Cybele in the dirt—a symbol of transformation through suffering. A mutilated child was left where Sporus would find it—made to look like Zephyrus, to break his composure. He silently buried the child, laying flowers on top of the grave. By the end of the week, despite the constant hallucinations and the near-collapse of his body, Sporus saved a peasant girl from wolves, carrying her to shelter silently. The locals—touched—spread stories of “the emperor in rags who bled for a stranger.”
The fourth trial was “The Trial by Reenactment” where Sporus had to reenact his "wedding night" with Nero before the Senate—symbolically, not physically, through a stageplay. The actors chosen for the reenactment were secretly hired to mock Sporus, in an attempt to break him. The copy given to Sporus contained subtle but vicious changes, implying he enjoyed the public violation. The incense burning in the Curia was mixed with a hallucinogen meant to trigger PTSD. But Sporus didn’t falter. He ripped the script mid-performance and improvised the entire scene, flipping the roles. Instead of reenacting his rape, he took the stage as a judge, condemning Nero’s ghost to death before the people. He brought a bust of Nero on stage, smashed it mid-speech, and said “You made me wear a veil. Now I wear your crown”. One senator tries to silence him—only to be shuttered down by the people’s cheers and applause at Sporus’ acting.
The fifth trial was “The Trial by Sacrifice”, where Sporus had to offer his blood to every major altar, Roman and foreign, in the Pantheon, without collapsing from the blood loss. The blade used for bloodletting was secretly coated with a slow-acting toxin, meant to induce fainting and delusions. A Christian healer in the Court of Virtue suspected the blade was tampered with and handed Sporus another, but the emperor used the original anyway, knowing it would show strength in vulnerability. Sporus bled and faltered through the whole trial, but didn’t faint. At the end of the trial, as Sporus stood in front of the last altar (the altar of Isis), Zephyrus stood before the altar and lifted his own hand, offering a drop of his blood as Sporus began to sway. The crowd was stunned. “Rome is not one man’s blood. It is all of ours” said the child. Sporus accepted the blood, cutting both his hand and Zephyrus’ and mixing their blood in the altar. Then he knelt, not from collapse, but choice. The Christian healer revealed the altered blade before the crowd. The people, seeing the depth of Sporus’ injury, rioted in his defense.
Vibia stepped forward and raised her voice, not in defense, but accusation “There is more than blood being spilled today. Rome has bled from the shadows for too long. I name the true traitors.” She ordered the Praetorian Guard to seize senator Aurellius and his co-conspirators, who laughed at Vibia’s accusation, until she presented:
- Forged Omen Scrolls: A religious scribe confessed that Aurellius dictated the text of the “bull omen” weeks before it occurred.
- The Arena Sabotage: Flavius Ursus, a low-ranking but loyal beastkeeper, reported he was reassigned last-minute before the Trial by Beasts and replaced by a man with senatorial ties.
- The Healer’s Letter: A palace healer revealed a coded letter instructing him to poison Sporus’ soles before the Trial of Flame. The letter bore Aurellius’ seal.
- Ledgers of Bribes: Zephyrus, Faustina and Tiberius (who helped Vibia during her secret investigation) displayed scrolls detailing bribes paid to priests, augurs, and senators to sway the trials.
The crowd gasped, shouts of rage and indignation echoing on the Pantheon. But those were not the only pieces of evidence that destroyed the Senate’s narrative. Weeks before the final trial, Zephyrus and his siblings had written to king Artaban, saying “Rome bleeds our father in the name of gods they mock. They call you a stain upon him. If you have ever held your honor above their chains, speak now.” And Artaban answered them through a letter meant for the people of Rome. Vibia herself read the letter to the public, which said “Let Rome know: The Emperor of Parthia lays no claim on Sporus of Rome. I did not violate him—I revered him. While your temples lit fires to burn him clean, mine sheltered him in respect and silence. If there is shame in surviving cruelty, then shame shall be Rome’s crown. I stand not as a witness against him—but as a shield behind him.” Vibia finished reading the letter with a cold look towards the paling senators, saying “Even the foreign king you tried to blame offers more honor to my husband than Rome’s own sons.”
Even weakened, Sporus rose. Someone tried to help him—he refused. He stood before the people bleeding heavily, swaying. The crowd was dead silent. Then the emperor spoke “They wanted me to bleed, to falter, to fall. They fed Rome lies and called it religion. They tore my skin and called it tradition. They drank my pain and named it law. But Rome does not stand on the backs of cowards in silk. She stands on ash. On iron. On blood that does not break. I was a slave. A bride. A prisoner. But I am still here. Today, I bled for Jupiter, for Christ, for Isis, for every god who watches—but not for the Senate. Never for the Senate. Let Rome remember who bled and who bought the knives.”
He picked up the ceremonial blade and carved a shallow line across his own forehead, symbolically crowning himself. “This is my diadem. Not gold. Not laurel. But blood. Because I paid for Rome with it.”
Later, Sporus passed a new law, The Dignitas Law, forbidding political persecution of emperors and politicians based on sexual history, bodily trauma, or symbolic shame, declaring to the Forum “Virtue is not what happens to you. It is what you become in spite of it.” Several key senators resigned, were exiled or stripped of name. The “Trial Faction”, as Aurellius and his allies became known, were shaved and had their foreheads branded with a broken laurel crown.
Chapter 11: The Emperor goes East
Summary:
When ilness threathens his life, Sporus must go where no other emperor before him dared venture to find the cure...and maybe something else too.
Notes:
IMPORTANT WARNING: This is my first work and not a beta read. Also, there may be several historical/cultural innacurancies, for which I apologise beforehand. Keep in mind this is fiction, and while some of the characters in this fanfic did exist in real life, parts of their stories and personalities have been altered. Other characters, however, are purely original.
This story contains mentions of blood, violence and sexual abuse. Altought there are no graphic scenes, I seriosuly ask you to not read it if it triggers traumas and/or flashbacks.
Palylist of this chapter:
- Sporus journey to Han China: Mists Of Pandaria - Way Of The Monk - Erhu Cover y Eliott Tordo Erhu Player 二胡
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-The Attack on Qingxi: Why Do We Fight? from World of Warcraft Mists of Pandaria
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-Sporus leaves for Luoyang: Short Hair from Mulan (1998)DISCLAIMER: I don't claim ownership of any of these tracks. All rights belong to the original creators.
Chapter Text
One year after the trials, in 73 A.D., Rome was relatively at peace. The streets were calm, the people celebrated Sporus, and graffiti once again praised him as “the Redeemer,” “The Just Widow,” and “The Slave Emperor.” But beneath the stability, Sporus, now 16-years-old, was weakening. The blood loss and poisons from the trials took their toll on him. Privately, he began experiencing faint fevers, fatigue, coughing blood, blurred vision, tremors in his hands. He concealed it well—he had trained for years to appear composed, invulnerable. He chalked up symptoms to exhaustion or stress. He refused healers and masked his pain through force of will.
But his health declined more and more everyday. Soon Sporus began withdrawing from public life, eating less, and rarely sleeping. He meditated longer each night in the Temple of Vesta, kneeling until his knees bruised. Zephyrus, now 9-years-old, was the first to notice. The boy constantly asked “Pater, are you alright?” to which Sporus would brush him off with a smile. Faustina and Tiberius too, would constantly look at him with worried expressions, offering him water and herbs. Vibia, now 18-years-old, took to quietly watch him—but said nothing, not wanting to intrude on a wound Sporus hadn’t admitted.
During a key Senate session concerning new eastern trade reforms, Sporus began to feel faint. The heat in the chamber swelled. His ears ringed. He tried to speak and his voice faltered. When a senator mocked him as “pale as a Vestal on her wedding night,” Sporus chuckled weakly, but then collapsed. Chaos ensued. Vibia immediately cleared the room. Zephyrus, Faustina and Tiberius ran to him, dropping on their knees by his side. He was carried out silently. Whispers began to ripple across Rome “The Redeemer bleeds.”
The imperial healers, including Jewish physicians, Christian herbalists, and Roman surgeons, convened. They named the condition only in metaphors—“the dimming of the heart,” “lung of ash,” “a sickness of sorrow.” All agreed it is wasting Sporus from the inside. The lungs were most affected, but it touched the blood and bones as well. Some suggested it was divine punishment, or a curse cast by Nero’s spirit. But most chillingly: there was no known cure, either in Rome or its provinces.
Only one healer, an old Jewish scholar, suggested a possibility—rumors from the East, beyond Parthia and India, of sages who treated not just illness, but the spirit within the illness. He spoke of monks who “touch the soul,” of root-tonics from bamboo valleys that had saved dying men. But these were not accessible from palaces. If Sporus wanted a chance to survive, he had to leave everything behind and travel East.
Sporus, in private, wept—not from fear of death, but from the knowledge that he had to relinquish Rome, his children, his legacy, everything he suffered to hold. He confided only in Vibia first, apologising for hiding his declining health from her and asking her advice. She offered to go with him, but he refused, saying “Rome must not be left for the vipers and vultures during my absence. It should be guarded by the wolf that fought so hard for it.”
Then he told Zephyrus, Faustina and Tiberius. They resisted at first. Faustina offered sacrifices to every deity she knew. Zephyrus, quietly, began writing down every lesson Sporus taught him—determined not to forget. Tiberius clinged to his adoptive father, wanting to go with him. Sporus kissed their foreheads and left a letter for each, to be opened only if he did not return. He entrusted Rome to Vibia formally, and told the children to obey her and help her keep the city at peace. Before dawn, Sporus donned the robes of a pilgrim and cutted his hair. He left through the Eastern Gate on foot, alone. No guards. No banners. Only silence. A crowd watched in reverent silence. As he walked away from the city, he reflected on the challenges ahead and the weight of his responsibilities.
Sporus traveled far, through the deserts of Palestine and the Middle East, through the Indus valley and into the dense wilderness of the East. He slept under stars, ate roots and plants, and washed in rivers. He met caravaners, wandering monks, and shepherd children, but spoke little to those he met, bartering for food with herbs and stories, and offering healing and counsel to fellow travelers. In the quiet, the illness slowed him down—but not in bitterness. He learned to be small again, and begun to see the world not in politics, but in seeds, clouds, shared fires.
As he traveled, his sickness worsened—his breath became short, his steps uneven. He walked with a carved stick and coughed at night until he bled. His skin was darkened by sun, his robes were weathered, and torn in some places. But despite this, he found a quiet joy in the silence of the wild, the kindness of strangers, and the relief of being unknown. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t expected to perform, wasn’t feared or worshipped. He was just a 16-years-old boy traveling the world.
Eventually, he reached the mountainous borders of Han China, where mist veiled the forests and roads vanished into bamboo. There, he slipped on a narrow pass, fell down a steep incline into a river, and was knocked unconscious against submerged stone. He awoke days later in a warm hut made of wood and straw, smelling of herbal smoke and honey. A kind elderly couple sat beside him. The woman was called Meilan, and the man was Baozhi. They found him near-death and carried him to their village: Qingxi, a hidden mountain village surrounded by waterfalls and misty terraces. They thought he was a wandering monk or dying soldier.
Sporus hid his identity, giving only the name Ash and saying he was a Roman healer seeking wisdom in the East. They accepted this with kindness and did not press. They nursed him with tea, rice porridge, and herbal compresses, and applied strange ointments to his chest and limbs. Sporus was also visited by a local healer, a blind herbalist named Old Lin, who believed his sickness was “not only in the lungs, but in the spirit.” Her treatment was slow but holistic—steam baths, bitter teas, acupuncture, spiritual chants.
During the day, Sporus helped Baozhi chop wood or carry water. At night, Meilan taught him folk songs and how to cook. He was slowly integrated into village life. Qingxi was a serene and humble village. No roads. No soldiers. The people lived off rice, fish, and woven silks. There were no temples, only ancestor trees where ribbons were hung with prayers. The children called Sporus “*Zǐ Jīng,” due to his rare lilac eyes, similar to a pair of amethysts. He helped the locals build fences, played with the children, and shared stories around fire circles. His imperial bearing faded. His voice softened. He began to laugh.
One afternoon, while bathing in a hot spring to ease his pain, Meilan came to bring him a robe. She saw the faint but distinct brown spot birthmark on his inner thigh. She gasped and dropped the robe. Baozhi rushed in. Meilan pointed to the mark and began weeping. They explained that 16 years ago, their newborn son, Yujin, was stolen by slavers during a bandit raid. They searched for years, sent messengers west, even considered suicide from grief. Yujin had that very mark on his inner tight. Sporus was stunned. At first, he denied it. Said he was no one’s son. He tried to stand, but collapsed. He began to weep—not from joy, but guilt.
