Why You’d Regret Time Travel to Ancient Rome by Breakfast

Boring History For Sleep takes you on a surprising time-travel adventure in “Why You’d Regret Time Travel to Ancient Rome by Breakfast.”

Forget marble statues and heroic emperors—this gentle, humorous journey plunges you into the real chaos of Ancient Rome: shared sponge sticks in public toilets, pungent garum sauce, explosive bathhouses, noisy chariot races, and the terrifying sponge-on-a-stick (yes, again).

From dodging street vendors and sacred chickens to nearly being recruited into gladiator training, you’ll discover why you probably wouldn’t survive even a single day in Rome without serious regrets—and a strong stomach.

Perfect for relaxing, unwinding, or drifting off to sleep while exploring the messy, fascinating details historians don’t always tell you.

Dim the lights, hit play, and join Boring History For Sleep for an unforgettable night in the Eternal City.

If you’re someone who enjoys listening to and watching images, the YouTube Video section is a great choice for you. On the other hand, if you’re a fan of reading stories, the Reading Section is where you can enjoy it.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Bedtime stories for adults | Video

Bedtime stories for adults | Reading Section

Chapter 1

Hey guys, tonight we’re hopping in a wobbly time machine—don’t worry, the settings are locked—and dropping you right into the cobblestoned chaos of Ancient Rome, right as the sun peeks over the seven hills. You’re groggy. Disoriented. Maybe you thought you’d wake up in a crisp white toga, welcomed with grapes and flutes playing in the background. Instead, you’re barefoot, sticky with time-travel sweat, and you’re standing in what might be a fish market—or a very confused public latrine. It’s loud. It smells like yesterday’s garlic and tomorrow’s regret.

Within seconds, you’re already feeling the first pangs of travel remorse. And spoiler: you probably won’t survive this.

So, before you get comfortable, take a moment to like the video and subscribe—but only if you genuinely enjoy what I do here.
And hey, drop your location and local time in the comments—I love seeing how far we travel together.

Now, dim the lights, maybe turn on a fan for that soft background hum, and let’s ease into tonight’s journey together.

You blink against the light. Ancient Rome isn’t golden and cinematic—it’s gritty, sweaty, and bustling in a way that makes rush-hour subway stations look quaint. You’ve arrived just after first light, around what the Romans call the hora prima—the first hour. In our terms? Maybe 6:00 a.m. But don’t bother asking anyone. You don’t speak Latin, and even if you did, you’d have to shout over bleating goats and the rhythmic slapping of sandals.

You check your clothes. They’re… gone. You’ve apparently time-traveled in a standard-issue tunic that feels like burlap and smells like… sadness. It rides up in the wrong places. No shoes. No phone. No sunscreen. And people are staring. You are both underdressed and overdressed, depending on whose slave or senator’s kid just walked past.

And here’s a historical fact to start your regret buffet: Romans, for all their civilization, don’t do privacy. The city is communal to a fault—public eating, public bathing, public everything. So, you being dazed and shoeless in the middle of a busy street? That’s just Tuesday.

Your stomach grumbles. You realize: this is not one of those time-travel movies where a friendly inventor gives you a coin pouch and a guide. It’s you versus Rome. And Rome is… winning.

You begin to walk—carefully. The cobbled roads are no joke. Uneven, slippery with morning dew, and riddled with potholes that have seen everything from ox carts to gladiator sandals. The famous Roman roads? Yes, they’re straight. But that doesn’t mean they’re nice. You trip twice, once into a basket of eels that may or may not be alive. No one helps you up. Instead, someone throws an olive pit at your head and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a bad Yelp review.

A street vendor barks out something about panis. Bread. Your first Roman word! But your excitement fades quickly when you realize he’s not giving you any. He’s selling, not sharing—and you, dear traveler, are flat broke. The idea of bartering pops into your head. You try offering a sock. He laughs. Then he gestures to a bucket, points at you, then the bucket again. You’re 80% sure he just invited you to clean his fish guts for half a crust.

That’s when the smell hits. A thick, savory blend of fermented fish sauce (garum), livestock, sweat, and the faint hope of roasted chestnuts. You gag. A small child walks by with a stick of what looks like honeyed nuts and slaps it right into the dust. The child shrugs. The nuts stay there. Ten minutes later, someone else picks them up and starts chewing. Waste not, want not.

You try to make sense of the skyline. There’s smoke curling from bronze pans. Columns as tall as modern lampposts. Clothes hanging between buildings like Roman laundry flags. A curly-haired man walks past carrying a chicken under each arm. The chickens look as confused as you are.

Fringe historical tidbit: at this hour in Rome, certain streets are “closed” to wheeled vehicles. Not out of kindness—just to avoid morning chaos. It’s called the lex Iulia municipalis, and it means that anyone dragging goods must do it the old-fashioned way—on their back or by mule. Which explains why you’re now stuck behind a man wheezing under a stack of amphorae that smells strongly of spoiled olives.

As you step aside to let him pass, you notice something strange about the buildings. They lean slightly. Some are three, four stories tall, made of a mix of stone, brick, and what looks like… hope. You’re pretty sure one just creaked. Historians still argue whether these early apartment buildings—insulae—were feats of urban planning or poorly stacked death traps. You’re about to find out later.

A rooster crows. Or was that a man imitating one? Hard to say. Either way, people are now fully awake. The city pulses. You dodge a handcart carrying jugs of wine, barely miss stepping in what you pray is just mud, and nearly get flattened by a group of children running after a loose pig. They’re laughing. The pig is not.

You try to ask for help. “Do you speak English?” A woman glares. “Barbarus,” she mutters. You’ve just been called a barbarian. Welcome to Rome.

You reach for a wall to steady yourself and pull your hand back immediately—sticky. From what, you don’t know. Probably don’t want to know.

You finally find a small fountain, the kind used by locals to wash hands, fill jugs, and cool off. You cup your hands, splash your face, and for a moment—just a moment—you feel human again. Then a dog drinks from the same stream. Then a toddler pees near it. And just like that, you’re back to despair.

A local walks by in a toga, carefully draped and ridiculously bright. He looks important. You smile. He sneers. You realize your tunic is on backwards. Classic tourist move.

By now, your feet are bleeding slightly. The roads are stone, your skin is soft, and there’s not a pair of Air Jordans in sight. You look around and realize something that hits harder than homesickness:

You’re completely, utterly alone. No one here knows you. No one cares. You’re just another face in the crowd—one with no money, no roof, and no idea where breakfast is.

Chapter 2

You wander, stomach gnawing at itself, and begin to hope—naively—that your first mission might be simple: find a bathroom. Surely, even Ancient Rome, in all its complexity and grandeur, must have figured out that bodily functions don’t wait.

Well… yes. And also, oh dear God, no.

You follow a trickle of people carrying wooden buckets and clay jugs to a public square that smells—how do we put this gently—alive. There it is: the latrina. You were hoping for privacy, maybe a door. Or even just a stall. Instead, you find a long marble bench, punctuated by evenly spaced holes. No dividers. No dignity. Just twenty strangers, seated side by side, handling their business like it’s open mic night.

You hover nearby, heart sinking. An older man in a stained tunic waves you in. “Sedete!” he calls cheerily. Sit down.

And you thought airport bathrooms were bad.

Here’s your first cultural gem: Ancient Roman toilets were public, communal, and not gender-segregated. People chatted while doing their business. It was a social affair—like brunch, but with fewer croissants and more digestive consequences.

But you notice something worse. Sitting on the floor is a stick. On the end of it? A greyish sponge. You don’t even have to ask. You already know. That, friend, is the tersorium. The Roman version of toilet paper. One communal sponge on a stick, rinsed (if you’re lucky) in vinegar water between uses. You know that phrase “don’t ask, don’t tell”? Multiply that by ten and then sit down.

You try to act casual, but your eyes are locked on that sponge like it’s a cobra.

Historians still argue whether every latrine had a designated slave to clean the sponge bucket or whether people just… winged it. Either way, your stomach does a flip. Suddenly, the hunger feels less urgent. You back away slowly, pretending you just remembered a very important appointment with literally anywhere else.

You escape into a side street and almost crash into a line of people filing into a massive stone structure. Ah, the public baths. Maybe this is your moment to regroup, clean up, and finally feel human again.

