He had thought he was going to die. The burning fever, the headache, the reddish rash spreading across his arms, had all been familiar. Any of those things on their own would not necessarily be serious, but it was a bad combination. Plague and illness were common in Rome; they'd struck even his wealthy family many times, and he knew how bad the outlook could be. Gaius had retreated to bed early in his illness, but once word of a cure that would have very unpleasant side effects had spread, he'd gone to the hospital to seek help from the doctors there. He still was not used to how many people here relied on the doctors; physicians had been few and not always well regarded in Rome.

Still, he'd submitted to their care, just as he would have if he'd been wounded serving in the army. It isn't long before he finds himself wondering if it had been a bad idea, as his fever climbs and it becomes impossible to feel either cool or warm enough. At first, he's vaguely aware
of the indignity of so many people gathered together while so sick, but before long, even that level of coherence slips into nothingness.

"Frater," he murmurs as he slips into and out of sleep. Is it a dream that shows him his brother's face? Or is it a vision, or a hallucination? It's hard to know as Tiberius seems to wander into and out of his view. "Frater! Tecum venire volo!"

He doesn't realize that he's speaking to a memory, only that he wants to be with him, that he misses him, but the image of his brother fades, and Gaius grows quiet. Next time he wakes, it's to find his brother replaced by the bloodstained image of Nasica, then Aemilianus, then Octavius, the hospital replaced by a forum washed in blood.

"No, no, no! Interfectores!"

It's only in the morning after the fever breaks that he finally regains his awareness of where he is or what language he should be speaking. He's thirsty, and he slowly manages to push himself up enough to look around.

"Hello?"