That night, beneath the lantern light, they shared their stories. Sporus told them of Rome—of Nero, of rape, of vengeance, of empire, of the throne he took for himself. “I married a gladiator. A woman with fire in her bones. I raised a boy who was given to me as a slave and made him my heir. I fought against my husband’s bastard son for the throne, and rescued his grandchild from a stage. I gave them a family. A home. Safety. Even love.” Then he told them of Parthia—how he was captured by parthian soldiers and cultists while visiting a destroyed temple. Paraded through Ctesiphon as a trophy and forced to marry prince Artaban “He was kind, in the way only someone who has also been owned can be kind. I married him. Not for love. For survival. And together, we tore down the man who used us both.” Then he told them of the trials the Senate made him go through after the Roman-Parthian war “I went back to Rome,” Sporus continued. “And I stood trial. To prove I was still worthy of being emperor after Parthia. I faced beasts, walked through fire and glass, spilled my blood until I almost passed out. And now I am here looking for healing.”
Then he paused. His voice cracked “I am not who you think I am. I am a eunuch. I have ordered men to be feminized and crucified. My throne was forged in blood and pain. I am not a son—I’m someone who was stolen, violated, objectified, and now is the nightmare of nearly every Roman senator. If you turn away from me now, I will understand.”
Meilan said nothing at first. She looked at him, not with horror—but with immeasurable stillness. Then she said “You think we loved a perfect son? That we prayed for the return of a soft boy with soft hands who had never suffered?” She took his hands in hers. Her fingers were work-worn, wrinkled, and warm “We prayed for a son who would survive. No matter what name they gave you. No matter what they put you through. The gods gave us a boy stolen by monsters—and that boy took their kingdom and made the monsters regret taking him.” She wept softly, not out of shame, but out of mourning. She pressed her forehead to his “They called you Empress? Then you carried your wounds like royalty. They called you a widow? Then you destroyed the man who tried to bury your identity. They called you whore? And still you stood. Still you ruled. Still you protected those who could not protect themselves.” She cupped his face “You are not tainted. You are tempered. Fire doesn’t shame iron. It shapes it.”
Baozhi was slower to speak. His hands were clenched in his lap. His lips trembled. He was a man who had buried a hundred tears across nearly two decades. Then, through a breaking voice, he said “I dreamed of teaching you to fish. To shape rope. To paint prayers on stone.” He paused “Instead... I meet a boy who made kings kneel. Who built peace from blood and sweat. Who fed monsters to their own dogs.” He started to laugh—but it was a laugh of awe, not mockery. A mix of weeping and joy “Son... I do not fear what you became. I fear only the fate of those who underestimated you.” He knelt beside Sporus and hugged him, gently, but firmly, tears still running down his face. Meilan did the same. Sporus started crying with them. The three of them remained like that for a while, a family finally reunited after years of pain, grief and sorrow.
Sporus stayed in the village. Days passed. He began to call Meilan and Baozhi Mother and Father. The villagers loved him. They called him the Velvet Sage, not knowing his past. He did chores, learning to thatch roofs and sweep temples. He fished with Baozhi, hummed lullabies to children and learned to make calligraphy charms for harvest. He began to get stronger, and even allowed himself to let his guard down a little. But as it is customary in the life of a roman emperor, trouble always find a way to creep in.
The day peace was shattered began like any other day. Birds sang over Qingxi, children tied ribbons in the ancestor tree, and Sporus meditated with Baozhi at dawn. But the air felt too still. Meilan and Baozhi’s old neighbor muttered of “black-hatted men in the next province.” Soldiers, collecting unpaid taxes with force. Qingxi had sent grain the previous year. But the landowners up the river—wealthy and protected—had bribed magistrates to exempt themselves. Now the poor villagers were being made to pay the price. The injustice was familiar to Sporus: a rot from the top, blamed on the roots.
At night, the soldiers arrived. Clad in black-lacquered armor, they bore imperial scrolls stamped with red: "FAILURE TO COMPLY WITH TAX REFORM - ORDER 74". They demanded the village yield 30% of its stored grain and all “able-bodied men” for conscription labor. When the village head (Old Shen) refused, citing previous payments and exemptions, a soldier struck him down. The healer, Old Lin, rushed to help — she was clubbed and arrested. Panic erupted. Soldiers set fire to the granary to make a point and began taking rice stores, livestock, and children for labor conscription. A young girl was dragged screaming from her house by a soldier while her mother begged to be taken in her place, only to be slapped across the face. When Baozhi stepped forward to stop the soldier, he was attacked from behind and arrested.
Sporus organized a defense using only what the village had: bamboo stalks as spears, fire traps with cooking oil, nets woven from fishing line to entangle legs and smoke bombs from dried herbs and wet hay. The fighting was chaotic, brutal, and intimate. No strategy — only desperation made precise. Sporus did not kill anyone, but he wounded many. He became what he swore he would only be when others were in danger: a protector, not a killer. He wielded his hooked staff with speed and precision, disarming imperial soldiers and knocking them down, evading their swords and leading them into traps.
Eventually, the villagers were able to drive the soldiers back — but at a cost: Four villagers were killed, ten others were captured, including Baozhi and the healer, Old Lin, all taken to Luoyang to face punishment for “sedition.” Old Shen, the head of Qingxi, died from his wounds. In the burning ruins of the granary, Meilan tended to the wounded. Sporus washed blood from his arms in the river, trembling. Children approached him — not with fear, but awe. They whispered about his role in protecting the village. Sporus sat beside Meilan that night. He expected anger, despair — maybe blame. Instead, she placed a hand on his back: “You did not bring this war. You simply remembered us how to fight it.”
The next morning, Sporus knelt before the village’s ancestor tree. He placed a ribbon on the branch with only one word: “Vow.” He announced to Meilan “I will go to Luoyang. I will enter the court that let this happen. And I will take them back.” Before he departed, Meilan gave him a box Baozhi had hidden long ago. Inside it was a jade pin and a folded red sash — items from their son’s infancy, from Sporus’ infancy. “Go not as Yujin or Sporus. Go as both. Let them see the fire and the ashes” his mother told him. Sporus left Qingxi that night— but not as a pilgrim. He donned a cloak the villagers sewed from silks and left the village as a shadow, not to rule, but to infiltrate. His goal was not to claim thrones—but to save lives “They wanted grain. Now they will taste thunder.”
Chapter 12: A Phoenix Among Dragons
Summary:
Sporus goes to the Han Chinese capital of Luoyang to save his father and the other villagers of Qingxi, but being Sporus, he ends up getting accidently entangled in the city's politics.
Notes:
IMPORTANT WARNING: This is my first work and not a beta read. Also, there may be several historical/cultural innacurancies, for which I apologise beforehand. Keep in mind this is fiction, and while some of the characters in this fanfic did exist in real life, parts of their stories and personalities have been altered. Other characters, however, are purely original.
This story contains mentions of blood, violence and sexual abuse. Altought there are no graphic scenes, I seriosuly ask you to not read it if it triggers traumas and/or flashbacks.
Chapter Text
After some weeks of travel, Sporus arrived at the outer districts of Luoyang, capital of the Han Empire—vast, hierarchical, dazzling in wealth and ceremony. The streets smelled of jasmine, incense, and ink. Bureaucracy was everywhere; names were recorded on scrolls, gates marked every transition from merchant to noble quarter. Sporus posed as a traveling healer, using his real skills in acupuncture, herbalism, and trauma care learned in Qingxi. He treated beggars, minor officials, and temple workers — building a reputation as "The Velvet Healer". Rumors started to spread of a eunuch healer who spoke with an emperor’s poise and had amethyst eyes.
A minor court eunuch, named Zhen Huai, heard of him and discreetly invited Sporus to treat his recurring migraines. Zhen Huai was clever, jaded, and loyal to no one. He introduced Sporus to the Palace of Paper — the record-keeping ministry where eunuchs wielded enormous influence. There, Sporus saw something that shook him deeply: Eunuchs commanded scribes, gave orders to guards, and received tributes. They were not mocked—they were feared, respected, and whispered about as kingmakers. Sporus was stunned. In Rome, eunuchs were chamber slaves. In Han China, they wore robes of crimson and gold. Zhen Huai told him “We may have no sons, but we birth dynasties.”
Through Zhen Huai’s help, Sporus learned that Baozhi, Old Lin, and the others were not dead, but marked as “suspected agitators” and sent to the Reform Monastery outside the city, a labor prison cloaked in Confucian rhetoric. They would face “cleansing rites” — torture and indoctrination disguised as ritual purification. He had to act within five days, before the rites began. Sporus used Zhen Huai’s favor to request a temporary position as a palace ritual physician, claiming he specialized in dream-interpreting and balancing male/female essences — aligning with Daoist ideas of cosmic harmony.
The empress dowager, a superstitious woman, accepted. Sporus gained access to the inner court as a dream-reader. Inside, he saw: A child emperor being used as a puppet, warlords bribing scribes to alter tax records, beautiful dancers offering poisoned wine to rivals, an eunuch prince who had more power than the emperor himself. As Sporus navigated this world, he realized something brutal: those eunuchs were powerful, yes—but they were also trapped. Their power was fragile, dependent on whim, gossip, and palace favor. They couldn't leave. They were not truly free. He saw a mirror of what he might have become had Rome honored him—a manipulator behind veils, not a revolutionary.
On the night before the rites, Sporus used forged scrolls (created with Zhen Huai’s help) to gain access to the monastery. He posed as an official dream-diviner sent by the inner court. He managed to see Baozhi and Old Lin in their cells. Baozhi was bruised but alive. Lin was near death. Sporus almost broke his composure when Baozhi, even broken, joked “I knew no dream-eater wore your eyes.” He staged a divine omen — releasing smoke bombs, false banners, and forged edicts. He claimed the prisoners were needed for “imperial insight-cleansing.” The frightened monastery priests obeyed.
Sporus escaped with the prisoners and hid them in a dilapidated tea merchant’s villa deep in the outer districts of Luoyang. It was partially abandoned, nestled between a paper-making warehouse and a moon-temple ruin. Locals believed the place was haunted, which served Sporus well. The villa was quiet, mist-filled, and laced with hanging vines. Baozhi helped repair the wooden beams. Sporus grinded herbs for Old Lin, who was still recovering.
Inside this fragile sanctuary, Sporus carved strategic diagrams into the dust on the table, reviewing power blocs in the court. It felt like old Rome: the whispers, the masks, the knives in velvet sleeves. Zhen Huai visited them under the cover of darkness, and confronted Sporus “I gave you favors. Now you owe me a throne’s worth.” Zhen Huai wanted help to assassinate the rival eunuch prince, Tu Gan, who controlled access to the child emperor’s private chambers. Tu Gan was cruel, clever, and controlled the Whisper Guard, the court’s secret police. With Tu Gan dead, Zhen Huai would become Imperial Regent in all but name. Sporus agreed to “consider” it. He was noncommittal, his mind already spinning alternative routes.
That night, in the quiet courtyard of the villa, while the other villagers slept, Baozhi found Sporus sitting beside a hanging lantern, sketching a map in rice powder. Baozhi watched in silence, then asked “Will you give that snake what he wants? Let him kill and climb just so we can breathe a little longer?” Sporus didn’t look up. He traced a new path between lines before answering “Back in Rome, I dealt with many senators who thought they could use me to further their own agendas. Not only did I outsmart them, but outlived them. Zhen Huai is no different. Actually, he is much smarter than them. But they still have one thing in common...” He looked up, eyes glowing in the lamplight “They underestimate those they consider inoffensive.”
Baozhi stared at him for a long moment. Then, with the weight of a farmer who once thought his son might just become a healer, he slowly sat beside him and said quietly “When I dreamed of my son, I never imagined he’d hold empires in his hands.” Then he added, almost a whisper “But now I see — it’s not power you wield. It’s patience. That frightens me more than any sword.” He gently placed a hand on Sporus’ shoulder, father to son “Whatever you do next... do not forget your most powerful weapon has always been mercy, not viciousness."
In the days that followed, Sporus began planting the seeds of rebellion — not through violence, but through narrative control. He secretly distributed scrolls across the slums of Luoyang, exposing court corruption, tax injustice, and abuse of eunuchs and servants. The scrolls were written in parables that only the poor could decode. He also started secretly gathering minor court eunuchs disillusioned with both Tu Gan and Zhen Huai. He treated them as equals, listened to their stories, and slowly pulled them into his vision — not of regency, but of justice from within. Sporus builded a faction, not unlike the early days in Rome: outsiders, the dismissed, the underestimated.