Inside, the air is thick and warm, and the echo of conversation bounces off marble walls. There are three main chambers here: the frigidarium (cold), tepidarium (warm), and caldarium (hot). It’s less of a spa and more of a chaotic water park without slides. Men soak, scrub, wrestle, gossip, and debate loudly about philosophy or wrestling or dinner. You try not to look, but nudity is everywhere. Everywhere.

You shuffle to a stone bench, trying to look like someone who belongs here. Someone tosses you a lump of olive oil and a blunt metal tool. The man beside you smiles, then begins scraping the oil across his chest with what looks like a butter knife. This is the strigil. Romans didn’t use soap. They’d coat themselves in oil, then scrape the gunk off—like an onion peeling its worst layers.

You mimic him, smearing oil on your arm, but the smell is… complex. Equal parts oregano, sweat, and something that might be duck. You scrape. The strigil bites your skin. It’s oddly satisfying and deeply humiliating.

A man passes by offering a foot massage. You’re tempted. Your soles are blistered from the cobbles. But he wants payment in coin or bread, and all you have is a damp sponge memory and a heart full of shame.

You slink toward the caldarium, hoping the steam will ease your backache. Inside, it’s a sauna gone wild. You can’t see more than a foot in front of you, and you crash into someone who slaps your arm, then laughs. Someone else is singing in Latin. Another person is apparently shaving with a bronze razor shaped like a bird. The bird’s beak is sharp.

A fun fringe tidbit: some Roman bathhouses employed “toilet poets.” These weren’t real poets, of course, but graffiti artists who carved jokes and limericks into the walls. You squint through the mist and spot one: “Apollinaris, the doctor, has lost his mind!” Not helpful, but relatable.

You’re overheating now. Your skin’s bright pink and your tunic—already regrettable—is sticking in unspeakable places. Time to leave.

You emerge from the bathhouse glistening like a badly oiled statue, slightly cleaner but more confused. The noise outside has swelled. Rome is officially awake.

You spot a woman fanning herself with palm leaves. She’s wearing layers of linen and what looks like soot around her eyes. Beauty standards are eternal, it seems. Romans used charcoal as eyeliner, beet juice for blush, and sometimes even crocodile dung as sunscreen. Yes. Crocodile dung. Someone, somewhere, thought that was a good idea. And yes, they applied it deliberately to their faces. You now regret every skincare complaint you’ve ever voiced.

A child offers you a cup of something. You hesitate. It smells sweet. Maybe juice? You sip. It’s… definitely not juice. It’s a thin, watered wine called posca, flavored with vinegar and herbs. Refreshing if you’re a soldier on a forced march. Less so if you’re just trying not to vomit on a child.

You thank the kid with a weak smile. He responds by showing you a dead lizard he’s tied to a string. You nod politely and back away.

At this point, you’re trying not to panic. You haven’t eaten, haven’t sat down comfortably, and your only memory of “hygiene” is now linked to a sponge you never want to see again.

And yet, you marvel at the fact that everyone around you seems… fine. This is their normal. Their rhythm. Their version of a Tuesday. They’ve grown up bathing elbow-to-elbow with strangers, scraping their skin like carrots, drinking sour wine, and smiling through it all.

You, on the other hand, are five seconds away from lying in the street and waiting for the Colosseum to fall on you.

Chapter 3

You’ve trudged through goat traffic, survived the sponge incident, and emerged from the bathhouse looking like you lost a wrestling match to a bottle of olive oil. Now, there’s only one thing on your mind: breakfast. Your stomach has officially declared war.

So you set off in search of something—anything—resembling food. You follow your nose down a narrow alleyway where smoke curls out of clay ovens, and you catch the unmistakable scent of fresh bread. You perk up. Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

You approach a vendor stationed under a crooked awning. He’s got a basket of small loaves—panis quadratus, to be precise, the Roman equivalent of a morning bun if you subtract joy. The bread is blackened on the bottom, tough as limestone, and smells slightly like charcoal and wet hay. You grab one and mime a “how much?” He gives you a look like you’ve just asked for a free chariot ride.

Right. No money. You smile awkwardly and put it back.

A kind-looking older woman nearby takes pity. She tosses you half of her bread and says something melodic in Latin. You nod gratefully and take a bite—and immediately wish you hadn’t. The crust nearly cracks a molar. It’s drier than your last job interview. You gnaw on it like a desperate squirrel, trying to act like this is fine. Totally fine. At least it’s food.

But that’s all you’re getting. Romans didn’t really “do” breakfast like we do. Ientaculum, their version of a morning meal, was more of a snack. Maybe a bit of cheese, some olives, a few nuts, or yesterday’s leftovers. You can forget pancakes, eggs, or—perish the thought—coffee. That blessed modern ritual doesn’t exist here. No espresso machines, no oat milk, not even a whiff of caffeine salvation.

Instead, someone hands you a cup of mulsum—a wine and honey mixture that’s supposed to be invigorating. You sip. It tastes like someone tried to ferment cough syrup in a sock.

You wander further, mouth still adjusting to this crusty disaster of a breakfast, and spot something curious: a man chewing on what looks suspiciously like a mouse.

Oh yes. Welcome to the more “exotic” side of Roman cuisine.

In certain circles—wealthy ones, mostly—edible dormice were considered a delicacy. These little creatures were fattened in clay pots called gliraria and then roasted with honey and poppy seeds. To you, it just looks like a crime scene on a stick. But the man seems pleased. He even offers you a bite. You decline so quickly your head might’ve whiplashed.

Here’s your historical fact of the morning: Roman breakfast was highly class-dependent. A plebeian might get stale bread and onion. A senator might start his day with oysters and dates. And an emperor? He might skip breakfast altogether in favor of an elaborate midday feast complete with flamingo tongue and jellyfish salad.

Historians still argue whether the average Roman truly enjoyed these fancy ingredients or simply tolerated them to flex their wealth. You, meanwhile, are struggling to digest half a loaf of blackened bread and trying not to think about honey-glazed rodents.

You sit down on a cracked marble bench near a temple, chewing thoughtfully. The temple’s dedicated to Mercury—the god of travelers, thieves, and, apparently, lost time tourists like yourself. Pigeons strut confidently nearby, eyeing your bread with more judgment than necessary. One of them hops onto your lap. You give it the crust. The pigeon inspects it, then walks away. Even the bird has standards.

And that’s when it hits you: there’s no coffee. No caffeine jolt. No warm hug in a cup. You’re running on fumes and fermented honey wine. The fog in your brain is turning into a storm.

You glance around and notice people already bustling with purpose. Shopkeepers setting up stalls. Children sweeping courtyards. Slaves—everywhere—running errands for their masters. You’re the only one still looking like a confused time-traveling scarecrow.

You stand up, dust yourself off, and accidentally lock eyes with a man leading a pig on a rope. The pig snorts at you. You snort back. It’s unclear who won.

Then something bizarre catches your attention.

A man is biting into a boiled egg… with what looks like crushed ants sprinkled on top. He gestures at you. You point to your stomach, then make a thumbs-up, hoping it translates across centuries. He takes that as permission and offers you one.

You hold it. It’s warm. Slimy. Slightly buzzing.

Nope.

You hand it back and walk away as politely as possible without sprinting.

Down another alley, a vendor is slicing what appears to be figs. Finally, something familiar. You smile, reach out, and just as your fingers graze a slice, a monkey on a leash snatches it. The vendor laughs so hard he wheezes.

This is Rome, baby.

Another fringe tidbit: street performers often used trained animals to attract attention to their stalls. Monkeys, parrots, even trained dogs. The goal? Entertain the crowd, sell the olives. You were just part of the show.

Still empty-stomached, you slump against a column and realize that the day hasn’t even really started yet. It’s barely midmorning, and you’ve already lost a battle with bread, nearly bit into a dormouse, been rejected by a pigeon, and watched a monkey outwit you.

Your hands are sticky. Your clothes still smell faintly of old olive oil. And the closest thing to a latte is… mulsum, which you’re starting to suspect is just warm sadness in a cup.

People pass by with baskets of dates, garum jars, and cured meats, chatting in Latin, laughing with each other. The city is alive. It has its own rhythm, its own flavor—literally and figuratively—and you are very much not part of it.

