The opulent palace halls filled with the roar of celebration as the young Emperor revelled in his newfound power.

Music resonated through corridors, the laughter was loud and raucous, and the clinking of golden goblets and spilling of rich wine could be observed.

The scene was fun, and yet there the young Emperor’s mother sat in the shadows. Porcia. Observing the festivities with a stoic gaze.

Her son. Cassianus. The babe she nursed at her breast, comforted through dark nights. Now he looked at her, and in his eyes held a deep rage only veiled by his wife blue eyes. Eyes that once held such wonder and curiosity.

Or maybe she just could not see who her son was.

And which was worse?

Had her sweet, young boy been killed by the power hungry man he had become?

Or had she, as a mother, failed to see who her son really was?

The answer was irrelevant. He was gone from her now.

The Emperors mother, and yet all influence fled her. Here she was delegated to the shadows, to wither alone. Her counsel ignored, her love dismissed.

For a moment she had thought to try harder, do more for her son, the man who would restore Rome.

She was a fool.

Around her, men fell. Political rivals, incompetent servants, slaves. Each one a tool in his game of power who lost their use.

But he was his mother, surely her own son could not condemn she he bought him life.

Whatever line existed between her son and the Emperor was blurred by arrogance and blood.

Porcia exits the confined safety of the shadows and plucks a grape from a nearby tray.

She looks again to her son, but he is enamoured by the celebrations. He does not see her.

So she leaves, rolling the fruit between her fingers.

She feels foolish, and angry.

Scared too.

She grits her teeth to quell the building scream in her chest and crushes the grape in her hand.

She does not know entirely why she does it, to feel something, to give herself purpose for just a moment.

The air is cool, just slightly, enough to bring a sense of comfort after a long hot day.

Applause and laughter and music can still be heard. It pervades through the thick concrete walls of the palace.

Porcia takes a small breath. Then another.

Amidst the echoes her eyes grow hot and wet, her tears slide down her cheeks and no one is there to see.

They fall and fall, and despite the release, the momentary catharsis, she chokes.

She cries, and in her tears is the story of a happy young boy the world will never get to know.

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Writers block is kicking my ass guys.

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