Their plan was put into action during the final night of the Spring Festival — the Lantern Festival — Luoyang was ablaze with color: Red and gold lanterns filled the streets like floating stars, parades of paper dragons danced to drums, fireworks crackled, poets composed riddles and lovers exchanged silk tokens. That was the most public, symbolic, and emotionally charged day of the year — believed to cleanse evil spirits and start the new year under Heaven’s favor. At the heart of the festival, the imperial court planned to host a grand execution of a “traitor” (a known scapegoat, a former official who protested tax abuse), followed by the unveiling of new edicts from the boy-emperor, orchestrated by Zhen Huai and Tu Gan. This was Sporus’ chosen moment to strike—not with armies, but with spectacle.
Sporus’ secret faction, composed of disillusioned court eunuchs. lower scribes, healer-priests, slum informants and lantern artists were already in place. Each one had a part: Paper Makers crafted lanterns inscribed with hidden messages — poetic verses hinting at imperial corruption. Rebel scribes forged imperial documents meant to contradict the edicts Tu Gan would present. Acrobats (former soldiers in disguise) would perform a "dance" that symbolically reenacted the corruption of the court — but the audience wouldn’t realize until it was too late. Sporus would appear masked, playing the role of a “Spirit of Justice” in the final act of the performance.
As the condemned man was brought forward, the plaza outside the Jade Gate Palace was filled with nobles, peasants, and foreign dignitaries. The boy-emperor sat expressionless, flanked by Zhen Huai and Tu Gan. Just before the executioner moved, the crowd gasped: Hundreds of lanterns floated into the air, each glowing with a single verse from an old Confucian teaching: “Three things cannot long be hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.” Then the performance began, seemingly a festival show: Dancers in dragon masks portrayed a court. One mask (painted gold) whispered lies to the emperor-child. Another mask (silver, cracked) tried to warn him, was cast out, then returned in flame. It was beautiful, haunting, and disturbingly familiar.
Sporus stepped onto the stage masked, wearing a robe of woven ash-gray silk. He spoke not to the nobles, but to the crowd, his voice distorted with a gourd-resonator “Some say justice comes from swords. But I say it comes from remembering. Remember who pays when the rich grow fat. Remember who starves while the silk shines.” As he spoke, multiple forged edicts were dropped into the crowd—signed with Tu Gan’s seal but contradicting each other. Whispers rose. Dissent spread. The crowd began to see the performance was not myth — it was a mirror. Tu Gan, furious, ordered the arrest of the “performers.” But half the palace guard, bribed or converted by Sporus’ faction, refused. Others drew swords against each other.
Zhen Huai, realizing the stage had shifted, panicked. He tried to place blame on Tu Gan — only to find his own words, recorded by rebel scribes, shouted aloud by street orators. The boy-emperor was rushed away. Blood was not yet spilled — but the illusion of unity was broken. Before fleeing, Sporus dropped a pouch filled with chemicals into the fire. It created a smoke cloud, allowing him to escape without being seeing. He disappeared in the confusion, returning to the hidden villa, where his faction awaited the fallout. That night, back in the villa, Baozhi watched Sporus wash the makeup from his face, and asked his son “Was that Rome or something else?” Sporus answered quietly “Rome taught me how to light a fire. China is teaching me how to burn without hate.”
In the wake of the Lantern Festival spectacle, the capital was in disarray, but not full rebellion. The Whisper Guard fractured, half swearing loyalty to local magistrates, others vanishing. Tu Gan disappeared, rumored to be assassinated, exiled, or executed by Zhen Huai himself. Zhen Huai consolidated power rapidly, but now governed from fear, not favor. Isolated and exposed, he began a brutal purge of the inner court to preserve control. Public executions, curfews, and mass arrests rose. But whispers grew louder. The court announced the "performance" was orchestrated by a foreign dissident to destabilize harmony — but the people already whispered another name: “The Smoke Ghost”. Lanterns with Confucius' phrase (“Three things cannot long be hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth”) began appearing in alleyways — symbolic resistance. Sporus’ legend outpaced his presence. Minor rebellions flared in the provinces, mostly among overtaxed villages emboldened by the “Ash Ghost’s” words.
With court paranoia rising, the boy-emperor, Liu An, (only about 9 years old) was increasingly isolated — kept under tighter control by Zhen Huai and palace minders. But Sporus had a secret ally: a young court eunuch named Liang, who arranged a clandestine meeting between Sporus and the emperor in the palace gardens. Dressed as a gardener, Sporus met the boy. At first, the child was shy and skeptical. But Sporus knelt and offered a riddle “When is a king not a king, yet every king wishes to become him?” The boy was puzzled, then whispered “When he is free?” Sporus smiled “That is the right answer. You’re not weak, young one. You’re caged.”
He began visiting secretly, still disguised as a gardener. Slowly, he earned the boy’s trust — not as a kingmaker, but as a mirror. “I was once like you. Crowned in pain. Paraded like a prize. I thought I was alone. I was wrong.” Gradually, he began to show the boy how to listen, how to ask questions, and how to read behind words. He taught him to look at how people behave when they think no one watches — the truest court skill. One day, Sporus gave him a sealed scroll, filled with lessons on ruling with wisdom, survival without violence, and how to listen more than speak. It was not a command. It was a gift from one boy-emperor to another.
Together, they devised a subtle plan to expose Zhen Huai: Liu An invited the regent to a private tea ceremony, supposedly to celebrate his loyalty. There, Liu An “slipped” and asked leading questions about forged scrolls, guards being reassigned, a missing poet who criticized taxes. The conversation was secretly recorded—Sporus arranged for a scroll-scribe hiding behind a screen, who transcribed everything. Later, Liu An summoned a tribunal, not through public fanfare, but through an emergency Council of Elders. The transcript was read aloud, and several eyewitnesses, secretly allied to Sporus, corroborated. Zhen Huai didn’t beg. Just smiled and said “You’ll make a fine little emperor... if you live long enough to wear the crown.” He was taken away without ceremony. No execution. Just removal. Sporus insisted on that. “Power dies louder when it is humiliated in silence” he said.
Sporus recommended a relatively unknown, scholar-official named Sun Jing for the position of regent. The man was known for treating servants and eunuchs with dignity, writing commentaries on balanced governance and having no ambitions of personal glory. Sun Jing accepted the regency reluctantly, with a single condition: he answered only to the emperor, not the court. He began training Liu An in statecraft—openly. The boy was no longer a puppet. He was becoming sovereign in waiting. One night, weeks later, Liu An called Sporus for one final private xiangpi game, and asked “Stay. You could be my ghost, my sword in the dark.” but the eunuch emperor only answered “A sword that stays drawn forever cuts its own master.” Liu An pressed a dragon seal into Sporus’ hand—a symbol of honorary brotherhood. “If I forget you, may the stars fall from the sky.” said the child, to which Sporus answered “If you remember me, the stars will never need to.” They parted not as emperor and subject, but as two survivors of crowns too heavy for their ages.
After the dust settled in Luoyang, Sporus returned to Qingxi with his father and the other captured villagers, where they reunited with Meilan and their loved ones. Their return was celebrated with a town festival and a banquet. Now hailed as a hero in Qingxi, Sporus helped rebuild parts of the village. He spent time living as a villager again, enjoying the simple life and bonding with his parents and the other elders.
However, whispers began that Baozhi and Meilan were being watched by Zhen Huai allies due to their link to Sporus and the embarrassment caused by exposing the corrupt eunuch. The boy-emperor Liu An wrote a personal letter to Sporus, subtly asking him to leave with his family for their safety and to prevent future political complications. Sporus explained the situation to Baozhi and Meilan and invited them to return to Rome with him, telling them they could live in a modest villa outside the city, that he would care for them and that they would get to meet his wife Vibia and their children. After some hesitation, they agreed to leave with him. The villagers of Qingxi offered them small, heartfelt gifts for their journey.
They traveled westward, initially disguised as pilgrims to avoid drawing attention. Their journey was slow and deliberate, especially for Baozhi and Meilan, who were unaccustomed to such extensive travel. Sporus used his knowledge of different languages and cultures to navigate and ensure their safety. He introduced his parents to the various customs and landscapes they encountered, sharing stories of his own adventures. Baozhi and Meilan expressed wonder and sometimes fear at the vastness of the world beyond China. They encountered diverse cultures and peoples along the Silk Road, some friendly, some suspicious. Sporus used his staff-fighting skills to protect his parents from bandits and ensure they had adequate supplies. He also subtly used his Roman connections to secure safe passage or resources when needed, without revealing his identity.
After a long time traveling, they entered Parthian territory, a place where Sporus previously faced imprisonment and engineered a political coup. Sporus decided to seek an audience with King Artaban. Their reunion was a mix of respect, shared history, and a touch of unease from Artaban given Sporus's unexpected return. He offered them temporary stay and resources, acknowledging Sporus's role in his ascension. Sporus reassured Artaban of Rome's continued peace and stability, subtly discussing potential trade opportunities between Rome, Parthia, and now, even China. Baozhi and Meilan were exposed to Parthian culture, which was very different from anything they've known. They witnessed Sporus's influence and diplomatic skill, gaining a deeper understanding of his position.
They eventually reached the Mediterranean coast, taking a ship from a port in Anatolia. The sea journey offered a different kind of challenge and beauty. Sporus prepared his parents for the reality of Roman society and explained the nuances of his life as Emperor. He also wrote letters to Vibia, explaining about his parents and his adventures in Han China, asking her to prepare a villa for them outside the city.
The empress, having received Sporus's letters during his journey, meticulously prepared for his return and the arrival of his parents. She ensured the modest villa outside Rome was ready for Baozhi and Meilan, decorated with touches that would make them feel at home. Zephyrus, Faustina, and Tiberius were filled with excitement and curiosity about Sporus's return and meeting their "Chinese grandparents." Vibia had explained the situation to them, emphasizing the importance of Sporus's family. When news of the emperor’s upcoming return spreaded, Rome was filled with joy, and the people prepared a grand celebration to welcome Sporus back.
Vibia, along with the children and a small, trusted contingent of Praetorian Guards, awaited Sporus's arrival at the Portus, wearing full ceremonial armor. The moment she saw Sporus coming out of the ship, her eyes softened, she strided towards him and embraced him fiercely. When they parted, Sporus embraced Zephyrus, Faustina, and Tiberius, a powerful moment of reconnecting with his adopted children. Then he formally introduced Baozhi and Meilan to his family “These are the roots I was stolen from. The soil that bore me. Mother, Father—these are my wife Vibia, and the children we now raise.” Vibia bowed her head respectfully to Meilan and Baozhi, saying “You birthed Sporus, and he forged an empire. You have my gratitude.” to which Meilan responded “And you kept him from breaking. That’s all a mother could ask.”
Zephyrus shyly bowed to Meilan and Baozhi and said "I’ve heard stories of you both. Welcome to Rome." Faustina clinged to Meilan’s robe the moment they were introduced. Meilan knelt, brushed her hair from her face and said “I heard stories about you, little one. You are a child of survival, like my son.” Tiberius, always the quiet and reserved one, remained a little behind, until Baozhi showed the boy a xiangpi game he made himself during the journey. Tiberius eyes lit up, and it didn't take long before he was asking Baozhi a thousand questions about the game.
Against Sporus’ wishes, the Senate organized a triumphal return, but the emperor controlled the narrative. Sporus, accompanied by Vibia, the children, and his parents made a procession through the city. The people cheered wildly, grateful for his safe return after his journey in search of healing. Some shouted “Ave Sporus! Ave the Phoenix!” The image of Sporus, flanked by his formidable wife, his adopted children, and his humble Chinese parents, presented a powerful and unprecedented image of Roman leadership, symbolizing resilience, diversity, and a new era for the empire.
Before the Senate steps, Sporus addressed the crowd in the Forum. He spoke plainly — no grand speeches, no omens, just truth: “I left Rome to find a cure. What I found was a home I never knew, and a family I was taken from. I do not stand before you as a Roman by birth — but as your emperor by choice, blood, and sacrifice.” He paused, then gestured to Meilan and Baozhi “Rome calls me its ruler. But long before that, I was Yujin, son of Meilan, and Baozhi the farmers. They did not raise an emperor. They raised a human being.” He ended with “Rome is not weakened by the blood of strangers. Rome grows when it dares to love beyond its walls.”