You’re tired. And confused. And maybe slightly delirious. But one thing is now extremely clear:

Breakfast in Ancient Rome isn’t just disappointing. It’s personal.

Chapter 4

You push yourself upright, wiping a bit of fig juice—or possibly monkey drool—from your sleeve. At this point, food is off the table. So maybe you pivot. Maybe you embrace your inner tourist and do some sightseeing. After all, you’re in Ancient Rome. It’d be rude not to.

You head toward the Forum, the buzzing heart of the city. It’s like a combo platter of Times Square, Parliament, and your nosiest neighbor’s living room. Columns tower over chattering crowds, each one carved with scenes of gods smiting or blessing mortals—often both, depending on how well they behaved.

Everywhere you look, there’s marble. Big slabs of it. Archways, statues, fountains. You pass a man chiseling away at a new inscription. It reads something about a senator who “spoke with the thunder of Jupiter and smelled of piety.” A bold claim, considering most senators you’ve seen so far smell more like cheese and regret.

You wander into a group gathering around a platform. A man stands on top, gesturing wildly. He’s wearing a toga and yelling something about wheat prices and naval defense. The crowd grumbles back. Congratulations—you’ve stumbled into a contio, a public political meeting. Think Roman town hall, but with more shouting and fewer microphones.

The speaker points dramatically toward the harbor. People cheer, then boo, then cheer again. It’s very unclear what’s happening. Someone hands you a wax tablet with scribbles on it—notes from the speech? A grocery list? A love poem? No one seems to know.

Fun fact: these kinds of assemblies were part of Rome’s chaotic democratic machinery. Citizens (well, male citizens) could vote on laws, elect officials, and yell a lot. Historians still argue whether the average Roman truly influenced politics or if it was all just theater for the elites.

Either way, you’re mostly here for the marble statues.

You duck out of the crowd and find yourself facing the Temple of Saturn. It’s massive. Stately. Slightly intimidating. And right beside it, oddly enough, someone’s selling roasted chestnuts. You try to buy one—no luck. Still no money, and your “please take pity on me” face is starting to wear thin.

So instead, you focus on the statues. Romans loved their heroes immortalized in stone. But here’s the thing—they didn’t shy away from realism. These aren’t airbrushed Instagram filters. These are deeply wrinkled foreheads, jowls like melted wax, and eyes that look like they’ve seen several questionable Senate meetings.

You stare at one bust labeled “Cicero” and feel judged. He looks like he’d call you out for slouching and then lecture you for three hours on the value of oratory. You straighten your back.

Then, finally, you catch a glimpse of the Senate building: the Curia Julia. It’s quieter here. Less chaos. You approach and peer inside—stone benches, raised platforms, echoes that probably still hum with long-dead arguments. The power that once flowed through these halls shaped empires. It also probably started a dozen wars over wine quality or toga colors.

You sit on a step and soak it all in. The warm sun. The distant clang of a blacksmith. The mutter of philosophers arguing near the basilica. You’ve officially hit the “deep thoughts” part of your time-travel crisis.

And right on cue, a teenager walks by wearing what can only be described as an aggressively short tunic. He’s balancing a jug on his head and whistling a tune that sounds like a chicken in distress. You blink. He blinks back. He shrugs and keeps walking.

A small dog trots after him—its legs shorter than its body, tongue lolling. Romans loved their pets. Dogs, monkeys, even snakes. Some women carried tiny lapdogs in their arms like fashion accessories. One emperor, Elagabalus, allegedly fed his pet lions better than his staff.

Another man walks by with a parrot on his shoulder. The parrot squawks “Ave!” and then—possibly—belches.

Just another morning in the Forum.

At one end of the square, a group of philosophers has gathered. You edge closer, curious. One is gesturing with a stylus and quoting Epicurus, another is clearly quoting himself. They’re debating whether virtue can exist without pain. You consider contributing: “Try using a Roman toilet.” But you wisely stay quiet.

One of them turns to you suddenly. “Et tu, peregrine?” You freeze. “You too, traveler?”

You nod slowly. The man grins, then turns back to the argument, launching into a rant about the soul’s dual nature. You realize with a jolt that, technically, you’re now part of a philosophical debate.

Fringe tidbit: some Roman citizens hired philosophers just to follow them around and say wise-sounding things at dinner parties. Philosophers were the original audio ambiance—intellectual background noise. You half expect this one to ask for a tip.

As you drift away, the sound of chariots grows louder. You follow the rumble and turn a corner—and there it is. The Colosseum.

Even half-finished (construction wraps up under Titus), it’s breathtaking. Arched tiers rise into the sky, staircases spiraling upward, entrances yawning like hungry mouths. You step forward, drawn in like a moth to a very violent flame.

Inside, workers are hammering stone, dragging wooden beams, shouting instructions. A few gladiators-in-training are sparring in a side arena. Sweat, metal, and sand. It’s like a gym, but with higher mortality.

A man in armor leans on a pillar, sipping from a jug. He nods at you. You nod back, trying to look casual despite being dressed like someone who got kicked out of a toga party.

You walk the edge of the arena. It’s massive. You imagine the crowds, the chants, the roar when a lion bounds out of a hidden trapdoor. It’s thrilling. And absolutely not something you ever want to be part of.

You make a mental note: avoid any activity involving “volunteers.”

Still, there’s no denying the grandeur. Romans knew how to build a moment. Even if that moment occasionally involved live tigers and problematic crowd ethics.

You step back outside into the blinding sun. Your head’s spinning—not from heat, but from the sheer scale of everything. Rome doesn’t just exist. It performs. Every wall, every statue, every absurd snack item is part of a larger show. And you? You’re the guy who wandered into the theater during intermission, wearing the wrong costume and still holding half a pigeon-rejected loaf.

You look up. The sky is clear, the Forum bustling, and your stomach… still hollow.

But you’ve seen the heart of Rome now. You’ve heard it shout and argue and sing and judge you silently through statues. And despite the chaos, despite the dryness of the bread and the sponge-based trauma, something inside you whispers:

You’re not done yet.

Chapter 5

Your legs are aching, your stomach is growling again—somehow—and the relentless Roman sun is making your forehead feel like it’s been slow-roasted in olive oil. You need shade, and maybe somewhere to sit without the risk of being judged by another marble bust.

You wander through the narrow streets branching off from the Forum, dodging wagons, stray dogs, and a very grumpy goose that honks at you with imperial confidence. Romans, for reasons unknown, occasionally kept geese as alarm systems. One famously saved the Capitoline Hill from a nighttime invasion by honking furiously. You nod respectfully to this descendant of a war hero and keep moving.

Eventually, you stumble into a quieter residential area. The noise fades, replaced by the soft slosh of a fountain and the chatter of a nearby household. You peer over a wall and catch a glimpse of the Roman domus—a typical home for the upper class. Through the courtyard, you can see a mosaic floor, a sleeping dog, and a young servant sweeping up something suspiciously fig-like.

You’re tempted to knock and ask for directions to a café, until you remember—no cafés. No corner bakeries. No comforting hum of espresso machines. Not even a juice bar. Just open-air kitchens if you’re lucky, and whatever you can beg, borrow, or accidentally wrestle away from a monkey.

But you’re drawn to the layout of the house. The atrium, a central open space, is where light pours in and the family gathers. Rainwater collects in the shallow pool in the center—impluvium—feeding into underground cisterns. It’s oddly peaceful, despite the occasional shout or clatter of ceramic.

A family inside is preparing for lunch. You smell fish sauce—garum—and your nostrils recoil. It’s the ketchup of ancient Rome: fermented fish guts, aged in the sun, bottled like fine wine. Historians still argue whether everyone actually liked the stuff or just used it to cover up the taste of spoiled food. Judging by the amount being used, you’re guessing they had no other options.

You sit on a low stone wall and take in the hum of daily life. Women carry laundry to a shared basin. A group of kids chase each other, shrieking Latin phrases you only half understand—probably rude. An elderly man sits by the road playing a reed pipe, and you could swear he’s playing something suspiciously close to “Hot Cross Buns.” But that might be dehydration talking.

