The spring wind swept through the streets of Rome, across the forests beyond the city, and over the nearby harbors. Though the wind blew strong, the Romans—who had gathered early to wait—remained silent. To them, the howling gusts were like the music of heaven, the vast skies and the blessings of the sun descending upon the earth.
For today, a Triumph was to be held.
The Roman Triumph—an ancient ritual where a general, granted imperium (supreme command), paraded in victory through the streets of Rome after a successful campaign—was considered the highest military honor in the Roman world. With it came the revered title of Triumphator. It was said that Rome's very first Triumphator was Romulus, the city's legendary founder.
The Triumph was a momentous event in Rome's military and political life, a grand celebration that swept the entire city into joyous frenzy. The Senate and officials would ride out to meet the victorious general, while tens of thousands of citizens lined the streets to welcome the parade. The city streets emptied, every household drawn to witness the spectacle. The celebrations could last for a day—or several days.
In theory, victories in civil wars did not warrant a Triumph. Moreover, the identity of the defeated enemy was critical; quelling a mere rebellion was not enough. It had to be a foreign foe.
However, given the unprecedented slaughter wrought by the Jews across the newly renamed Syria Palaestina, and the divine omens that had accompanied their defeat, the Emperor and the Senate had officially abolished Jewish civilization itself, effectively reclassifying the Jews as a foreign people beyond the bounds of the Empire.
Noon arrived, and with it, the harshest glare of the Roman sun.
In the Field of Mars, just beyond Rome's Servian Wall, Novia stood atop an ornate chariot drawn by four snow-white horses. Draped in a gleaming purple Triumph robe, one hand held an ivory scepter adorned with a golden eagle, the other grasped a laurel branch—
The very symbol of Roman victory.
Traditionally, a bell and whip were hung at the front of the chariot. The bell, used to clear the way for prisoners of war, served as a reminder of the fickleness of fate—today, glory and wealth; tomorrow, the harshest punishment. But after discussions between Emperor Claudius and the Senate, this custom had been abolished for Novia's Triumph.
According to tradition, the Triumphator's face was to be painted crimson with rouge—a custom Novia was, naturally, subject to.
"Teacher, please hold still."
"There's really no need to smear it all the way to my ears, is there?"
Novia lowered his head, his gaze meeting that of the blonde girl precariously standing on her toes before him.
Nero blinked her emerald eyes, her expression conveying a stubborn "It has to be done," as she replied:
"You forget, Teacher, I'll be standing beside you soon—holding the golden laurel crown above your head. Hmph, from an artist's perspective, if we stand together—your right ear, my left ear—this symmetry will be much more aesthetically pleasing. And I fought tooth and nail for this position, so it must be absolutely perfect."
Tradition dictated that the one holding the golden laurel above the Triumphator's head be a slave.
Yet this time, Roman soldiers—those who had fought in the campaign—had uncharacteristically volunteered en masse for the honor of standing beside Novia during the Triumph. It was no surprise—after all, Novia, blessed by a god and the bringer of victory, had earned their utmost reverence.
The meaning of standing beside the Triumphator had changed that day. From this moment on, this tradition, too, would evolve.
Among the many candidates, Nero, conqueror of the southern reaches of Syria Palaestina, undisputed heir to the imperial throne—and Novia's student—was, unsurprisingly, chosen for the honor.
"Very well, but if you're going to be standing beside me later, go easy with the insults."
Novia smiled as he spoke.
The one holding the laurel crown traditionally whispered constant insults into the Triumphator's ear, reminding them that they were mortal, not divine.
"I won't do that." Nero shook her head softly, then lowered her gaze, her expression unreadable, as though suppressing some emotion.
"There's no one worthy of insulting you, Teacher. You're… incredible. Truly incredible."
"In that case, say whatever you like."
The two continued their light banter as preparations for the Triumph concluded.
Novia's chariot advanced, surrounded by attendants and guards. Marching ahead of him were the Lictors, bearing the symbols of imperium—bundles of laurel branches with axes embedded within—emblems of Rome and its strength.
Behind Novia followed the Roman soldiers chosen for their valor in battle, garlanded in red and gold, astride proud warhorses.
Further behind came the spoils of war.
According to the magi who accompanied the campaign, transporting the treasures from the First Temple alone would take a full week—
Which meant the Triumph itself would last a week, excluding the painted banners and grand displays boasting of their victories.
The most notable break from tradition was the absence of prisoners.
In past Triumphs, it was expected that captured enemy generals or kings be paraded for the Roman people's amusement.
Those captured, unwilling to suffer such humiliation, often chose death.
In 30 BC, Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, famously allowed a serpent to bite her, preferring death over being paraded through Rome at Octavian's mercy.
But now, due to well-known… circumstances, there were no Jewish prisoners left to display.
When Novia reached the city gates, the Senate and other officials were waiting to accompany him for the final phase of the Triumph.
From this point forward, they would process from the Triumphal Gate, along the Via Triumphalis, to the Flaminian Square,
Then onward along the Sacred Way, until reaching the final destination—
Originally, the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus atop the Capitoline Hill.
But after deliberation between the Emperor and the Senate, the destination was changed to the Pantheon—
Where only one symbol remained:
The cross of the ever-expanding Christian faith within the Roman Empire.
As Novia's procession advanced, they were showered with petals and greeted with resounding cheers from the people.
Yet unlike previous Triumphs, not a single soldier whispered among themselves.
No crude jokes.
No playful insults or grumbling about their commander.
For in Roman tradition, the greater a Triumphator's glory, the more likely they would provoke envy—not only among mortals but from the gods themselves.
To ward off divine jealousy, soldiers would openly insult the Triumphator, mocking and cursing them to restore balance.
When Caesar returned in Triumph after conquering Gaul, his soldiers famously jeered:
"Watch your wives, citizens of Rome! We bring home a bald-headed old lecher!"
But today, the soldiers marched in awed silence.
They followed Novia with reverence, their cheers filled only with respect, not mockery.
"This… this is what prosperity and passion look like," Nero whispered softly into Novia's ear.
"In their eyes, Teacher… you shine with light and compassion."
"All of Rome… blesses this day."
After the Triumph concluded, as custom dictated, Novia was expected to host public banquets, games, and beast fights at his own expense.
But in the end—
He yielded to Nero's suggestion:
A grand concert, with her as the lead performer.
For one entire night, all of Rome listened to her divine song.
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