Sporus’ revelation of his Chinese origins was received with a mix of awe, wonder, and some confusion from the plebs. Many found it exotic and fascinating, seeing Sporus as even more extraordinary. Some were intrigued by the "mysteries of the East" and the potential for new trade or cultural exchange. The Senate, for their part, was scandalized. The concept of a Roman Emperor, let alone a eunuch and former slave, being Chinese was seen as an unprecedented affront to Roman tradition, purity, and prestige. It challenged their understanding of Roman identity and global order. But most remained silent — Sporus’ popularity was absolute. Others noted “He’s not the first foreign-born emperor. But he’s the first to say it aloud.”
That evening, in the quiet of the villa, the family dined together. No fanfare. Just bread, olives, Chinese tea, and laughter echoing across cultures and generations. Zephyrus read his favorite Greek poems to Meilan and Baozhi. Faustina and Tiberius played with his new xiangpi game. Baozhi taught Vibia to write her name in Chinese characters. And Sporus, for the first time in years, sat in silence—not as emperor, not as widow—but as son.
Later, as Meilan washed the dishes with Faustina’s help, she looked out at the olive trees “They clapped for you. But some looked at us like we were bad omens.” she noted. Sporus shrugged and said “Rome is slow to love. But once it does… it builds statues.” Baozhi grinned “Let’s hope they carve our noses right when they do.”
Chapter 13: The Daughter of Revenge
Summary:
Sporus believes the future of his children is secured, but the Senate has it's own plans, and trouble comes from the north.
Notes:
IMPORTANT WARNING: This is my first work and not a beta read. Also, there may be several historical/cultural innacurancies, for which I apologise beforehand. Keep in mind this is fiction, and while some of the characters in this fanfic did exist in real life, parts of their stories and personalities have been altered. Other characters, however, are purely original.
This story contains mentions of blood, violence and sexual abuse. Altought there are no graphic scenes, I seriosuly ask you to not read it if it triggers traumas and/or flashbacks.
Playlist of this chapter:
-Preparations for the wedding: The Might of Rome by Hans Zimmer and Lisa Gerrard (from the Gladiator movie)
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- The wedding and the assassin: Rhaenyra's Wedding Theme (ft. Rains of Castamere) - House of the Dragon | EPIC VERSION by L'Orchestra CinématiqueDISCLAIMER: I don't claim ownership of any of these tracks. All rights belong to the original creators.
Chapter Text
In the months that followed Sporus' return to Rome with his parents, he made everything possible to help Meilan and Baozhi settle into Roman life, enlisting Vibia’s assistance. The middle-aged couple proved themselves to be resilient, Meilan quickly learning Roman agriculture techniques and proceeding to make a small kitchen garden for them to plant their food. Baozhi depicted himself in carpentry, making tables, chairs and other wooden furniture for travelers and neighbours. Sporus visited them whenever he could, sometimes bringing Zephyrus, Faustina and Tiberius with him. The children loved their grandparents, and often brought gifts for them when visiting.
During this time, Sporus found out his heirs grew significantly, both physically and intellectually, during his absence. Zephyrus, now 12-years-old, carried himself with the grace of a philosopher king in the making. His speech carried wisdom, his eyes carried resolve, and his actions were never thoughtless. Faustina too was no longer the shy little girl he remembered, though she was still quiet and subdued. She was more confident and sure of herself, with a graceful demeanor, gentle speech and witty humor. Tiberius, now 10-years-old, proved himself a master strategist and tactician, even though he lacked combat skills.
Sporus, now 19-years-old, was proud of his children, and he was sure that with the education and training he and Vibia provided, their future was secure. But this hope was shattered during a Senate session. The senators sat in their curved rows, fidgeting with togas and scrolls. Sporus entered in full imperial regalia, Vibia shadowing him in crimson cloak and armor. The senators bowed swiftly. The silence was thick. A senator, gray-bearded and cautious, rose to speak.
“Divine Sporus, may the gods grant long years to you and your house. We come not with defiance, but with duty. Your son, Zephyrus, is twelve. Rome has ever wed her heirs early. Augustus, Claudius, even Nero himself—”
“Do not speak his name to me here.” Sporus cutted him off, voice cold as ice.
The chamber stilled. Another senator, more cautious, rose. “We mean no offense, Caesar. Only that Rome is strongest when her future is secured. The boy must be wed, to anchor succession.”
Sporus scowled and answered coldly “Continue.”
“The Senate proposes the Lady Faustina. She is quiet, obedient, pious, composed—qualities of an empress. Her blood ties her to the Julian-Claudian dynasty, and her obedience will bind Nero’s legacy beneath your house. Such union would end whispers of rival claimants.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the chamber. Sporus was very still. Then, with a voice sharp as a blade, he erupted. “I was ten years old when Nero married me! Ten. Come to think of it, marriage is too kind a term. He raped me. In front of hundreds of people. You saw it. And you clapped when he came inside me. You called it divine union. Some of you called it love. I bled on his bed like an altar, and you cheered as though Rome were saved by the sight of my ruin!”
Gasps echoed in the Curia. Some senators lowered their eyes. Others glanced nervously to the exits. Sporus continued “And now—you would recreate that stage. For my son and step-granddaughter? My children, whom I raised free?” He rose, pacing like a predator “Give me ONE reason not to pick three of you at random this instant and feed you to the same hounds that devoured my husband!”
The chamber shuddered into silence. Senators shrunk in their seats. Vibia approached carefully and placed a hand on Sporus' shoulder to calm him down. He took a deep breath and squeezed her hand back. He then turned to the senators, and his voice dropped to a low growl. “I will speak to Zephyrus. And to Faustina. They will decide. And hear me well—if they refuse, this matter dies with their answer, meaning you will never bring it up again. Unless you hunger to bleed as I bled. Do you understand?”
The Senate murmured assent. Sporus leaned forward, his tone razor-sharp “And should you forget, remember this: the blood of Nero ended in the jaws of my dogs. The line of Sporus will not be chained by your decrees, only by its own will.”
He then slammed his laurel crown onto the speaker’s dais, its bronze echo rolling like thunder. Sporus turned, cloak sweeping, and left the Curia with Vibia in silence. The senators sat frozen, caught between terror and humiliation, shamed but still scheming.
Later that day, Sporus sat in the private gardens beneath a laurel tree, his hands clasped. After a while, Zephyrus and Faustina appeared. “You summoned us, Pater?” asked Faustina, to which Sporus nodded, gesturing for them to sit opposite him. He spoke softly, almost fatherly “The Senate has spoken. They say you must be wed. They name you, Faustina, as bride. They think it will bind Nero’s ghost to my house, as if his hands on my body haven’t marked me enough. They speak of duty. Of tradition. Of Rome’s stability. But I hear only chains. I hear the clapping of old men while a boy is broken. But this house is not theirs to command. It is yours. So I ask you both: what do you want?”
Zephyrus shifted uncomfortably, then looked up with steady eyes “I know what duty demands. I know what Rome expects. But I also know what they did to you, Pater. And I will not walk blind into that same darkness.”
Then Faustina spoke, soft but firm “They want me as a leash. Not a wife. A pawn to shame my grandfather’s memory. Nor that his legacy requires much effort to be shameful.” She added with a humorless smile “But I am not their leash. And Zephyrus is not their pawn.”
Sporus gave her a sad smile and looked them both in the eyes “I will not see you bled on the same altar. You are children. If you refuse, I will bear the storm. Say the word, and the matter is ended.”
A long silence. Zephyrus and Faustina exchanged a look—ancient, heavy, beyond their years. Then Zephyrus said slowly “If Faustina is not against it, we will wed. But not on their terms. On ours.”
Sporus looked up sharply. His jaw tightened, fear flashing in his eyes. “On your terms?” Zephyrus’ answer was firm, echoing Sporus’ old defiance “Yes. Like you and Mater years ago. A union not of chains, but of choice.”
“Our conditions are these” Started Faustina “Our married life remains private. We are not pressed for heirs. And we will not consummate this union until we are older, when we choose. Not before.”
The words hung in the air. Sporus stared at them both, searching their young faces. He saw not pawns, not victims, but something new—children who learned his lessons, and made them their own. When he finally spoke again, his voice was almost a whisper “You would defy them? Together?” Zephyrus didn’t hesitate “Together.” Faustina added with steadiness “They will call it rebellion. But so be it. We are not their stage.”
Sporus leaned back, covering his mouth, his eyes shining with unfallen tears. Then he laughed—low, weary, but proud. He looked at them with something like awe “You are my children, indeed. You speak with more wisdom than all the gray men in the Curia. Then let it be written: if you marry, it shall be by your choice alone. And Rome will kneel to that choice, or choke on its own hypocrisy” Then he opened his arms and they leaned into him. For a moment, they just stayed there, hugging each other. The future of Rome, seated beneath the laurel tree, has just claimed its own agency.
And so, in the next morning, Sporus, Vibia, Zephyrus, Faustina and Tiberius entered the Curia. Zephyrus declared, with Faustina at his side, that they would wed on their own terms (privacy, no forced heirs, consummation delayed). The Senators were stunned — technically, they’ve “won,” but the terms humiliated them by undermining Rome’s traditions. Some of them applaud out of fear; others whisper that this was “another mockery of Roman dignity”, like Sporus and Vibia’s marriage conditions years earlier.
Sporus smiled in public, but later confided to Vibia “They call it a union. I see only a stage where I bled, and two children stepping into the fire I thought I had smothered.” Vibia, pragmatic as ever, told him “They are not you. They do not step into the fire alone. You taught them to walk through it holding each other’s hand.”
One day after the marriage announcement, Sporus decided to visit his parents, Meilan and Baozhi, at the small villa they lived in the Roman countryside. There, he revealed his doubts to them. Meilan counseled him with Chinese philosophy “You think you can save your children by shielding them from pain. But a willow bends because it knows the wind will always come. Better to teach them how to bend without breaking.” and Baozhi reminded him “Dynasties are not built on blood. They are built on memory. Your son will remember you not as Nero’s widow, but as the emperor who gave him a choice when others tried to take it away.” Sporus left calmer, but still haunted by the looming wedding.
As news of the upcoming wedding spread, the plebeians celebrated wildly — songs, graffiti, festivals. They saw this as a union of healing: Sporus’ dynasty binding even Nero’s cursed blood. Preparations were in full swing: Musicians and artisans were hired, streets were decorated and people from all over the empire came to Rome to witness the heirs of the Phoenix getting married.
But it wasn’t just Romans who were present for the ceremony. Several representatives of Germanic tribes traveled to Rome to congratulate Vibia for the marriage of her adopted son. King Artaban of Parthia arrived with gifts, reminding Rome of the peace between Roman and Parthians after he and Sporus exposed Vologases I involvement with the cult of Gaius and crowned Artaban king years before. Liu An, the child-emperor of Han China (with regents and envoys), arrived as a symbolic gesture of alliance. Their presence turned the wedding into an international spectacle, Rome’s court at the center of global eyes. The aristocracy muttered in private — horrified that eunuchs, barbarians, and foreign kings walked openly in Rome’s sacred halls.
Perhaps the most interesting part of the wedding preparation was Vibia helping Faustina choose her dress. It was a strange to see the former gladiatrix, someone who didn’t care much for beauty of aesthetic, laying dresses of different colors and helping Faustina try them on, adjusting sleeves, matching jewelry and analyzing sketches of different hair styles. The imperatrix praetoria made it her personal mission to make Faustina look splendid on her special day, no matter how often her adopted daughter told her she had more important duties to attend to. “You are my most important duty right now” Vibia always replied “I know I have little to no experience in the realm of fashion, but there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”
Sporus used the months prior to the wedding to prepare Zephyrus for married life. He knew his adopted son was a just and honorable young man, that he would respect Faustina and care for her, but he still felt like he had to reinforce those traits, to make sure his children would have a happy and healthy marriage life. Sometimes he would look at Faustina, trying on different marriage dresses, and his mind would take him back to the night where his childhood was destroyed. The night he was put on a dress not so different from those ones, paraded through a hall illuminated by burning christians. He remembered Nero’s hands on his body, ripping the dress off, turning him back, bending him over…Then Faustina would look at him expectantly, waiting for his opinion on her look, and he would be pulled back into the present again. He would force a smile and tell her how beautiful she looked, mentally reminding himself that unlike him, Faustina chose to be a bride, and unlike him she had people who loved her to support and guide her in this new chapter of her life.
The wedding ceremony was held in the Forum, like Sporus and Vibia’s symbolic union years before. The main chamber blazed with torches, banners, and laurel wreaths. All of Rome had gathered: senators in white togas edged with purple, foreign kings in jeweled cloaks, and the common people crowding every wall and rooftop. At the center, stood a raised platform draped in crimson and gold. The air hummed with expectation.