As you rest, someone offers you a cup of posca—a common drink for soldiers and laborers made by mixing vinegar, water, and herbs. It’s not delicious, but at least it’s clean. You sip carefully, trying not to let your face show how much it tastes like salad dressing left out in the sun. The man smiles anyway and gestures toward the aqueducts in the distance.

Now there’s a marvel.

Rome’s water system is, quite literally, ancient engineering flexing its muscles. Water travels from miles away, sometimes over mountains, to fountains, homes, baths, and even gardens. It’s delivered with a level of precision that modern plumbing would admire. Sure, the lead pipes are a concern—we’ll let the historians debate whether it actually contributed to Roman cognitive decline—but for now, you’re just impressed it works at all.

You wander in the direction of one aqueduct arch. It hums faintly, water rushing through its stone belly. You rest your hand on the cool surface and feel it—Rome’s pulse. Beneath all the noise, politics, and slightly traumatizing food choices, there’s a rhythm here. Ancient. Immense. Relentless.

A boy nearby kicks a leather ball toward you. You awkwardly deflect it with your shin, wincing at how much it hurts—these things aren’t exactly filled with air. He laughs, says something about your “chicken legs,” and runs off. Fair enough.

You keep moving and find yourself at a taberna—a kind of small Roman shop, part storefront, part living quarters. This one seems to be a barber’s. Inside, a man is trimming another man’s beard with a blade that looks like it could double as a prison shank. You smile politely and back away before they offer you a “Roman fade.”

Another taberna nearby sells sandals. Roman flip-flops, essentially. You consider trading your shoes, but realize your modern sneakers are attracting too much attention as it is. A child actually points at them and says something that probably translates to “What are those?”

You move on.

Fringe tidbit of the day: wealthy Romans sometimes kept private libraries in their homes. Scrolls, not books, mind you—carefully rolled and labeled with tags hanging from the ends. They didn’t have Dewey Decimal systems, but they did organize by subject: philosophy, rhetoric, poetry, probably some very dramatic love letters. You daydream for a second about sneaking into one of those libraries, curling up with a scroll, and pretending this morning never happened.

Then a rooster crows. At noon. Just because it can.

You decide to follow a group of schoolchildren heading toward what looks like a shaded portico. A man in a brown tunic is scribbling on a wax tablet and lecturing the kids in a tone that suggests he’s already tired of them. This is a ludus—a Roman school. Not for everyone, though. Mainly for boys of respectable families. Girls usually got educated at home, if at all.

The teacher smacks his stylus against the tablet and barks out a line from Virgil. One boy sighs dramatically and repeats it. Another clearly hasn’t done his homework. You suddenly feel a weird kind of kinship with him.

School in ancient Rome was rigorous, memorization-heavy, and occasionally involved a stick. You’re just glad you’re not being forced to declaim Cicero right now. You’d probably pronounce “Carthago delenda est” like it was a pasta dish.

You retreat, passing a mural in progress on a wall. A man is painting with natural pigments—burnt sienna, ochre, crushed shells. The mural shows a hunt, a banquet, and a very dramatic scene involving a man falling down stairs. You ask what it means. He shrugs and says, “It’s for the dining room.”

You chuckle. Because of course it is.

Everywhere you turn, you’re surrounded by stories. Written in stone, painted on walls, whispered in alleyways. But also—quite literally—written. Graffiti is scrawled all over the city, ranging from love notes and poetry to insults and slogans. One nearby reads: “Lucius is a liar and owes me four denarii.” Another says: “I was here. I did nothing wrong.” Timeless.

You realize you’re smiling now.

You’re still hungry. Still sunburnt. Still traumatized by sponge sticks. But Rome is worming its way into your brain, not with glamour, but with grit. With grit and lead pipes.

Chapter 6

You’re somewhere between “mildly enchanted” and “permanently dehydrated” as you make your way toward one of Rome’s most iconic gathering places: the public baths. You’ve heard whispers about them all morning—from sweaty merchants, gossiping matrons, and a man chewing on what might’ve been fermented cheese.

The thermae, as they’re called, are part spa, part gym, part community center, and part social media feed—minus the cat videos. Everyone who’s anyone in Rome either drops by daily or lies about how often they do.

You arrive at the Baths of Agrippa, the first grand-scale public bathhouse, built under the reign of Augustus. It sprawls across several city blocks, flanked by columns and lush gardens. The entrance smells of steam, rosemary, and… feet. A surprisingly potent combination.

Inside, the humidity hits you like a wet curtain. You blink against the fog and step gingerly onto the heated tiles. There are three main rooms, each with its own temperature and vibe: the frigidarium (cold), the tepidarium (warm), and the caldarium (hot). Right now, you feel like skipping the hot and heading straight for a popsicle. Except, sadly, it’s still a couple thousand years before anyone thinks to freeze sugar water.

As you step into the apodyterium, or changing room, you’re immediately reminded that Romans aren’t shy. Nakedness here is like… socks in modern culture. Functional. Ubiquitous. Unremarkable. You awkwardly wrap your tunic tighter and try to blend in with the crowd, most of whom are men in various states of undress, chatting about politics, war, or whether Saturn is in retrograde (spoiler: he’s always grumpy).

The lockers are just niches in the wall, sometimes guarded by slaves or attendants. You don’t have anything worth stealing—unless someone wants your oddly soft, futuristic socks.

You pass into the tepidarium, where warm air and mosaic floors lull you into a daze. The air smells like eucalyptus and ambition. You lie back on a marble bench, your muscles releasing the tension of a morning spent dodging monkeys, goose-guards, and teenage gladiator bros.

Here’s a mainstream historical fact for you: the baths weren’t just for hygiene. They were about networking. Romans struck business deals, traded gossip, negotiated marriages, and sometimes plotted full-on political schemes while lounging in the steam. Historians still argue whether the baths were more essential to Rome’s social fabric than the Forum itself.

You overhear part of a conversation between two well-fed senators. One complains that his villa’s fresco artist is behind schedule. The other scoffs and says he switched to a Greek painter “who works faster and complains less.” You roll your eyes so hard you nearly dislocate something.

A slave offers you a strigil—a curved bronze tool used to scrape off sweat, dirt, and oil. Romans didn’t use soap like we do. They’d oil themselves up and then scrape it all off, like some very niche cooking preparation. You accept it hesitantly and attempt a few awkward strokes. You look like someone trying to butter a hamster.

And then you enter the caldarium. The hot room. Imagine a sauna, but slightly more humid and smelling vaguely of bay leaves and toasted ambition. A furnace below the floor heats the room through a system called hypocaust—basically ancient underfloor heating. It’s genius. It’s also the kind of thing that might randomly explode if the fire slaves get distracted.

You try to sit, but the marble bench is volcanic. You hop up with a yelp, drawing a few amused glances. A man nearby leans over and says, “First time?” You nod, panting like a boiled potato. He chuckles. “Don’t worry, you’ll sweat out the fear soon.”

Some fringe enthusiasts believed regular bathing expelled bad spirits. Others used the time to debate philosophy or recite poetry. You, on the other hand, are just trying not to pass out from the heat.

Eventually, you slink back toward the frigidarium. Sweet relief. The cold pool sparkles under soft torchlight. You ease in, inch by inch, gritting your teeth as the chill wraps around your limbs. Your body thanks you. Your feet send fan mail.

A few others float around you, murmuring about taxes and the Emperor’s recent haircut. No one seems to mind the sudden yelp when you slip slightly and splash cold water up your nose.

One man swims with surprising elegance, considering he’s built like a sack of amphorae. He tells you he used to be in the navy. You ask him about sea travel. He grunts and says, “Like being in a wine barrel during an earthquake.” Noted.

Another man tells you, completely unsolicited, that he drinks a cup of hot honey vinegar every morning to keep his bones “slippery.” You nod solemnly, as if that’s not the strangest thing you’ve heard today—which, honestly, it isn’t.

As you towel off with what feels like a stiff curtain, you catch sight of a woman at the far side of the baths. That’s unusual—women typically had separate bathing hours or entire buildings. Some places were mixed, but it depended on the decade, the Emperor, and public mood. Historians still argue whether mixed-gender bathing was scandalous, accepted, or just convenient for couples running errands together.

