<b>House Iulia</b><br/><br/>The sun was rising on the Eternal City.<br/><br/>As if life ever truly slept during the night hours. The home to a populace of a near-million people, crowded on the banks of the Tiber, it was always lively somewhere in its endless maze of streets. Plebeians going to and fro on their daily business, groups of slaves carrying out chores for their masters, while pampered equestrians and patricians rode in style in curtained litters. At night, the clog of the streets changed from a dense mass of humanity from all four corners of the Republic to the endless trudge of trade wagons and carts, forbidden from entering Rome during the day due to their sheer amount. The traffic clogged the streets either way.<br/><br/>For Drusus Iulia Nerva, soldier, General, a Proconsul at the end of his term of office, it was home. And whether he would be elated to be returning to the city at the center of the world, he was not quite sure. It was not his first homecoming, nor his longest stretch away. This recent bout had seen his absent six years. Six years, of missed games, races, scandal, and political intrigue and troubles. He had plenty of his own out east, representing the standard of the Republic in the sandy battlefields against the Parthian menace. With remarkable success, he had defended the integrity of the Republic’s far flung borders.<br/><br/>Upon his brow even, a wreath of twigs from the victorious field of battle itself adorned his figure, despite how sorely it itched and irritated his head. He wore only the soldier’s tunic, emblazoned with a stitched eagle of the legions, with a crimson cloak about his shoulders. His rank and title were only emphasized by his prominent escort of a handful of lictors and Thracian bodyguards he recruited from his auxiliary forces. There was too much death and backstabbing in Rome, quite literally, these days. And returning to politics was the only natural way to go, if one wanted to stay relevant in this landscape. Drusus could not realistically be like old Cincinnatus, who after having supreme power and Dictatorship had laid it down to return to his farm to live out his days. Drusus had a thrill for power now. He needed more. He wanted more.<br/><br/>First, he had to put his own house in order. He was Patriarch of his family, an ancient<i>gens</i>of Rome going back to the Founding. His first wife, a fortunate match that had some fondness, had died many years ago. Before his recent term of office as Proconsul of Syria, he had been wed to the daughter of a fellow Senator and patrician, Alexander Merula. Alexandria was beautiful, intelligent by all accounts, and young. Very young, a decade and more his junior in years. He had been wed to her and then barely a few months later on the ship to the east. All these years, he heard of no child and thankfully no scandal. That in itself seemed suspicious. What had she really been up to? And what was he to do with this wife he did not know, who was to be the partner in his political ambitions? That remained to be seen as he arrived home at all, to the ancient familial estate of his family within the city, and thought he should be relieved to see it still standing all these years.<br/><br/>Well the first thing he needed to do was let the big names in Rome know he was back.<i>Him, and his demobilized army.</i>All of whom Drusus was patron to now, all of whom served as his clients in whatever work he should require. Elections were violent affairs. And now so many able-bodied and hardened veterans of war roaming the streets of Rome. It certainly had worked out well for Sulla several years ago. He had some prizes to display, arrangements and deals that could be made, prisoners of war to sell, pockets to enlarge. In exchange, favours and support.<i>Goodwill</i>. That is how one rose in Rome.<br/><br/>His procession passed through the gate and into the brief courtyard, before coming to the broad doors of his house. He pushed them open and entered, his lictors and bodyguard fanning out on all sides in a few seconds display of pomp and decorum, before standing still. Here, a proper traditionalist wife might greet him with bread and salt, before returning to her loom and continuing her seamstressing. So what ironic gift had the gods given to Drusus then, he wondered?