Zephyrus and Faustina stood side by side, dressed not as children of Rome’s cruelty, but as sovereigns-in-waiting, their regalia blending modesty and symbolism — he in red and golden toga with phoenix motifs, she in a green dress with golden lion motifs (representing the goddess Cybele). At their side stood Sporus — crowned, composed, but his eyes restless with memory. Vibia Ferox loomed like a statue of Mars in armor. Between them stood Tiberius, in a simple but elegant toga. Meilan and Baozhi sat close, their foreign silks startling amid the marble solemnity. King Artaban of Parthia and the boy-emperor Liu An of Han China watched from honored seats, their presence making this union an event for the whole known world. The Senate was forced to attend; the Praetorian Guard surrounded the Forum; foreign emissaries watched closely.
As the vows were completed and the applause began, music rose from lyres and flutes. But in the harmony, a discordant note — one flute screeched, and from within the musicians, daggers flashed. Three assassins surge forward, their blades gleaming. One lunged at Zephyrus, another at Faustina, a third toward Sporus. Tiberius runned towards Zephyrus and Faustina, standing between them and one of the assassins, raising his arm to block the dagger. The blade cutted his sleeve but missed flesh. Vibia moved like lightning — in one motion she seized a spear from a guard and impaled the would-be killer charging Sporus.
“Guards! Shields!” Shouted Sporus. The Praetorian Guard swarmed, clashing with the assassins. One was cut down immediately; another slashed wildly before being pinned. The third was captured alive, dragged forward, hissing curses in a Celtic tongue. The Forum descended into chaos — screams, soldiers, foreign envoys rising to their feet. But at the center of the storm stood Zephyrus, Faustina and Tiberius, unshaken. Zephyrus placed a hand over Tiberius’ shoulder, squeezing it in thanks to his brother for saving their lives, then he raised Faustina’s hand high, showing Rome they were unbroken. The crowd erupted — fear mingled with awe.
“You see! Rome’s heirs are hunted like prey!” Declared Sporus to all gathered “This is not just an insult to your emperor — it is war declared upon all of you!”
He strode to the captured assassin. The man spitted at the emperor’s feet, snarling something about “The daughter of revenge sends you a message. Your empire will soon bleed like her mother did” before grabbing a dagger from a soldier’s belt and slitting his own throat before all. As his body fell to the ground, a silver seal shined amidst the growing pool of blood. Sporus picked it up, reading the name written on it aloud “Bonvica daughter of Boudicca.” The Forum gasped. The foreign kings exchanged glances; the senators blanched. The name of Boudicca returned like a ghost risen from the ashes of revolt.
Chapter 14: A Bitter Separation
Summary:
After the assassination attempt during Zephyrus and Faustina’s wedding ceremony, Sporus is faced with senatorial conspiracies, a rebellion in Britannia, and the prospect of sending his children away from Rome for their safety.
Notes:
IMPORTANT WARNING: This is my first work and not a beta read. Also, there may be several historical/cultural innacurancies, for which I apologise beforehand. Keep in mind this is fiction, and while some of the characters in this fanfic did exist in real life, parts of their stories and personalities have been altered. Other characters, however, are purely original.
This story contains mentions of blood, violence and sexual abuse. Altought there are no graphic scenes, I seriosuly ask you to not read it if it triggers traumas and/or flashbacks.
Playlist of this chapter:
-Wedding Aftermath: House of the Dragon OST - The Royal Wedding | End Credits by Diego Mitre Music
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-Zephyrus and Faustina's departure: The Farewell - House of The Dragon Season 2 Episode 3 (OST COVER) by Tom Dabrowski Music
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-Vibia goes to war on Britannia: The Greens Leave King's Landing | Soundtrack | House of The Dragon S2E3 by Jeremy Brauns MusicDISCLAIMER: I don't claim ownership of any of these tracks. All rights belong to the original creators.
Chapter Text
Later, at the Curia Julia, the Senate met in an emergency session. The air was heavy with incense to “purify” the chamber after the bloodshed. Senators sat pale and restless, their whispers like rustling leaves. At the center, Sporus sat on the curule chair, crown slightly askew, eyes dark with fury. Vibia stood at his shoulder like a drawn sword.
“Today was meant to bind Rome in peace. Instead, blood spilled at the altar. My son and his bride nearly cut down like cattle — and under whose gaze? Yours!”
The senators stirred, some in outrage, others in fear. A few opened their mouths to protest, but Sporus cut them down with a raised hand “Do not speak! Do not dare! For I remember well — I was ten when Nero made me his bride, and you applauded. I bled, and you called it tradition. Now my children bleed, and you would call it an accident? Coincidence? No. I will name it for what it is: betrayal. The assassin spoke before killing himself, and you all heard it. He bore a seal with the name of Bonvica, daughter of Boudicca. A name you all thought ash, buried with her mother beneath Roman boots. But she lives. And she rises.”
A ripple of panic ran through the chamber. Senators muttered prayers; one banged his fist on the marble bench “If this is true… if Bonvica has returned, then Britannia is aflame again. Caesar, we must raise legions at once.
“We will.” Snapped Sporus “But answer me this first — how did assassins slip past the Guard? How did Celtic blades reach the heart of Rome? Not without help. Not without Roman hands opening doors!”
The chamber exploded in denials. Senators shouted over each other, protesting loyalty, swearing oaths to the gods. Sporus slammed his fist against the ivory armrest of the curule chair, silencing them.
“I see you. I see the sweat on your brows, the tremble in your lips. Do not think I forget how many of you wept for Nero’s death. How many of you called me a monster for surviving him. How many times you attempted to undermine me and my family, to put Rome against me. Now you reach for his granddaughter, hoping to chain her blood to my house — and when she chose her own vow, you struck!”
“We— we sought only to preserve Rome’s order—” Stammered Senator Livius, defensive, but Sporus cutted him, voice seething “Order? You call this order? Children hunted at their wedding, Rome’s name mocked before kings of Parthia and Han? Your order is rot dressed in togas.”
Silence fell. Sporus stood tall, his voice ringing through the chamber “Here is my decree: An inquiry will root out the traitors in this Senate. Those who aided Bonvica will hang. Those who knew and kept silent will burn. I will scour your ranks until the Curia itself runs clean.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the chamber like a blade “Bonvica thinks Rome weak. She thinks us cowards, bound in chains of our own making. She is wrong. We will meet her fire with steel. But mark me — before we march on Britannia, I will first cleanse Rome.”
The senators sat frozen, knowing some of their numbers would soon fall. Outside, the roar of the people drifts faintly into the chamber — chants of “War on Britannia!” echoing from the streets.
Vibia leaned close to Sporus, her voice low but hard as iron “You have declared war, husband. On Bonvica, and on the Senate.” To which Sporus answered without hesitation “Then let them both learn the cost of bleeding my children.”
In the days following the wedding, Rome trembled beneath the hand of Calvia Crispinilla, spymaster and former courtier of Nero. Armed with imperial mandate, she set about exposing the conspirators who had smuggled Bonvica’s assassins into the capital.
Her methods were swift and merciless. Senators were seized in their beds, their households ransacked, their slaves tortured until tongues loosened. Some were indeed found guilty of collusion, their letters bearing secret marks in Celtic runes; others were condemned on little more than whispers, their deaths serving as warnings to the rest.
Sporus presided in silence as men once hailed as pillars of Rome were dragged to the Mamertine prison. When questioned why he permitted such severity, he answered only “Better they fear me than my children bleed.” The Curia became a place of terror, where senators sat not as lawmakers but as men awaiting their own accusations.
Meanwhile, on the streets of Rome, the people, ever hungry for heroes, fastened upon Tiberius, Faustina’s half-brother, who at only ten years old had struck down one of the assassins at the wedding. Songs and graffiti proclaimed him “Tiberius the Brave, Slayer of Daggers.”
Crowds shouted his name in the streets, and whispers began that perhaps he, not Zephyrus, should succeed Sporus. Yet the boy himself shunned ambition. To his father he said simply “I struck because I was afraid. Do not let them make me what I am not.” Sporus hugged him tightly, both proud of his youngest son and afraid by the seed of rivalry the people had sown.
In the aftermath, King Artaban of Parthia pledged friendship, offering to shelter the heirs of Sporus should danger return and lend Parthian soldiers to the war effort if necessary. Liu An, child-emperor of Han China, left gifts of silk, scholars, and physicians, meant to strengthen Rome’s hand diplomatically. The Han delegation publicly honored Zephyrus as “Brother of the East,” adding legitimacy to his future reign. Thus Rome, though shaken within, stood surrounded by allies without, a paradox of power built on fragile trust.
Haunted by daggers and conspiracies, Sporus resolved to send Zephyrus and Faustina eastward to the court of Artaban, where they would be safe beyond Rome’s reach. Publicly, this was declared a diplomatic mission; privately, it was exile for their protection. Artaban promised to look after them as if they were his own children. Zephyrus submitted to his father’s decision with filial loyalty, yet could not hide his bitterness “You taught me to stand, pater. Yet now you bid me flee. I will not oppose you, but know this: Rome loses something when its heirs hide.” Their farewell was an emotionally charged moment for both of them. Though Sporus had been separated from Zephyrus before, it was never by his own choice like it was now, and Zephyrus was torn between wanting to stay and fight beside his father and going away to keep him and his wife safe.
Faustina, by contrast, accepted with composure. In the Parthian capital of Ctesiphon, she cultivated allies among nobles and priests, weaving herself into their politics with quiet skill. She was no longer merely Nero’s granddaughter, but a figure of intrigue in her own right. The Parthian noblewoman quickly became fond of her.
One night, beneath the starlit skies of Parthia, Faustina spoke privately with Zephyrus. She argued that if calamity befell them or Sporus, Rome must not die with them. “You are the heir, but an heir must have an heir. If something happens to us, Sporus’ line ends. He gave us a choice. Let us choose not just for ourselves, but for him. If I bear your child, there will be no erasing us.”
Zephyrus resisted, saying they were still children. Faustina replied that she would not be forced, only that she wished their choice to mean survival, not silence. At last he agreed, but only after ensuring her will was firm.
Thus, though young, the line of Sporus was secured not by decree of the Senate nor by chains of tradition, but by vows of defiance, chosen freely by those who once had no choice at all.
At the same time, Vibia Ferox was dispatched with legions to Britannia, charged with extinguishing Bonvica’s rebellion before it could grow into another Boudiccan war. With her went auxiliaries from the Rhine, for many Germanic tribes, seeing in her the reflection of their own warrior queens, had sworn allegiance after the wedding assassination.
Thus the army was not wholly Roman but a coalition, bound less by senate decree than by devotion to their commander. The soldiers called her Mater Ferox — Mother Ferox — saying Zephyrus and Faustina were as much her children as Sporus’, and that any hand raised against them would be met with germanic steel.
The war in Britannia proved unlike others. Bonvica commanded her tribes with cunning, mastering ambush and sudden retreat, drawing blood and vanishing into the forests and bogs. Yet Vibia, herself born of Germanic stock, knew these ways. She anticipated feints, countered sudden raids with traps of her own, and disciplined her men not to chase into death.
So the two armies fought as equals. Battles were small but bitter, neither side yielding, both gaining renown. The legions sang that “Rome’s sword had found its match in Boudicca’s daughter,” while the Britons proclaimed that “the daughter of vengeance could stand against the Empire’s fiercest wolf.”
Unlike governors who burned without care, Vibia sought to temper Rome’s iron with justice. Villages that surrendered were spared, their chiefs left alive under oath of neutrality. She forbade unnecessary cruelty, declaring “Every fire we light without cause feeds Bonvica’s flame. Let no soldier say he gave her another martyr.”
This conduct won her both loyalty and enemies. Many soldiers praised her restraint, saying she fought not as a butcher but as a warrior queen. Yet some whispered she was too merciful, that she loved the enemy more than Rome.
Bonvica herself was no villain. Daughter of Boudicca, she and her sisters were raped by roman soldiers when still children. Their suffering led their mother to rally the Iceni and lead one of the most bloody rebellions Rome had ever seen. Yet, even Boudica couldn’t stand against Rome’s superior military discipline, and her rebellion failed, leading to the death of Bonvica’s sister in battle. The warrior queen took poison to avoid being captured, and Bonvice fled into hiding with the remaining of her mother’s loyalists. For years she prepared herself for another rebellion, training soldiers, forging alliances and studying Rome’s military techniques, biding her time for when she would take her revenge.