You dress again—sort of—and step outside, feeling a little cleaner, a little less overwhelmed, and somehow, still a little sticky. It’s like the sweat has emotionally bonded with your soul now.

Outside, a vendor is selling honeyed almonds. You eye them with suspicion, but your stomach overrides your brain. You trade your dignity for a handful, praying they weren’t dropped on the floor earlier. You pop one into your mouth.

It’s… delicious. Sweet, warm, a little gritty. Your eyes water slightly. Maybe from the joy. Maybe from the dust. But for the first time since waking up here, you don’t feel like you’re moments away from a complete historical breakdown.

You lean against a column and breathe in the late afternoon air. Somewhere, someone is reciting a speech. A musician plucks at a cithara. A dog barks at a mime. The mime barks back.

Rome is still loud. Still sweaty. Still confusing. But now, just a little, you feel like part of it. Or at least, not entirely against it.

And as you brush a breadcrumb off your tunic, you notice a very familiar pigeon watching you from a nearby ledge.

Probably judging you.

Again.

Chapter 7

You’re finally feeling a bit more human after your unexpectedly profound bonding experience with warm nuts and cold water. But the moment you step out into the Roman street again, you’re hit with another reality: the sheer volume of smells. Not all bad, but… let’s say you wouldn’t bottle it as a perfume.

See, Rome’s beauty doesn’t just come with marble columns and tunic-clad poets—it also comes with a whole ecosystem of aromas. Roasting meat from a nearby popina (a street food stall), sweet incense burning near a temple, and the persistent background note of… let’s just say there are no sanitation workers on strike here because there are no sanitation workers, period.

You pinch your nose as you pass a man emptying a chamber pot into the gutter. He does it casually, mid-conversation, as if flinging human waste into public space is just another Tuesday—which, it is. You dodge to the side, narrowly avoiding a splash. Welcome to Ancient Rome’s sewage system, aka “gravity and hope.”

The famed Roman sewer, the Cloaca Maxima, still runs under the city, flushing wastewater into the Tiber. And for something built thousands of years ago, it’s surprisingly effective. Historians still argue whether its original purpose was practical engineering or just a fancy status project to impress the Etruscans. Either way, you’re grateful for whatever part of it is still working.

Still, street-level hygiene is more… interpretive. The roads double as garbage zones. If you listen carefully, you can actually hear someone gagging two alleys over. Probably a tourist from the future like you.

You’re about to write the day off as “officially descending again” when your stomach grumbles. Again. Ancient Rome is apparently 90% walking, 9% sweating, and 1% involuntary fasting.

You catch a whiff of something almost pleasant and follow it like a cartoon character. It leads you to a busy street corner, where a man is grilling skewers of mystery meat. It smells smoky, spiced, and just unfamiliar enough to be exciting.

You point to a skewer. He nods and says, “Porcus.” That’s… pig. Probably. Hopefully. You hand over a few worn coins (you have no idea if they’re correct—you’re just mimicking the guy in front of you) and receive the skewer. One bite in and you’re in bliss. It’s chewy, salty, and charred at the edges.

You also immediately burn your tongue. No napkins, no water, and no sympathy from the vendor. He simply shrugs and serves the next customer—who, to your surprise, is wearing a tunic over what looks like chainmail.

Turns out, you’re now in the part of the city where off-duty soldiers and gladiators hang out. You try to play it cool, chewing your skewer slowly and nodding like you belong. No one seems to notice—or care—except one massive man polishing a helmet who eyes your strange shoes with amusement.

You spot a tavern-style joint with shaded seating and sneak in. The popina is dim, crowded, and smells like garlic, sweat, and spilled wine. Perfect. You slide onto a bench, careful not to offend the two dice players next to you.

One of them knocks over a cup and shouts, “Vici!” His friend groans. Ancient Roman gambling, it turns out, was technically illegal—but also extremely popular. The dice they’re playing with are made of bone, slightly lopsided, and very loud on a wooden table.

You observe quietly. One player slams a coin onto the table and then rolls snake eyes. His curses are creative, even if you only catch half of them. Something about “Jupiter’s sandals.” Probably not a compliment.

A man next to you—red-faced, mildly drunk—leans over and slurs something about the races. “You going?” he asks. “Auriga favorite today is Scorpus.” You blink. You’ve heard that name. One of the most famous charioteers in Roman history, Scorpus was a star. He won hundreds of races before dying tragically young. Historians still argue whether it was from an accident on the track or something more sinister, like sabotage or bad shellfish.

Your new friend insists you must see a race. He even offers to lead you there, though his walking is more sideways than forward.

You follow him out of the popina and across a sun-drenched plaza where a group of street performers is reenacting a battle scene. One guy gets a bit too enthusiastic with his fake sword and sends a helmet flying into a fruit cart. Everyone claps. No one apologizes.

As you walk, your guide points out a temple up ahead—dedicated to Castor and Pollux, the twin brothers who were also mythical horsemen. Very on-brand for a day that’s apparently veering toward horsepower.

Before long, the distant roar of a crowd hits your ears. Not the polite hum of modern sports events, but a full-throated, bone-rattling cheer that grows with every step. Your heart skips. This is it.

The Circus Maximus.

It’s massive—longer than any modern stadium, wide enough for seven chariots to race side-by-side, and brimming with somewhere between 150,000 and 250,000 spectators, depending on who you ask. There’s no ticket scanning, no turnstiles, just humans crammed into every crevice of the arena, shouting, throwing things, and waving banners.

You squeeze into a standing spot near the top. The man next to you offers you a cup of wine that smells like regret. You decline, politely.

The chariots burst into the arena in a blur of color, muscle, and dust. Four factions—red, white, blue, and green—race in a frenzy around the spina, the central barrier decorated with statues, fountains, and the occasional monument to a charioteer who didn’t quite make that last turn.

You find yourself screaming with the crowd. One chariot clips another. A wheel splinters. The driver tumbles—but miraculously rolls to safety. The horses thunder on, hooves clattering like war drums. A banner flutters in the wind with the name Scorpus.

There’s no scoreboard, no jumbotron—just instinct and sweat and momentum. It’s chaos. It’s addictive. It’s terrifying.

When the race ends, the crowd erupts. Some cheer. Others argue violently. A few start fistfights. It’s less about who won and more about feeling like you won.

And yet, there’s something deeply human in all of it. The dust. The noise. The cheers that rattle your ribs. It reminds you that entertainment hasn’t changed all that much. Just the packaging.

You follow the crowd as it spills out into the street, dazed and adrenaline-soaked. You smile at your guide, who promptly vomits into an alley and wishes you a pleasant evening.

Rome. Always classy.

Chapter 8

You wander the streets in a kind of daze, your ears still ringing from the crowd, your sandals coated with arena dust, and your thoughts spinning faster than those chariot wheels. The sun is starting to dip low, casting a golden hue over the stone buildings and painting long shadows between rows of columns.

But don’t get too dreamy—because as night creeps closer in Rome, things shift. The markets begin to quiet, the respectable citizens retreat indoors, and the more… creative characters come out to play.

You find yourself passing through the Subura, Rome’s infamous lower-class district. You didn’t mean to. You were following the smell of roasted chestnuts, got distracted by a street musician playing a double-pipe flute, and now here you are—in a maze of stacked tenement buildings (insulae), shouting merchants, and extremely questionable puddles.

The Subura is known for two things: being very lively, and being very stabby.

You pull your tunic a little tighter and try to look inconspicuous, which is difficult because, to put it delicately, you are radiating “not from around here” energy. Also, your sneakers are still glowing with future foam technology.

A kid darts past and swipes something from a fruit stall. The stall owner yells but doesn’t chase. He mutters something about “every third plum being cursed anyway,” which you file under “strange local customs.”

Despite its reputation, the Subura is also home to poets, actors, and philosophers who can’t afford villas. You pass a small group of them sitting on crates, animatedly debating Cicero’s latest speech. One man waves a chicken bone in the air to emphasize his point. Another man, barefoot and possibly unwashed since Nero’s reign, shouts, “Cicero was all wind and no thunder!” Historians still argue whether Cicero was a genius, a windbag, or simply in the wrong job.

You keep walking, deeper into the network of alleyways. Someone offers to sell you “a genuine Greek prophecy in a jar.” You politely decline. Another offers “the good wine—not the donkey-stomped stuff.” You’re slightly tempted.

