Type-Moon: Does even a sneak peek make it official?

There's an old saying: "All roads lead to Rome." In those words, "Rome" has always symbolized all things grand and beautiful in the eyes of the world.

Of course, it is precisely because of this "Rome" that people have projected onto it their hopes and dreams. Throughout ancient history, when one thinks of Rome, it conjures up images of a great civilization. Yet few care to look beneath that grandeur—to the rot festering beneath its surface.

Ever since the Second Punic War, Rome had amassed immense wealth. Slaves and grain flowed endlessly into the empire from across the Mediterranean.

Corruption and debauchery often go hand in hand—and corruption never exists without wealth. The moral climate of Rome's noble class was no exception. Adultery among aristocratic women was so commonplace that marital fidelity hardly held any weight.

During the era of the First Triumvirate, Julius Caesar and his two political allies had all slept with each other's wives. Everyone knew, and yet the brothers-in-arms still shared their wine without a care.

Even one's own sister or mother could become one's lover. This attitude had long eroded the boundaries of propriety, both within Rome and in its territories abroad.

Novia understood this all too well.

And as for why Emperor Claudius was truly enraged—what set him off was not that his wife, Messalina, had married her lover, but that it threatened his position.

This man, who had only ascended to the throne at the age of fifty, had not prepared a capable political faction of his own. Instead, he had entrusted key government positions to freed slaves from his household. Over time, these individuals' power swelled beyond control.

Messalina was no exception. By 48 AD, most of these freedmen-turned-officials had been eliminated at her behest.

According to Claudius's intelligence, many senators, high-ranking officials, and military officers had attended Messalina's so-called "wedding."

Claudius knew all too well how fragile his claim to the throne truly was. That's what filled him with dread. Frankly, if Messalina hadn't involved so many people, Claudius might not have been nearly so furious.

But now, the emperor's long-suppressed rage had already rippled through the mages stationed in Rome.

"Brutus, I appoint you as the new commander of the Praetorian Guard. Take the Guard and secure the city at once."

Sitting in the carriage back to Rome, Claudius contemplated Messalina's fate—whether to deal with it as a public crime, or as a private family matter.

With Novia seated in the carriage alongside him, it wasn't hard to see that Claudius was deeply torn.

Perhaps it was the letters—written by his young daughter and son at their mother's urging—begging their father to spare Messalina's life, to at least give her a chance to defend herself.

Though Novia had only known Claudius for a short time, he understood the man well. Claudius had spent the first fifty years of his life utterly overlooked, never once treated with reverence. In truth, the concept of awe was entirely foreign to him. That's precisely why, until now, his only concern with Rome's polytheism or the Christian faith was what political advantage they offered him.

Clack, clack. The cold wind rattled the window. A biting draft howled through the carriage, echoing violently.

Claudius's gaze drifted toward the window. He placed the letters on the table and sighed.

"Novia, I want you to summon that unfortunate woman. Tell her to come to the palace tomorrow morning and explain herself."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Novia knew full well—when Claudius referred to Messalina as that "unfortunate woman," it meant he was inclined to let her off the hook.

This wasn't exactly ideal for Novia's plans—but it was still manageable.

After all, as the one delivering the summons, Novia could also offer the empress a more… dignified way out.

The rain outside fell relentlessly. The cold wind gnawed at exposed skin. The sky, the city, and the figures hurrying through the streets were all shrouded in a leaden, oppressive gray.

Holding an umbrella emblazoned with Claudius's crest, Novia listened to the rhythmic patter of rain and watched his breath mist white in the chill air as he made his way toward the lover's garden where the empress was hiding.

In the dazzling Roman night, the courtyard gleamed with opulence. Vivid murals adorned the walls, magical lanterns burned steadily on either side, and statues in the Greek style lined the path. It was excessive, suffocatingly so.

Bearing the authority of Claudius, Novia encountered no obstacles. He arrived swiftly at the master's chambers of the villa.

"M-My lord, I beg you, spare me! Let me explain to His Majesty—I wasn't—"

The empress's lover was a senator, already selected to serve as consul the following year. But his desperate pleas didn't even make Novia hesitate. With one fluid motion, Novia beheaded him on the spot.

"You're that Novia? Fine, just take me to Claudius. This was all a misunderstanding. I'm his wife. Our children are the future rulers of this empire—"

But Novia merely idly twirled the bloodied sword in his hand and, in a calm, quiet voice, spoke to the still-defiant Empress Messalina:

"Valeria Messalina—please, kill yourself. Do it for your children… for Octavia and Britannicus."

The silver-haired youth's tone left no room for argument—as if those children were all that truly mattered to her now.

"This is…" Messalina's face drained of all color. Her body trembled as she gingerly accepted the sword from Novia's hand. "Is this… Claudius's will?"

Novia gave a noncommittal nod.

"Octavia… Britannicus… my children…"

Messalina's eyes clenched shut. Her lips quivered as silent words tumbled from them. Her steps faltered. In the end, tears streamed down her face—but she still could not bring herself to plunge the sword into her chest.

You reap what you sow, Novia thought to himself.

This 23-year-old empress was despised by nearly everyone. She had once driven a rival to suicide simply to steal a famous actor as her lover. She had even forced a Roman consul to his death, just to seize possession of a villa reputed to be the most beautiful garden in Rome.

And every night, she had secretly slipped out of the palace, disguised herself as a prostitute called Lysiska, and worked beneath the bleachers of the Colosseum.

The farce has gone on long enough.

Novia snatched the sword from her trembling hands. In the next instant, the blade sank deep into Messalina's chest—one clean thrust, fatal and final. He withdrew the blood-soaked weapon and tossed it carelessly to the floor.

Exiting the chamber, he addressed the people gathered in the courtyard:

"Valeria Messalina, burdened by the weight of her sins, could no longer face the citizens of the empire. She has gone to seek the Lord's forgiveness."

Afterward, her statues were quietly torn down by those who had long resented her. Her body was cremated without ceremony. Not even her ashes were permitted burial within the Temple of the Divine Emperors.

Upon hearing of his wife's suicide, Claudius showed no doubt, no sadness, no anger. It was as if all emotion had drained from him.

Nor did he spare any affection for his now-motherless children. Betrayed by his wife, all the sixty-year-old emperor could do was bury himself entirely in matters of state.

Cough, cough. "Young Novia, you once told me… Seneca is a rare talent, yes? Very well… I've decided to allow his return from Corsica."

In the flower-filled palace of Rome, the vast empire stretched beyond the horizon. The aged emperor, wearied and hollow, clutched Novia's hand tightly. This is what happens, Novia thought, when an old man loses the last anchor in his life.

"Your Majesty is wise. May God grant you health under His protection."

Novia's voice was calm as ever. His deep blue eyes, no matter the moment, always held that same tranquil, winter-sea stillness—as if gazing upward from the ocean floor into the distant world above.

"And… Octavia, Britannicus. Please, teach them… to walk the right path."

"Yes, Your Majesty."