From the ashes of those memories she rose, not for cruelty but for justice. She declared “Rome calls me barbarian. Yet it was Rome that defiled me and my sister, Rome that burned my home, Rome that chained my people. If I now raise the spear, it is not for vengeance alone, but to end the Empire that knows no gods but its own.”
To her followers she was no mere chieftain but a living spirit, the flame of Boudicca reborn. Songs called her “the Wolf Queen of Britannia,” mirroring how Vibia was called “The Wolf Empress of Germania” by her Germanic soldiers.
Campaign followed campaign, season after season. Neither side gained decisive ground. For every village Vibia secured, another rose behind Bonvica. For every ambush Bonvica sprang, Vibia countered with foresight. When the two women nearly met at the Battle of the Severn, Bonvica’s forces withdrew before the clash, unwilling to test fate against the Germanic general. The war thus grew into legend: two women, both forged in Rome’s cruelty, one defending the Empire, the other seeking to destroy it.
News from the front reached Sporus in Rome, who saw in Bonvica a shadow of himself, not only the woman who sent assassins after his children. He told Vibia in a letter “She is not my enemy, nor yours. She is what I might have been, had I chosen fire over crown. Treat her with the honor you would show me, if fate had made us foes.”
Vibia honored this counsel when she could, sparing captives, sending back wounded Britons after battle. In time, even Bonvica acknowledged her adversary, declaring “Vibia fights as a foe, not as a butcher. Better to fall by her hand than live chained to Rome’s governors.”
So the war dragged on, not as conquest but as duel, Rome and Britannia locked in an embrace of blood and honor. No decisive blow fell in those months; each side claimed victory, each side nursed wounds.
But in Rome, senators muttered that the war must end swiftly, for the treasury bled dry. And in Britannia, tribes wondered how long they could endure before famine or betrayal forced their hand. Thus both Vibia and Bonvica fought not only each other, but the patience of their peoples.
Chapter 15: The Treaty of Britannia
Summary:
As war wages on Britannia and unrest stirs in Rome, the two people Sporus fought the hardest to protect step in to help him keep the empire together. Meanwhile, a dangerous secret is being kept in Parthia.
Playlist of this chapter:
-Meilan and Baozhi political intervention: Ending Credits Theme (Episode 5 & 6) - House Of The Dragon OST [Orchestral Cover] by Attack on Orchestra
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-The meeting between Vibia and Bonvica: Two Swords by Ramin Djawadi
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-Vibia and Bonvica return to Rome: Aegon Returns to Kingslanding | House Of The Dragon Soundtrack | HQ COVER by Crystilo Music
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-The Traty Of Britannia: House of the Dragon OST - The Black Council | Dragon Riding by Diego Mitre MusicDISCLAIMER: I don't claim ownership of any of these tracks. All rights belong to the original creators.
Notes:
IMPORTANT WARNING: This is my first work and not a beta read. Also, there may be several historical/cultural innacurancies, for which I apologise beforehand. Keep in mind this is fiction, and while some of the characters in this fanfic did exist in real life, parts of their stories and personalities have been altered. Other characters, however, are purely original.
This story contains mentions of blood, violence and sexual abuse. Altought there are no graphic scenes, I seriosuly ask you to not read it if it triggers traumas and/or flashbacks.
Chapter Text
In the aftermath of the wedding assassination and the purge led by Calvia Crispinilla, the capital grew tense. The Senate sat in fear, outwardly obedient but inwardly seething at Sporus’ dominance. They resented his reliance on women, foreigners, and freedmen, whispering that Rome’s dignity had been sold for survival.
Meanwhile, the people of Rome wavered between loyalty and unrest. They adored Zephyrus, Faustina and Tiberius, but grain shortages and the expense of campaigns in Britannia left many hungry. Riots flared in the Subura, and rumors spread that the gods were displeased with Sporus’ rule. Sporus found himself beset on every side — senators plotting in shadows, plebeians demanding bread, and enemies abroad waiting for Rome to stumble.
It was then that his parents, Meilan and Baozhi, stepped from their quiet villa into the Palatine, dressed not in silks but in plain linen, as farmers. Sporus, who had labored to shield them from the capital’s poison, implored them to return to the countryside “I labored to buy your peace, to spare you what Rome did to me. I will not let its filth stain you too. This is not your burden.”
But Meilan replied “We are your parents. What mother flees when her son is wounded? What father hides when his child is hunted?” and Baozhi added “You are emperor to Rome, but to us you are still our boy. And we will not watch Rome devour him.”
Meilan, gentle but firm, began receiving senators’ wives and daughters at informal gatherings. She soothed hostilities with kindness, teaching them small courtesies from her homeland. She spoke softly of harmony, of family above pride, and in time even hardened matrons found themselves listening. “To command men, command their households,” she told Sporus — and the Senate began to soften, not from fear but from pressure at their own tables.
Baozhi, more pragmatic, turned his attention to the merchants and guilds. Though untrained in Roman law, he understood trade from the markets of his youth. He met with bakers, millers, and grain importers, promising stability through imperial backing. By arranging new supply routes from Sicily and Egypt, he eased the shortages that had starved the people. His plain manner disarmed suspicion: he was no schemer, only a man who knew the worth of bread.
Thus, without titles or offices, Meilan and Baozhi became Sporus’ counselors — not in the Senate, but in the streets and households of Rome.
The Senate at first scoffed. Old men sneered that Rome’s fate was guided by peasants from the East, that the Palatine had been turned into a farmhouse. But as their wives repeated Meilan’s words, as their children sang ballads of “the mother and father of Caesar,” their scorn soured into silence.
Some senators even came to respect Baozhi’s dealings, for the grain flowed again and riots ceased. Yet resentment never vanished. In their hearts, they saw Sporus’ family as a foreign intrusion upon Roman dignity, proof that their world was changing beyond recognition.
The common people, by contrast, embraced them. They saw in Meilan and Baozhi not distant rulers but parents — humble, kind, unadorned. Crowds cheered them in the Forum, calling out: “Mother! Father! Guard the emperor as you guard us!”
Graffiti appeared on Rome’s walls: crude images of Sporus standing between two figures in Eastern robes, with the words “The Family of Rome.” For the plebeians, weary of senatorial arrogance, this image was powerful. Rome had been ruled by dynasties of patricians and tyrants. Now, for the first time, it was ruled by a family that seemed to share their hunger, their fear, their love.
Sporus himself remained conflicted. He loved them, yet feared for them. More than once he wrote to Vibia “I escaped Rome’s cruelty only to bring them into its teeth. I swore they would live in peace, yet now they walk among vipers for me.”
Vibia answered with blunt soldier’s wisdom “Better to face danger together than to hide apart. They are not lambs, Sporus. They are farmers. And farmers are used to dealing with snakes.”
Thus, in these months, Rome witnessed something unprecedented: an emperor whose power was not secured by patrician lineage, but by a farmer and his wife from distant China. Though mocked by the Senate, they steadied Rome when it might have faltered. And though Sporus feared their presence would endanger them, their quiet strength gave him what neither legions nor decrees could provide: the certainty that he was not alone.
The war in Britannia had dragged on for months. Neither side could claim victory: Vibia Ferox held the legions together with discipline and honor, while Bonvica, daughter of Boudicca, drew the tribes to her banner with fire and memory.
The land itself groaned under their struggle. Villages lay burned, harvests spoiled, and children starved in silence. Both sides knew that endless war would not break their foe — only harden them.
So at last, envoys crossed the lines. Bonvica offered parley; Vibia, though wary, agreed. Each side feared treachery, but each also longed for an end.
They met upon a windswept hill between camps, beneath an ancient oak sacred to the Britons. Vibia came in armor, scarred by months of war, flanked by centurions and Germanic bodyguards. Bonvica arrived in a cloak dyed in woad and crimson, her face painted in the old warrior fashion, surrounded by tribal chiefs.
At first, the air was taut with suspicion. But when they beheld each other, there was a strange silence — not hatred, but recognition. Both were daughters of peoples Rome had once scorned. Both had borne wounds at its hand. Bonvica was the first to speak “Rome made me an orphan. It made you its sword. Yet in you I see not a butcher, but a sister. If fate were kinder, we would share the same fire.” To which Vibia replied “If fate had made us sisters, we would have set the world aflame together. But it has made us foes. So let us speak, not of what cannot be, but of what must be.”
Yet Rome itself was unwilling to let peace bloom. In the shadows, senators who despised Sporus and feared Bonvica’s strength had conspired. They had bribed a legionary, hiding him among Vibia’s guard, to strike down the daughter of Boudicca at the parley.
At the height of discussion, when tempers softened and hope stirred, the traitor drew his dagger and lunged at Bonvica. But Vibia, ever watchful, saw the glint of steel. She hurled herself between, catching the assassin’s arm on her shield. In a single stroke, she ran him through.
The Britons erupted, thinking treachery; the Romans raised shields, expecting reprisal. But Bonvica raised her hand and silenced them all. She looked at Vibia, her enemy who had just saved her life, and said “You fight as a warrior, not a butcher. Rome sent its dagger, but you cast it aside. I will remember this.” Thus, by an act of treachery, trust was born.
After long counsel, an agreement was struck:
- Bonvica would lay down arms and be recognized as Governess of Britannia, ruling her people under Roman title but with freedom in custom and law.
- To bind peace, Tiberius, hailed as “Slayer of Daggers,” would be betrothed to Maeve, Bonvica’s young daughter.
This pact astonished the world. For the first time, Rome had not crushed a rebellion but raised its leader into governance. Some hailed it as wisdom; others as shame. Among the Britons, there was rejoicing. Bonvica had won not chains but crown, and her people saw in her triumph the vindication of Boudicca’s memory. Among the legions, there was loyalty. Vibia had preserved their honor, fighting hard but sparing needless cruelty. They sang of her as Mater Ferox, mother of both Rome and Germania.
In Rome, reactions split. The plebeians welcomed peace, weary of blood and taxes. But the Senate muttered bitterly “Rome bends its knee to a barbarian queen. Sporus has sold us not only to women, but to enemies of Rome.” When the treaty was read in the Curia, Sporus rose and spoke “Rome’s strength lies not only in conquest, but in endurance. We have slain enough daughters of this land. Let us now show we can raise one up, and still remain Rome.” His words silenced some, enraged others. But the treaty held, and for the first time in memory, Britannia was not aflame with war.
Tiberius learned of his future marriage to Maeve on that same day. Publicly, he kept the facade of “Boy-Peacemaker.” Privately, he felt the weight of being bound to two bloodlines — Nero’s and Boudicca’s — both heavy with trauma. Sporus comforted him “You will not be a pawn, my son. You will be the bridge Rome has never dared build.”
When Vibia Ferox returned to Rome, she did not march in triumph with captives in chains. Instead, she entered the city with Bonvica beside her — not as a prisoner, but as an ally. The sight astonished the people. Never before had Rome seen the daughter of Boudicca walk its streets without bonds. Some in the crowd jeered, shouting that Rome had been shamed; but many more cheered, hailing peace after years of costly war. They hailed Bonvica as “Queen of the Isles,” tossing flowers as though she were a visiting monarch. Many patricians turned their faces away, muttering that Rome had been shamed by granting power to one who had once raised a sword against it.
In the palace gardens, Tiberius was introduced to Maeve, Bonvica’s daughter. The boy, still only ten, was modest and earnest, hailed by the people as a hero for striking one of the assassins at the wedding. He greeted Maeve shyly, with none of the ambition the girl expected, but with a simple, firm proposal “Peace is better than war. Let us both strive to keep it, for both our mothers have bled enough”. Maeve, bold and spirited despite her youth, met him with directness, remarking “If we are to be bound, let it be not as strangers. Walk with me, and let me see if Rome’s sons are as proud as its walls.” Thus began a bond that, though arranged by politics, carried the faint promise of genuine understanding.
In the Curia, Sporus and Bonvica met formally to establish the terms of her governance. Bonvica demanded broad autonomy: her people would pay tribute but keep their laws and gods. Roman legions would guard the roads but not interfere in tribal justice. Her people would be free from the abuses that had destroyed her mother — no more mass rapes, no more scorched villages, no more governors who treated Britannia as spoils.
Sporus agreed, but with conditions: that Britannia remained loyal in war, and that Maeve’s marriage to Tiberius bound their bloodlines. Bonvica accepted, though she warned “If Rome breaks its word, my daughter will remember, and her children after her. Bind us, but do not chain us.” Sporus replied with equal solemnity “Rome endures not by chaining, but by weaving. Let this be the first thread.”