You come upon a small square where a fire has been lit in a brazier. Around it, a group of locals gathers to hear a traveling storyteller. His voice rises and falls with theatrical flair, recounting the tale of Romulus and Remus—Rome’s legendary wolf-raised twins. A child gasps. A woman shakes her head and mutters that she still doesn’t believe the wolf bit.

You lean in to listen, soothed by the rhythm of the story, until something brushes against your ankle. You look down—rat. Definitely a rat. You pretend it was a passing breeze and back away slowly.

You need somewhere safer—and perhaps quieter—to ride out the Roman dusk. So you head uphill, toward the Palatine Hill, where the air smells less like fish and more like expensive perfume.

The contrast is staggering. The Palatine is home to the city’s wealthiest elite. Marble staircases. Decorative fountains. Villas with ivy-covered walls and private gardens. You look so out of place that even the statues seem to glare at you disapprovingly.

But you’re not here for the ambiance. You’re here for the view.

From this height, you can see almost all of Rome—the flickering torches in the streets, the rooftops packed like puzzle pieces, the Tiber winding through it all like a silvery snake. You hear distant laughter, the call of night vendors, and someone arguing about grain prices three blocks down.

It’s beautiful. And chaotic. And deeply exhausting.

You sit down on a carved bench. A slave walks by with a tray of grapes. You reach for one before realizing—nope, not for you. The slave glares. You apologize. He mutters something that probably translates to “barbarian trash.”

Night falls properly now, and the moon glints off the rooftops. You begin to notice just how dark the city really is. Romans didn’t do street lighting the way we do. Unless you’re near a temple or someone’s balcony torch, you’re stumbling blind. Rich folk hired slaves to walk ahead with lanterns. The poor? Well… the poor walked fast and carried sharp sticks.

You decide it’s time to find shelter. Not because you’re sleepy, but because the chance of being mugged increases approximately 400% every time someone yells “Halt!” in Latin nearby.

You consider trying to sneak into one of the temples to sleep—maybe curl up near the feet of a goddess and hope she doesn’t smite—but temples are watched closely at night. And besides, you’ve already almost been kicked by a priest earlier. Once is enough.

Then you spot it—a taberna with a little sign hanging crookedly outside. It promises lodging and “only mild infestation.” You figure that’s about as good as it gets.

Inside, the air is thick with candle smoke and suspiciously familiar smells—sweat, dust, boiled beans, and old wood. You pay the innkeeper with a few more coins (again, who knows if you’re tipping extravagantly or just insulting him), and he grunts, pointing toward a narrow staircase.

Your room is… generous, if you’re comparing it to a prison cell. There’s a straw-stuffed mattress, a jug of water, and what may have once been a curtain. The window is a hole in the wall with a shutter. You close it quickly after something with wings flies in and flaps aggressively at your face.

You collapse onto the bed, the straw poking you like tiny gladiators with bad attitudes. Still, it’s better than the Forum steps.

You lie there for a while, listening to the sounds of Rome at night: distant singing, horse hooves clopping, someone shouting “Thief!” and someone else laughing in response. The city is still very much alive.

You think back to the Subura and its smellscape, the Circus Maximus and its mayhem, the way the baths steamed and soothed and burned your behind. You’re starting to accept that Rome doesn’t care if you’re comfortable—it only cares if you keep up.

And you? You’re still here. Still time-traveling. Still surviving.

Barely.

Chapter 9

Sleep in Ancient Rome comes with… conditions. The mattress beneath you isn’t so much soft as it is opinionated—it creaks and shifts like it has unresolved issues. Every time you move, it sounds like someone tearing parchment in half. And that’s before the chorus of rats in the rafters starts up.

You lie still, eyes wide, counting distant street arguments like sheep. There’s a group of people loudly debating the price of olive oil just outside the window, which you’re pretty sure doesn’t even close properly. Someone breaks into song. Someone else tells them to shut up in at least three different tenses of Latin.

Eventually, though, your body begins to give in. The kind of exhaustion you feel after dodging sewage, sprinting through chariot crowds, and nearly being cursed by a toga vendor starts to win.

Just as you’re drifting off… a loud crash from downstairs. Followed by shouting.

You sit bolt upright. Of course—Rome doesn’t have police. Not really. The Vigiles—Rome’s fire brigade and night watch—exist, but they’re notoriously slow to respond unless you’re on the emperor’s Christmas card list.

You peek out your door. In the dim glow of an oil lamp, you see the innkeeper dragging a barrel toward the door, muttering curses and kicking it for good measure. It smells like wine and regret. Apparently, someone tried to pay for a room with counterfeit denarii, and the innkeeper is now resolving the issue by yelling at the barrel. Rome’s conflict resolution strategies leave something to be desired.

You retreat, cautiously, and wedge a broken amphora under your door for “security.” If someone wants to rob you, they’ll at least stub a toe first.

You eventually fall asleep. You dream of togas, of sewer rats on tiny chariots, and of Cicero trying to sell you cheese.

When you wake, it’s with the blinding realization that you’re still in Ancient Rome.

Your back hurts. Your mouth is dry. And something is crawling near your foot. You decide not to investigate.

The sunlight streaming through your window is brilliant and harsh. No curtains, no warning—just Roman sun, slapping you awake like an unpaid debt.

You stumble downstairs. The innkeeper is asleep at the counter. A dog—possibly his, possibly a guest—sniffs at your sandal and sneezes. You step around it and head into the street, hoping for breakfast. Or at least something you can chew without wondering which animal it used to be.

Romans didn’t really do breakfast the way we do. Ientaculum, as they called it, was light—maybe a piece of bread with cheese, or a smear of honey. Nothing with sprinkles or whipped cream. Definitely no eggs Benedict.

You find a street vendor offering bread rolls and dried figs. You hand over your last usable coin and chew slowly, watching the world begin to stir around you.

Merchants open their stalls, brushing yesterday’s dust off their wares. Women carry baskets to the markets, their sandals clicking like typewriter keys. A man with a parrot on his shoulder yells about “miracle ointment for knee pain,” and honestly, you’d buy some if you had anything left to trade. Your knees feel 300 years old.

As you gnaw on your dry bread like a sad gladiator squirrel, a cart rolls by—massive wooden wheels squeaking, pulled by two donkeys with very judgmental eyes. It’s filled with amphorae and heading toward the Forum Boarium, the cattle market.

You follow it. Not because you’re in the mood for cows, but because something about the organized chaos of Roman markets is mesmerizing. It’s a place where senators brush elbows with slaves, where orators argue beside fruit sellers, and where you could buy a marble bust and a questionable sausage in the same transaction.

The air smells of leather, smoke, and—yes, again—animal waste. But also: spices. Frankincense. Roasted nuts. The sharp tang of fermented fish sauce (garum), which the Romans put on everything, including possibly dessert. Historians still argue whether garum was an acquired taste or just a test of intestinal fortitude.

You’re halfway through judging a wheel of goat cheese when you hear someone behind you whisper, “Careful. The augurs are watching.”

You turn.

The speaker is an older woman wearing a faded purple shawl, her eyes sharp and amused. She nods toward a raised platform nearby, where a group of robed men are observing a flock of birds.

Augury—the practice of interpreting the will of the gods through bird behavior. This is real. In fact, the fate of entire battles and political decisions rested on whether a chicken ate grain or walked left.

You watch as a priest tosses feed and squints intensely. One bird pecks, then flaps and poops spectacularly on the platform. The priest nods solemnly. Apparently, that’s a good sign.

You whisper, “Is that… official?” The woman shrugs. “Better than most senators.”

And that’s how you find yourself being led by a complete stranger to an impromptu ceremony happening outside a nearby temple. She insists you see it.

The Temple of Jupiter looms before you—tall columns, vast stairs, and enough dramatic flair to make even the Greek gods a little jealous. As you climb the steps, you’re passed by a group of boys carrying flowers and shouting in verse.

The ceremony is a supplicatio—a public prayer in thanks or in desperation, depending on the day. Today? Seems like desperation. The high priest begins to chant, waving incense and shouting the names of every god you can think of and several you’re pretty sure he made up.

You stand respectfully near the back. One man next to you is so moved he starts weeping. Another is clearly just there to meet girls.

