Rome, July 15th 52 AD.

Two hours before the first light of day banished the heavy carts from the city of the seven hills and roused Rome from her troubled sleep, Britannicus opened his eyes, threw back his warm bedspread and washed his face with cold water. Then he began his daily physical exercises.
Like every morning, he first trained alone in his room for an hour before joining the combat exercises of the Praetorians.
For almost seven years, Britannicus had lived the same daily routine. In the morning he trained, then, freshly showered, he attended classes with his friends Marcus and Titus. After class, he retired to the library or did something with his friends. Usually, they went to his father's spa or trained secretly in the Praetorians' exercise room.
Besides training his body, it was also important for him to sharpen his mind. Britannicus loved to learn new things and even though he would never admit it in front of his friends, he adored his mother for her decisions about his education. For unlike his younger siblings, Britannicus was allowed to take private lessons at home, the content of which far exceeded the curriculum of ordinary schools set up by his parents about four years ago. Thus, in addition to literature, rhetoric and arithmetic, he also learned the different languages of the peoples of his empire. Latin, Greek, Celtic, Hebrew and many other languages had been chosen for him by his mother and Britannicus learned them eagerly. If he wanted to follow in his father's footsteps one day, he wanted to be able to communicate with all peoples in their own language. Years ago, Britannicus had learned that language was the only sure means of communication. But language had so much more to offer than just communication. Through their language, he learned to understand the culture of other peoples. Even if his friends only shook their heads at him, Britannicus looked forward to these barbaric languages above all. A year ago, he had been able to persuade his parents to hire a Germanic for him. He flourished in the subtleties of the individual languages.
Britannicus had firmly resolved to serve Rome with skin and hair, and he wanted to be worthy of this task one day.
Even though today was his fourteenth birthday and he had no classes to celebrate, Britannicus did not deviate from his morning routine. Yet he sensed with every familiar movement that this was no ordinary day for him. This day would change everything irrevocably. In a few hours, Father would declare him a man and Britannicus would step into the public eye. For his father was the first man in the state and Britannicus, from this day forward, as his father's eldest son and heir, had to fulfil his duty to his family and to Rome. In a few hours he would be counted among the circle of adults. A ritual would end his childhood forever.
Yet he had not been a child for years. His childhood had ended the moment his mother put a dagger in his hand, and she went off to sacrifice herself so that his sister and he would have a chance to escape. Even though the gods had held their hands protectively over his mother, they had sacrificed the father of his friend Marcus to be able to protect his mother. Never before in his life had Britannicus felt so defenceless as he did with this far too large dagger in his small child's hands. He had hated every breath of living in that feeling. That day was now almost seven years ago. He had carried the dagger with him day and night ever since. Mother had never asked for it again.
A little out of breath, Britannicus finished the last exercise and washed the sweat from his forehead. Involuntarily, he raised his head and looked out over his city. Dusk had already set in, but still his face was reflected in the windowpane. The golden bulla he would take off tonight sparkled in the dull light of the oil lamp. His golden eyes looked at him so lost and uncertain that he had to avert his gaze. Automatically his hands groped for the familiar hilt of the dagger and Britannicus only relaxed when he felt it stuck in place.
He quickly threw on a fresh toga, then quietly left his room and crept down to the Praetorians' training room. There was no trace of his best friends. Annoyed, Britannicus suppressed a sigh and ran his hand through his hair. A few strands began to fall into his eyes, and he decided to have his hair cut after his training. This way he could not take part in the ceremony.

When Britannicus entered the atrium that evening, his whole family had already gathered in front of the house altar. A little apart stood Marcus and Titus, who winked at him excitedly. Marcus had already been declared a man a year ago, while Titus, who was a year younger than Britannicus, still had to wait.
Immediately Mother registered his coming, lifted her gaze from Aura's face and gave him a proud smile. Her smile gave him new strength and courage. Next to her stood Father and even though he had put his public, dignified mask on his features, his eyes also sparkled with pride. How Britannicus had longed to see his parents like this, and he vowed to himself that he would fill them with pride many more times.
Outwardly brimming with self-confidence, Britannicus stepped up beside Father, ignoring the admiring glances he received from his five younger siblings. He had done nothing to earn their admiration. He had simply been born first.