The treaty reverberated far beyond Britannia: In Gaul, chiefs whispered that if Britons could rule themselves, why not they? In Judea, some leaders saw hope that Rome might one day permit a Hebrew governor. In Egypt, priests of Isis wondered if their land might regain an Egyptian regent instead of a Roman prefect. What had been intended as a singular concession became a precedent. Rome’s provinces began to stir with quiet expectation.
The Senate, already humiliated by Sporus’ purges and by his foreign-born parents’ influence, now boiled with indignation. To grant power to a woman, a barbarian, and an enemy was an insult beyond bearing. They whispered among themselves that Sporus weakened Rome with softness, that the provinces would rise, emboldened by Britannia’s example, that the emperor’s “family of foreigners” was dismantling the old order piece by piece.
Some argued that the marriage pact was a slow poison: when Tiberius wed Maeve, Britannia’s blood would flow into Rome’s veins, diluting it. Others whispered that Bonvica, once seated in power, would use her title as a shield for rebellion. Thus the Senate, though outwardly compliant, began again to conspire, seeking ways to turn Rome’s fear into rebellion against the emperor.
The plebeians, however, largely approved. They had no love for distant wars that emptied granaries. They adored Tiberius, now a symbol of peace as well as courage, and they marveled at Maeve, who carried the memory of Boudicca without hatred in her young face. Graffiti scrawled across the Subura showed Sporus, Vibia, Bonvica, and the children together — a strange but beloved dynasty, half Roman, half barbarian, wholly defiant of tradition.
Meanwhile, In the court of Artaban of Parthia, where Zephyrus and Faustina resided under the guise of a diplomatic mission, weeks passed in tense quiet. Then Faustina, once steady and composed, began to feel faint, her body stricken with nausea and weariness. At first she hid it, fearing it might betray weakness, but when her symptoms persisted she confided in Zephyrus. Physicians were summoned in secret, and their verdict was clear: she was with child.
The news filled the young pair with both joy and dread. Zephyrus, only twelve, felt the enormity of the burden. He rejoiced that their union had borne fruit, yet trembled at the thought of raising a child in exile. Faustina bore it with her usual composure, but she understood its implications more keenly than he: their child was heir not only to Sporus but also to Nero’s bloodline. To some, this would be divine favor; to others, a threat worth killing. She told Zephyrus “This is Rome’s future. If we fall, it must endure. But if they know too soon, they will sharpen daggers not for us, but for the child.”
They confided in King Artaban, who swore to protect them. He counseled secrecy, warning that not all in Parthia welcomed Rome’s alliance. Factions among the nobles despised peace, whispering that Parthia had grown weak by consorting with Sporus. To them, the unborn child could serve as a hostage once it was out of Faustina’s womb, or as an excuse for war.
Artaban ordered that only his most trusted physicians attend Faustina, and that no word escaped the palace. “Better the world believe you are merely tired than know an heir stirs in your womb,” he said. For Artaban, the secret was both a trust and a danger. He saw in the unborn child a bridge between Parthia and Rome — but also a spark that could ignite war if revealed too soon. So he wove a web of silence, protecting the Roman heirs as if they were his own blood, yet knowing that one day the secret must come to light.
In the weeks that followed, Faustina moved less often in public, citing study or devotion as the cause. Zephyrus grew protective, shadowing her steps. Their chambers were guarded not by Roman soldiers but by Parthian loyalists sworn to Artaban. Yet rumors spread regardless. Courtiers whispered that the Roman girl had grown pale and heavy-eyed, that the young prince doted on her as a husband too close to his bride. Some suspected, but none dared speak openly.
In private, the pregnancy deepened their bond. Faustina, who had always been composed and calculating, now revealed her vulnerability. Zephyrus, though still a boy, found himself steadied by the weight of her trust. One night, she spoke to him beneath the oil lamps of their chamber “We are young, but Rome is old. We must think not as children, but as founders. If something happens to us, this child must live. Promise me, Zephyrus — promise me you will guard it even above yourself.” To which Zephyrus answered solemnly “I swear it. Not as heir, not as future emperor, but as your husband.” Thus the boy who was meant to inherit Rome swore to become father before he had yet ceased to be a son.
To the world, Zephyrus and Faustina were children playing diplomacy. But in truth they had already become parents, and their unborn child was destined to shape the Empire’s fate. For the moment, the secret lay buried — but secrets in Rome never slept long, and when this one woke, it would rattle both empires.
Chapter 16: A New Rome
Summary:
After Bonvica is made governess of Britannia, the other roman provinces send embassadors demanding their right to choose native governors as well. Meanwhile, in Parthia, Zephyrus and Faustina face countless threaths against themselves and their unborn child.
Notes:
IMPORTANT WARNING: This is my first work and not a beta read. Also, there may be several historical/cultural innacurancies, for which I apologise beforehand. Keep in mind this is fiction, and while some of the characters in this fanfic did exist in real life, parts of their stories and personalities have been altered. Other characters, however, are purely original.
This story contains mentions of blood, violence and sexual abuse. Altought there are no graphic scenes, I seriosuly ask you to not read it if it triggers traumas and/or flashbacks.
Chapter Text
The appointment of Bonvica as Governess of Britannia did not remain a local matter. Word traveled quickly along trade roads and sea routes: Rome had not crushed the daughter of Boudicca, but raised her up in rule. In Gaul, chiefs who had long cooperated with Rome asked why their loyalty was not rewarded likewise “If the Britons may keep their queen, why not us our princes?” In Egypt, priests of Isis and Osiris murmured that perhaps the gods themselves willed a return of native-born regents. In Judea, elders whispered of hope that one day a Jewish governor might stand between their people and Roman cruelty. Even in Hispania and Africa, tribal leaders began to stir, emboldened by the precedent. What had been a single, pragmatic treaty began to shake the foundations of the empire.
Soon, embassies began to arrive in the capital. Some came with pomp — Gaulish nobles in flowing cloaks, Egyptian priests with sacred animals in procession. Others came with humility — Judean elders dressed in plain robes, African chieftains with simple gifts of grain and ivory. All asked the same: the right to choose a native governor, as Britannia had.
Crowds gathered to watch these processions, marveling at their diversity. The plebeians were enchanted, chanting “Rome is mother of nations!” But the patricians looked on with disgust, muttering that Rome was being turned into a bazaar. In the Curia, debate raged like fire. Senators thundered that Rome was not a confederation but a master of the world. To grant one concession was weakness; to grant many would be ruin.
One senator shouted “First Britannia, then Gaul, then Judea — shall we let every tribe paint its face in woad and call itself Rome? Shall we have no empire, but only a market of slaves and savages?” Others, more subtle, feared that native governors would sap senatorial wealth. Provincial posts had long been the prize of Roman nobility — rich harvests of bribes, taxes, and power. To lose them was to lose their fortune. Thus the Senate opposed with both pride and pocket, united in rage against Sporus’ new vision.
Yet in the streets of Rome, the mood was very different. The people, weary of endless wars and taxes, cheered the idea of peace through respect rather than conquest. They hailed Sporus as “the weaver of nations.” Street performers acted out plays where Rome embraced her daughters — Britannia, Gaul, Egypt, Judea — as family. Graffiti appeared across the Subura “One Rome, many mothers.” The contrast between the Senate and the people grew stark.
Sporus found himself torn. He believed in the vision of Rome as a family, but he knew the Senate’s hatred was dangerous. To give everything to the provinces risked rebellion in the Curia. To give nothing risked rebellion in the provinces. In private, he confided in Meilan and Baozhi, telling them “They demand dignity, and I cannot deny them. Yet the Senate snarls like a starving wolf. If I feed one, the other will bite. What middle path is there?” To which his father replied “A farmer cannot sow all fields at once. Grant little to each, enough to grow trust, but not enough to starve Rome” and Meilan added “Make them feel family, not rivals. A mother has many children; not all get the same portion, but all must feel her love.” Their counsel soothed him, though it gave no easy solution.
After weeks of humiliation — the provinces demanding native governors, the people cheering Sporus’ vision — the Senate grew desperate. They could not strike openly at the emperor, for the people loved him too fiercely. But they could strike at the succession. Their eyes fell upon Tiberius, Sporus’ younger son. If they could seize Tiberius, they could mold him into their puppet emperor — a boy they might call “true Roman blood” in contrast to Zephyrus, who dwelt in Parthia. Thus the conspiracy was born.
One morning, as Tiberius trained in the Campus Martius, the Senate’s agents struck. Disguised as fellow soldiers, they surrounded him under the pretense of a drill. When he was disarmed, they dragged him away through hidden alleys and into a senatorial villa outside the city.
The city was thrown into uproar: the emperor’s son had vanished. Some whispered Parthian spies, others bandits. But Sporus, furious and grief-stricken, suspected the truth at once. He called the Senate to account — but they denied, pretending to be just as worried about the boy’s disappearance as the emperor himself, though they knew exactly where he was.
Tiberius was held in secret chambers beneath the villa of Senator Paulus Cornelius, a man long embittered by Sporus’ rule. There, he was fed and clothed, but each day senators came to speak with him. They told him his father was weak, ruled by foreigners and women, that his brother Zephyrus was no true Roman, but corrupted in Parthia, that Rome would rise again if Tiberius claimed his rightful place. They promised him the purple, the loyalty of legions, the worship of the people. But Tiberius, though only 10, did not bend. He answered simply “I am my father’s son. I am my brother’s brother. If Rome needs an emperor, it already has one.”
The senators grew enraged, threatening him with torture, death, desfiguration, even threathening to secretaly sell him as a slave so he would be sent far away from Rome and never return. But he remained steadfast “I would rather die in chains than wear your crown.”
News of Tiberius’ capture reached Maeve, his betrothed. Though only a child, she was her mother’s daughter — bold, cunning, and unafraid. She listened, questioned, and pieced together rumors until she discovered the villa where Tiberius was held. Then she gathered a band of warriors: Briton retainers who had followed her mother to Rome and Roman soldiers loyal to Vibia, disgusted by senatorial treachery. Maeve swore before them “If Rome will not defend my betrothed, then Britannia will. Let them say we are barbarians — today we will show them honor.”
At night, Maeve and her small band struck the villa where Tiberius was held. They overwhelmed the guards, Briton axes breaking Roman shields, while loyal legionaries barred the gates against reinforcements. Maeve herself led the charge into the cellars, where Tiberius was kept. She cut his bonds with her own hands. Tiberius, though weakened, stood tall and asked “You came for me?” To which Maeve answered “I would come for you a thousand times. You are mine, and I will not see Rome steal you.”
Together, the children emerged from the villa to the cheers of the loyal soldiers. The senators within were dragged out, hurling curses, but Maeve spat back “You called us savages. Yet it was savages who saved Rome’s son.”
When Tiberius was restored to him, Sporus embraced the boy and said “You are braver than I ever was. They sought to make you emperor, and you chose instead to be my son. That is Rome.” And when Maeve stood before him, he bowed his head slightly, treating her not as child but as ally “Britannia has not only given Rome peace, but honor. Your mother raised you well.” Thus the Senate’s plot, meant to fracture the dynasty, only bound it tighter.
The city erupted when word spread that Maeve, daughter of Bonvica, had led the rescue. The people adored her, calling her “the lioness of Britannia.” The Senate was disgraced. Their plot exposed, several conspirators were arrested by Calvia Crispinilla’s agents and sent into exile. Tiberius rose in stature, no longer merely the boy who struck down an assassin, but the son who resisted temptation and captivity. Maeve won not only the loyalty of the people but the affection of her betrothed. Though children still, their bond deepened through shared ordeal.
Meanwhile, whispers rippled through the court of Ctesiphon: the Roman girl Faustina had grown pale and withdrawn, guarded fiercely by her husband Zephyrus and their host, King Artaban. At last, rumors hardened into truth: Faustina was with child. Loyalists celebrated in secret, hailing it as proof of divine favor and the sealing of peace between Rome and Parthia. Hardliners fumed, calling the unborn infant a Trojan heir meant to enslave Parthia from within. Opportunists schemed, imagining the child as hostage — a living blade to hold against Sporus’ throat. Thus the palace of Artaban became a nest of plots, every whisper carrying the weight of the empire.
Palace intrigue soon turned bloody. One night, a dagger was found beneath a nurse’s cot. Another night, Zephyrus himself wrestled down a servant who tried to enter Faustina’s chamber with a vial of oil laced with venom. Once, an archer’s shaft struck the couple’s chamber’s shutter. Each attempt failed, but each left Faustina more frail, her face pale, her body tense with anxiety.