Suddenly, a cheer erupts from the plaza below. You rush to the edge. A herald has just announced a new shipment of grain has arrived at the port. There will be bread for all this week. The people cheer like it’s the World Cup.

The ceremony abruptly turns celebratory. The priest switches gears mid-chant. People start dancing. Someone plays a lyre badly. Children throw flower petals. A dog barks along enthusiastically.

You’re caught in the tide of celebration. Someone hands you a cup of watered wine. You sip. It’s not great, but it’s drinkable. Barely.

You stand there, in the heart of a city that’s still noisy, still grimy, still occasionally dangerous—but suddenly, weirdly, you feel it. The pull of it. The charisma. The life.

Rome doesn’t ask if you like it. Rome dares you to dislike it while it pours wine down your tunic and dances on your last nerve.

And despite the questionable hygiene, the linguistic confusion, the complete lack of bathrooms, and the fact that you still don’t know where you are sleeping tonight—you find yourself grinning.

By breakfast, you’ve realized: you’d absolutely regret time-traveling to Ancient Rome.

But you’re kind of glad you did it anyway.

Chapter 10

It’s a strange moment—you, standing barefoot in a temple courtyard with crumbs in your teeth and questionable wine on your breath, looking out over the chaos of a civilization that’s already been dead for two millennia. Except, of course, here and now, it’s very much alive. The dust is still in the air. The vendors are still shouting. The gods—well, they’re still being offered flowers and goat bits like it’s any other Tuesday.

You step away from the celebrations, trying to collect your thoughts, and maybe also trying to find a place where you’re less likely to be force-fed roasted lark skewers by enthusiastic festival-goers.

You wander down a quieter alleyway that curves behind the Forum, past a small sculptor’s shop where marble busts line the windowsill like a reunion of stone-faced ancestors. One of them looks suspiciously like a senator you saw the night before. Same nose. Same glare. Possibly the same ego.

As you round a corner, you’re struck—gently—by the unexpected aroma of baking. Sweet, yeasty, almost like… ancient Roman cinnamon buns?

You follow your nose to a tiny pistrina, a neighborhood bakery. The baker is a woman with arms like amphorae and a smile that doesn’t quite trust you. She’s kneading dough so violently, you briefly consider offering it therapy.

She notices your wide-eyed hunger and slides you a warm libum—a Roman sweet cheese bread. You take a bite and nearly cry. It’s not a donut, but for a moment, it’s everything.

You try to compliment her in Latin. It comes out more like “The cheese is glory of mouth sky.” She frowns. You mime joy. She nods slowly, amused. You’ve made your first friend.

While chewing, you glance at the oven—a beehive-shaped clay structure, cracked and blackened with soot. A slave tends the fire, his hands blistered but precise. Roman bakeries were common in urban neighborhoods like this. In fact, most citizens relied on them daily. Owning your own oven was a luxury—unless you enjoyed burning down your insula.

You ask, awkwardly, how the grain shipment affected business. The baker shrugs. “Always late. Always moldy. But better than nothing.” She then mutters something about “Claudian nonsense” and tosses flour at a passing cat.

It hits you—supply chains in Ancient Rome are as unreliable as your phone’s Wi-Fi during a thunderstorm. And worse, you can’t even angrily tweet about it.

A customer enters: a well-dressed man with a scroll tucked under one arm. He grins at you and makes a joke about your tunic being “fashionably foreign.” You don’t laugh. He then introduces himself as a scriba—a public scribe, responsible for drafting legal documents and sometimes helping the illiterate navigate contracts or taxes.

You chat—well, mostly nod while he speaks Latin at you—and he offers to show you the nearby archives. You’re hesitant. But also, it’s either that or hang out with the oven cat, who just hissed at your sandals.

So, off you go—with a scriba leading the way and gesturing like a man explaining a Netflix plot twist.

He brings you to a tabularium—a record office. Inside, clay tablets and scrolls are organized with surprisingly decent order. The room smells of ink, mildew, and ambition.

You spot one archivist using a stylus to etch a wax tablet, the letters looping in classical majesty. Another dips a brush into black ink to copy text onto papyrus. There’s an entire system here, a bureaucratic machine made of reed pens and dry sarcasm.

“Here,” the scriba says, handing you a scroll, “tax records from last Saturnalia. Scandalous.” You pretend to understand. You definitely do not. But you nod seriously and squint at the numbers like they personally offended you.

The sheer weight of administrative detail is mind-boggling. Historians still argue whether Rome’s bureaucratic structure was a marvel of order or a bloated system barely held together with wax seals and curses.

You thank the scriba and step back outside, blinking in the harsh midday sun. You’ve now seen gladiators, oracles, poets, bakers, and paper-pushers. Rome is less a city and more a parade of personalities.

But there’s one piece missing. You’ve seen the public spaces, the bathhouses, the temples. But you haven’t seen a Roman home. Not really.

So you find yourself meandering toward the domus of a wealthy merchant—invited, it seems, by the baker, who may have whispered something about “her cousin needs a helper today” while pushing a bag of flour at you.

The merchant’s house is modest by Palatine standards but still a world apart from the cramped insulae. The door opens into an atrium, with a shallow pool in the center that catches light and reflects it in gold ripples onto the painted walls. The floor is a mosaic of dolphins and sea gods, and a small dog statue guards the entryway with blank ceramic menace.

Inside, the rooms open like a puzzle box. A triclinium—dining room—with couches arranged around a low table. A cubicula—bedroom—with wall frescoes that would definitely earn a PG-13 rating. And the peristylium, a courtyard garden complete with birds, ivy, and a man trimming a bush into the shape of a horse. Or maybe a lumpy goat. Historians would debate this too.

You’re asked to help carry amphorae of olive oil from the storage cellar. You agree, then immediately regret it. The jars weigh approximately one million pounds and the stairs are made of sorrow.

Still, it gives you a glimpse into Roman domestic life. Kitchens are smoky and small. Storage is cleverly vertical. And privacy? Not really a thing. Even the toilets are often communal.

You sit for a while in the garden, panting, hands oily, and marveling that this is what “comfortable living” looked like 2,000 years ago. No toilets you can flush, no windows with glass, no Netflix to explain augury or fermented fish sauce. Just stone, olive oil, and gossip.

And yet—there’s a rhythm here. A strange sense of community in the chaos. People talk, barter, argue, celebrate. Even the dog statue seems to be part of it.

You close your eyes for a moment and breathe in the scent of laurel and thyme. Somewhere in the distance, someone’s playing a pan flute terribly. Somewhere closer, a child is yelling about stolen figs.

You’re sore, hungry again, and rapidly running out of reasons not to panic about how you’ll get back to your own time.

But in this moment? You’re just another soul in the Eternal City, wrapped in tunic and dust and too many layers of someone else’s history.

And you’re not done yet.

Chapter 11

By now, your sandals feel like they’ve filed a formal complaint against your feet, and your tunic smells like a mix of wood smoke, sweat, and cheese—that sweet libum left its mark. But there’s no turning back. Not just because time travel doesn’t come with a “Return to Main Menu” button, but because the day in Rome is far from over. You’ve seen temples and togas, scribes and sculptors—but you haven’t yet seen the true power of this ancient city in action: the law.

So when your new baker friend offhandedly mentions that a public trial is taking place at the Basilica Julia in the Forum, your ears perk up. You hobble that way, pausing only to sidestep a goat wearing a festive ribbon and to wave awkwardly at the parrot vendor from earlier, who now has two parrots and a suspicious smile.

The Basilica Julia is no church—despite what the name might suggest to modern ears. It’s a grand rectangular building supported by columns, with an open hall that echoes with voices, footsteps, and the occasional loud sneeze from the dusty marble crowd. Think courtroom meets civic center meets gossip pit.

Inside, people cluster in groups. Rich men in pristine white toga candida lean smugly against pillars while others whisper, point, or shake their heads with dramatic flair. A trial is already underway.

The accused? A merchant, red-faced and sweating, accused of cheating weights on his grain scales. His accuser—a woman with a scroll and the fierce energy of someone who’s read every footnote in the Twelve Tables of Roman Law—is tearing into him like a philosopher at a free wine tasting.