Smiling, he looked at his siblings. The gods had blessed his parents not only with an even sum of children, but also with equal numbers of sons and daughters. Next to Tonilla, the eldest after Britannicus, were the twins, Aura and Marcus Caesar, who had come into the world only a few months after the worst day of Britannicus' life and had helped them all overcome this difficult time. Mother had negotiated like a lioness with the Senate to be allowed to name her son Marcus. Apparently, after Actium, a senate resolution had come into force according to which the descendants of Marcus Antonius were no longer allowed to use this first name. The petition had been filed by none other than Cicero's son, Marcus Tullius. The very name Cicero evoked such reverence among the senators of their time that they almost denied Mother this request. After all, Britannicus' father was the great-grandson of Marcus Antonius and so the law was harsh, but the law. It was only when Mother had presented Britannicus' friend Marcus Clemens to the Senate and explained to them in an impassioned speech that she wanted to name her son Marcus in honour of his father who had died in service to Rome, that the Senate had relented.
His younger siblings had been born two years apart. Four-year-old Drusilla whispered conspiratorially with a mischievous grin at Aura who, as usual, was far too busy with her twin to pay attention to her sister. Clinging to Mother's hand, little Aurelian eyed Britannicus with wide eyes. Mother's golden hair had only been inherited by Britannicus, Aura and Aurelian. His other siblings had dark hair like Aunt Julia. Only Drusilla's eyes had turned the same shade of amber as his, while Aura and Aurelian possessed Father's eyes and Marcus Mother's. Only Tonilla was clearly different from the rest of his family with her intense, dark green eyes. Every time Great-Grandmother Antonia looked at her, she sighed softly and said the green reminded her of the eye colour of her late husband Drusus.
Britannicus would have loved to join his siblings and play with them, but there was a time for play and there was a time for duty. Now it was time to take up his role within the family. He was ready.
He straightened up to his full height and stood next to his father, who nodded curtly at him. With solemn seriousness, father admonished him that he had now been addressed as a boy for the last time. Then Father draped a fold of his toga over his head, stepped in front of the family altar and bowed to their household gods. Before Britannicus could react, Father pulled the golden bulla from his head and placed it on the altar. Immediately Britannicus missed the familiar weight of his protective amulet. He felt strangely naked without his bulla, although he was still wrapped in his toga praetexta. He would also discard this symbol of a freeborn boy in the course of this ancient tradition, leaving part of his self behind.
Although Father was standing right next to him, his voice came through to him muffled and as if from a great distance: "I declare that you, my son Gaius Julius Caesar Britannicus, are from this moment a man. Take upon yourself all the duties of a man, the dignity and the honour, and go out into the world to honour your glory and the glory of the house of Julius."
Automatically Britannicus bowed his head, silently indicating that he was bowing to his father's wishes. As if ever a son of Rome would so openly oppose his father at such an important moment. Out of the corner of his eye, Britannicus watched as a tear stood up from the corner of his mother's eye and he knew they were both thinking and feeling the same. It helped him that he was not alone in this world. Silently, he smiled to himself. She really was only a heartbeat away, he thought, concentrating entirely on the ceremony. By now Father had performed the prescribed rites to the point where he turned to Britannicus. In his hands he already held a shallow bowl filled with wine.
While Britannicus stepped next to his father in front of the altar of their household gods, he took one last deep breath and exhaled. Then he sipped carefully from the bowl. If he stained his toga with wine, it would certainly be seen as a bad omen later. Aura clapped her hands enthusiastically as Britannicus stepped back without a single stain on his toga. She was terribly clumsy in a very cute way.
In one go, Father emptied the bowl and Britannicus felt admiration welling up inside him. Father hated drinking wine - especially when it was undiluted for ritual purposes, as it was today. After Father had placed the bowl back on the altar, he flipped back his toga and turned to their family and the few clients who had been honoured to take part in this event. Mother smiled at Britannicus. Tears of pride shimmered in her eyes.
In a clear voice, Father announced that he would call all present to witness his decision to raise his eldest son to the status of an adult. At the same time, they confirmed Father's words. With solemn seriousness, Father nodded imperceptibly to his freedman, Hesiod. Hesiod immediately emerged from the shadows and, bowing his head, helped Britannicus change from the toga praetexta to the toga virilis. As soon as Hesiod stepped back, Britannicus pulled a fold of his spotless white toga over his head, just as he had observed his father do countless times and stepped in front of his family's altar. Instinctively, he turned his palms to the sky and assumed the traditional posture of prayer. In a firm voice, Britannicus pledged himself to his family home and its patron god, Apollo. For a blink of an eye, Father turned his head imperceptibly towards him in surprise. Britannicus smiled to himself. He had deliberately chosen the god whom the divine Augustus, the divine Germanicus and his own father, the great conqueror of Britain, had already chosen as their patron god. For Britannicus, like all these great men before him, was determined to bring honour to his family.
Then it was done. Britannicus had officially and irrevocably come of age.