At last, Artaban decided the court was too dangerous. He told Zephyrus and Faustina in secret “The viper’s nest cannot be tamed. If you remain, they will strike until they succeed. You must leave Ctesiphon, though not Parthia. I will send you to the countryside, to my queen Samira. There you may find peace enough to bring forth your children.” Thus, under cover of night, they departed. Not as prince and princess, but as simple travelers, guarded by a handful of loyal riders.
The countryside estate of Queen Samira lay in the rolling hills of Media, far from the intrigues of court. There, Zephyrus and Faustina found quiet. Samira, wise and motherly, received them with kindness, saying “No palace is safe for life unborn. Here, among fields and rivers, let them come into the world in peace.” For months Faustina lived in seclusion. She walked gardens with Samira, prayed at small shrines, and prepared herself. Zephyrus, though only a boy still, grew into his role as protector and father, keeping watch at her side each night.
At last, under the spring moon, Faustina went into labor beneath flickering oil lamps and whispered prayers. Hours of pain followed, until at dawn the cry of a child broke the silence — then another. Two infants, a boy and a girl, were placed in her arms: Cassius and Claudia. Zephyrus wept with joy, clutching both to his chest, and swore aloud “They will not be pawns, to Rome or Parthia. They are our children — and they will live free.” Faustina, tears on her cheeks, whispered back “Then let them live for love first, and for the empire once they are ready.”
Yet even in this refuge, danger crept close. Artaban knew at once that their survival could not be secured in Parthia. Already, enemies plotted to uncover their hiding place. So he began to plan what few kings dared: a secret passage out of his own empire. He confided in Samira through a letter “We cannot guard them forever. Better to risk smuggling them back to Rome than to bury them here as martyrs. The satraps will call me a traitor for it, but better traitor than coward. Better exile than to watch babes murdered in my halls.” He sent a letter to Zephyrus explaining “You cannot remain in Parthia. My enemies are too many, my reach too narrow. I will smuggle you back to Rome, with the children. For only there will you be safe, and only there can this dynasty endure.”
He began to arrange the plan: Loyal merchants were contacted, caravans prepared. A false trail was planted to mislead spies. The twins were hidden under the care of Samira’s trusted handmaidens. Artaban himself swore to oversee their escape when the time came. He reached out in secret to Sporus, sending coded messages along trade caravans, proposing a plan to return Zephyrus, Faustina, and the twins to Rome under his protection.
When word reached Sporus in Rome, it came not as a proclamation but as a sealed letter, carried by loyal couriers across the desert. He read it in private, tears falling onto the parchment. To Vibia he whispered “They called me barren, broken, emasculated. Yet now my line multiplies in lands Rome never dreamed of. They tried to erase me — but I endure, and through them, Rome will endure too.”
While the emperor privately wept in joy for the birth of his grandchildren, Rome teetered on the edge of chaos. The provinces, emboldened by Britannia’s example, grew louder in their demands for native governors. Delegations filled the streets, draped in foreign garb, hailed by the plebeians as “Rome’s children.”The Senate, still smarting from Tiberius’ abduction scandal, raged that Sporus was dismantling the very idea of empire. Their speeches thundered of barbarians in togas, of Rome bowing before tribes. The people, meanwhile, adored the vision of a Rome woven from many nations. They scrawled graffiti “One Rome, many voices.” The empire itself was pulling in three directions — conquest, autonomy, and harmony. Sporus alone stood between them.
Sporus summoned the Senate to the Curia for what would become one of the most famous debates of his reign. The senators thundered accusations:“You are no emperor but a foreigner’s puppet!”, “Rome bends to Britons, Gauls, and Jews while the Senate is mocked!”, “End this folly before the provinces tear us apart!”
The chamber roared with outrage. Some even demanded Sporus abdicate, claiming he had betrayed the legacy of Augustus. At last, Sporus rose to speak. He did not shout; his voice was quiet, almost trembling. Yet it carried like steel “When I was ten years old, this Senate clapped while Nero raped me. You once called me empress, lady, mistress and whore. You smiled when my husband harassed and fondled me in public. Now you come to me and say I betray Rome because I grant her children the dignity I was denied. You, who could not lift a hand to protect one boy, now rage because I protect millions. You would rather see provinces burn than share with them a name. I tell you this: Rome is not weakened by weaving her children into her family. She is weakened when her fathers devour their own sons.”
The chamber fell silent. Even his enemies did not meet his eyes. Then Sporus laid out his solution — a middle path that neither surrendered Rome’s power nor denied the provinces dignity.
- Provinces would be permitted to appoint native governors, chosen from their own nobility or priesthood.
- Each governor would be paired with a Roman legate responsible for military command and taxation, ensuring Rome’s supremacy.
- Representatives from each province would gather yearly in Rome, forming a new advisory council. Though lacking senatorial power, their voices would be heard in imperial decrees.
- All provincial governors would swear an oath directly to Sporus, not the Senate, making loyalty personal to the emperor.
The Senate fumed, but their position had been weakened by their botched conspiracy against Tiberius. They dared not openly defy Sporus, for the people despised them. Some stalked out of the chamber, vowing revenge in whispers. The Provinces rejoiced, their envoys hailing Sporus as “Father of Nations.” Gaulish chiefs beat their swords against their shields in gratitude, Egyptian priests offered sacrifices in his name, Judean elders blessed him as just. The People erupted in celebration. Street plays proclaimed: “Rome is a family, not a cage.” For the first time, the Forum resounded with cheers for both Rome and her provinces together.
It was whispered afterward that Sporus’ words had been shaped by his parents. Baozhi had counseled “A farmer does not give all fields the same seed, but enough to keep each alive” and Meilan had said “A mother with many children gives each a different portion, but all must feel her love.” Thus, their wisdom — born not of politics but of fields and family — had reshaped the empire. Sporus’ compromise did not end conflict. The Senate still seethed, and provincial autonomy remained fragile. Yet for the first time, Rome had found a model not of endless conquest, but of coexistence. This moment marked the beginning of a new Rome — one less empire of iron, more empire of threads.
After the compromise with the provinces, Sporus sought to strengthen his dynasty further. He declared that the marriage of Tiberius and Maeve — promised in the Treaty of Britannia — would be celebrated in Rome itself, with all the provinces invited to witness. To the people, it was a festival, proof of peace and renewal. To Bonvica, it was the final seal that her daughter would not be hostage, but queen in her own right. To the Senate, it was humiliation: Rome’s sacred rites given to the granddaughter of a rebel.
Rome transformed into a stage. Streets were garlanded with flowers. The Forum was cleared for games and feasts. Banners depicted wolf and horse — Rome and Britannia — entwined. Foreign envoys gathered: Gauls, Egyptians, Judeans, even Parthians sent cautious observers. All came to see if Rome’s new vision of empire-as-family could truly endure. On the appointed day, Tiberius and Maeve entered the Forum hand in hand. Tiberius, solemn for his age, wore a toga edged in purple, his face calm though his hands trembled. Maeve, radiant in a white gown embroidered with Celtic knots, walked proudly beside him, her hair crowned in bronze and oak leaves. Bonvica stood with Vibia, the two women side by side, living proof that Rome and Britannia no longer clashed in fire but in kinship.
When the vows were spoken, Tiberius’ voice rang out clear “Rome and Britannia are no longer enemies, but family. I swear to be a husband, ally, and friend to you, Maeve of the Iceni.” Maeve answered in kind “I swear to stand beside you, not beneath you. If Rome calls you son, Britannia calls you king.” When all was done, Sporus addressed the crowd “Today we do not wed two children. Today we wed Rome to her future.”
But even on this day of joy, treachery lingered. A faction of senators had bribed mercenaries to cause panic during the wedding procession, hoping to shatter the illusion of peace and provoke chaos that might disgrace the ceremony. As the couple left the Forum for the Palatine, the mercenaries moved, tossing firebrands and raising steel. Cries of alarm spread through the crowd. But something unexpected happened: the people themselves intervened. Bakers threw stones at the attackers. Dockworkers, freedmen, and veterans surged forward, seizing the saboteurs with bare hands. Merchants and plebeians raised sticks and knives. Bonvica’s Briton warriors drew their blades, standing guard around the children. The mercenaries were beaten back not by soldiers, but by citizens. The Senate’s plot failed spectacularly, exposing their desperation.
Tiberius and Maeve, shielded but unharmed, emerged before the people once more. The crowd erupted in chants of “Rome’s son! Britannia’s daughter!” The young couple exchanged a glance — no longer timid, but resolute. Though still children, they had already been tested by captivity, treachery, and now attempted sabotage. They had proven themselves worthy of the future Rome envisioned. Their marriage quickly became legend, sung as the “Union of the Isles and the Tiber.”
Chapter 17: The Return of the Heirs - SPECIAL CHAPTER
Summary:
After months of tension in Parthia, Zephyrus and Faustina are finally able to return to Rome with their newborn children.
Notes:
IMPORTANT WARNING: This is my first work and not a beta read. Also, there may be several historical/cultural innacurancies, for which I apologise beforehand. Keep in mind this is fiction, and while some of the characters in this fanfic did exist in real life, parts of their stories and personalities have been altered. Other characters, however, are purely original.
This story contains mentions of blood, violence and sexual abuse. Altought there are no graphic scenes, I seriosuly ask you to not read it if it triggers traumas and/or flashbacks.
Chapter Text
After months of secrecy in the Parthian countryside, and after careful planning by Artaban and Queen Samira, Zephyrus and Faustina finally began their journey back to Rome.They traveled under the cover of merchants, guarded by trusted Parthian soldiers and Roman loyalists. At their side were the newborn twins, Cassius and Claudia, swaddled in soft linens, the tiny heirs of a fragile peace.
The caravan slipped through mountain passes and deserts, always watched, always hunted, but never caught. By the time they reached Roman lands, their names had already outrun them “The emperor’s son and his wife have returned. And they have children. Nero’s blood lives again.”
Rome turned out in numbers not seen since Augustus’ triumphs. The streets flooded with people, cheering wildly as Zephyrus and Faustina entered the city, the twins in their arms. Zephyrus carried himself with the dignity of a prince, though his eyes still betrayed youth. Faustina, pale but radiant, held Claudia against her breast, her expression serene and solemn. Cassius, sleeping in his father’s arms, drew cries of delight from the crowd “Rome has a son! Rome has an heir!” Banners waved, garlands fell, and chants rose “Rome is family! Rome is one!” Some senators sneered that Faustina had birthed “barbarians in disguise.” Others whispered that Zephyrus had grown too Parthian to rule. Yet none dared speak aloud. The people’s adoration, combined with the army’s loyalty to Vibia, made open resistance unthinkable.
When they reached the Palatine, Sporus and Vibia awaited them at the top of the steps. Vibia, ever the warrior, ran forward first. She clasped Zephyrus in a crushing embrace, then Faustina, whispering fierce words of pride. She touched the foreheads of the twins gently, as if anointing them. Sporus stood frozen for a moment, his hands trembling, his breath shallow. Then, slowly, he approached.
Zephyrus placed Cassius into his arms. The infant stirred, let out a faint cry, and nestled against Sporus’ chest.
Sporus wept. Not with the silent tears he had known so often, but with sobs that shook his whole body “I was told I would never be a father. I was told I would never be a husband. They broke me, and they laughed, and I believed I was nothing. And yet here — here I hold Rome’s future.” Vibia placed an arm around his shoulder and said “They tried to erase you, Sporus. But here you stand. A father. A grandfather. An emperor.”
Faustina, exhausted but proud, stepped forward with Claudia in her arms. She pressed the child gently into Sporus’ other hand. He held both grandchildren together, his tears falling upon their cheeks. In that moment, the years of exile, rebellion, assassination attempts, and betrayal seemed to fall away. For the first time since his childhood, Sporus was surrounded not by enemies or plots, but by family. Zephyrus stood beside him, no longer a child but a father. Faustina, Nero’s granddaughter, was no longer a victim of her dynasty but mother of its rebirth. Tiberius and Maeve, hand in hand, watched with joy from the side, themselves bound in a future of unity. Meilan and Baozhi stood quietly behind, tears shining in their eyes, seeing their son made whole in ways Rome had once denied him.
That night, as torches flickered in the halls of the Domus Aurea, Sporus sat with the twins asleep in his arms. He whispered to them “When Nero took me, I thought Rome had stolen my children before they could even exist. Yet here you are, living proof that I was not barren, not broken. You are my vengeance — not in blood spilled, but in blood reborn. You are proof that Rome cannot unmake me. You are proof that I endured.”
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