The presiding magistrate, or praetor, listens with practiced boredom. He occasionally raises a hand to silence interruptions or to scratch his nose with a stylus. You’re not sure how much actual justice is happening, but the performance? 10/10.

A nearby citizen leans in and whispers, “He bribed a juror last week. Everyone knows. But she”—he nods at the scroll-wielding woman—“used to date his brother.”

Ah. Roman justice. As complex and personal as a group chat after a breakup.

You stay to watch as evidence is dramatically revealed: a fake set of weights, a letter, and even a bag of coins with a suspiciously unfamiliar stamp. The crowd gasps. The magistrate yawns. A small boy sells dried dates to the onlookers like it’s intermission at a play.

Eventually, the verdict is rendered: guilty, with a fine to be paid and public shaming at the marketplace. The merchant groans. The crowd cheers. The woman curtsies like she’s accepting an award.

It’s fascinating. Rome’s legal system is one of the most sophisticated of the ancient world—complete with trained lawyers, standardized contracts, and recorded rulings. Yet at the same time, personal grudges and social status still shape outcomes like they’re ingredients in a very salty soup. Historians still argue whether the Roman legal system upheld fairness or simply performed the illusion of it.

As the courthouse clears out, you strike up a conversation with a young man carrying a wooden tablet. He introduces himself as a law student. He’s nervous, clearly memorizing key phrases, and talks faster than a scroll unrolling down a windy hill.

He offers to show you one of the nearby ludi—public schools, where children and young adults are taught rhetoric, philosophy, and how to yell persuasively without blinking.

On the way, he explains that education in Rome depends heavily on your status. Wealthy families hire private tutors—often Greek slaves—while others send their children to group lessons in borrowed buildings or shaded porticoes. Today’s class is being held in an open courtyard beside a temple, with a handful of students sitting on benches and one instructor pacing with the energy of someone one bad answer away from yelling in hexameter.

You sit at the edge, trying to look like you belong. The teacher is lecturing on Cicero. Or maybe as Cicero—it’s hard to tell. His voice booms, arms flailing, a scroll rolled tightly in one fist like a scepter of exasperation.

He pauses mid-rant to ask a boy in the front row a question. The boy hesitates, then answers in flawless Latin that sounds too perfect to be real. The teacher grins, delighted, and calls him “my little orator of the Republic.” The boy beams, the others groan.

As the class ends, the teacher approaches you. “You look foreign,” he says, stating the obvious with the warmth of a man who owns exactly one tone of voice.

You nod. “Just visiting,” you say. He doesn’t understand the words, but he squints, gives a nod, and hands you a copy of a basic Latin primer written on parchment. “Study this,” he says. “Even Gauls can improve.”

You smile. You’ve been insulted. Educated. Gifted. Welcome to Roman schooling.

Back on the street, you feel the buzz of students hurrying home, parents shouting after them, the daily rush of life carrying on as if it didn’t just stage a full courtroom drama and a surprise Latin lesson in a single afternoon.

You stop to rest on the edge of a public fountain, where two musicians—one with a lyre, the other with a reed flute—are trying to harmonize without entirely agreeing on the melody. You listen for a while, your eyes drifting to the sky.

The sun is sliding westward now. The shadows stretch longer, cooler. Somewhere, a dinner fire is being lit. Someone’s dropping lentils into a pot and arguing about garum quantities again.

You realize that despite all the rough edges, Rome is starting to feel almost… survivable.

Except, of course, you still have no clue how to leave.

And that’s when someone tugs your sleeve.

It’s a girl—maybe nine or ten—with dark curls and serious eyes. She points to the scroll under your arm and says something in Latin you almost understand: “That’s upside down.”

You look. It is. She giggles. Then she adds, slowly, “You’re not from here.”

It’s not a question.

You smile. “No,” you whisper. “I’m not.”

She tilts her head. “Then why are you here?”

You don’t have an answer.

Not yet.

Chapter 12

You stare at the little girl for a long moment, trying to come up with an answer that doesn’t involve a time machine you can’t locate or a cosmic accident caused by your questionable decision to microwave leftover lasagna near a suspicious-looking smartwatch. But she’s already lost interest and is chasing a chicken into an alley, laughing as though the question wasn’t meant to unravel your existential crisis.

You rise from the fountain and decide to walk. No destination—just walk. Rome, for all its noise and chaos, has a strange way of welcoming wanderers. The streets wind in confusing spirals, but each turn offers something new: a statue half-sunk into the ground, an alley painted with old political graffiti, a dog snoozing in the sun like it invented the concept of leisure.

You find yourself near the Subura district again, where the insulae crowd the skyline like precarious stacks of burnt toast. The air is thicker here—smoke from cooking fires, sweat, fish, and the eternal perfume of too many people in too small a space.

You step carefully over a puddle that looks sentient and pass a group of kids gambling with bones and pebbles. One of them offers you a bet. You decline. He calls you a chicken. You walk faster.

Eventually, you make your way to a quieter part of the city—just beyond the Servian Wall, where small shrines and neglected gardens sprout between stone houses. Here, time feels softer. The breeze is cooler. You spot a lararium tucked into a wall niche—a tiny household shrine with figurines of protective spirits, offerings of fruit, and a splash of wine drying in the dust.

You pause.

Despite everything—language barriers, questionable hygiene, the omnipresence of fermented fish paste—you feel a flicker of something like peace. The kind of peace that doesn’t come from luxury, but from rhythm. Routine. Ritual. A strange harmony built into the chaos.

A man walks by carrying a basket of herbs. He nods at you, says “Salve,” and keeps moving. No questions. No suspicion. Just… a nod.

And that’s when you hear it.

Drums.

Not the gentle rhythm of street musicians or temple processions. No, these are heavy, urgent, military.

You turn a corner, and there they are: a unit of Roman soldiers, marching in unison through the city gates, shields slung, faces stern. The centurion at the front barks commands with the calm authority of someone who’s yelled his way through ten provinces and three attempted rebellions.

You freeze, staring.

This is Rome’s iron core—the legions that built an empire and, often, burned down anyone who disagreed.

They’re not in battle gear. This is a return parade—less pageantry, more logistics. Their armor clinks like wind chimes forged in fury. Their sandals slap the stones with brutal efficiency. Some look bored. Others proud. A few just look hungry.

One of them spots you and mutters something to the soldier beside him. They both chuckle. You check your tunic. Yes, still suspiciously clean. Definitely tourist vibes.

The legions are a mix of hardened veterans and youthful recruits. Some have scars that look like they came with stories. Others glance nervously at the crowd, as if still unsure whether they belong in this brotherhood of blood and bronze.

You edge closer, watching as they pass. Each soldier wears a phalera—a decorative disk on their chest, earned in battle or for acts of bravery. They shine dully in the late sun, like medals on a silent resume.

You wonder what it’s like to fight for a republic that became an empire by the sheer force of leg muscles and stubbornness. Historians still argue whether Roman soldiers were glorified mercenaries or true patriots—but watching them now, you suspect the truth is somewhere in between.

A group of children runs alongside the column, mimicking the march. One boy has a pot lid as a shield. Another wields a stick like a gladius. The soldiers ignore them, mostly. One tosses a date to a little girl. She squeals. It’s weirdly wholesome.

You follow the legions a little longer, trailing them to the edge of the Campus Martius, where some will rest, and others will be reassigned. A few peel off toward the baths—because nothing says “conquered Gaul” like soaking in lavender water while debating plumbing maintenance.

Speaking of which, your feet demand a break.

You drift toward a small public bathhouse nearby—not the grand imperial kind with mosaic floors and gossiping senators, but a modest neighborhood version. You pay your entry fee in borrowed coin and step inside.

First, the apodyterium—the changing room. You fumble with your tunic. A slave gestures for you to leave your belongings in a niche. You hesitate, glance at the man’s dagger-sized pinky ring, and decide to trust fate.

Then comes the tepidarium—the warm room. Steam hangs in the air, thick as soup. You settle onto a stone bench, surrounded by other bathers muttering about grain shortages, local elections, and a butcher’s daughter who eloped with a flute player.

Next, the caldarium—the hot bath. It’s like a sauna had a baby with a soup pot. You lower yourself into the water and instantly question every life choice leading to this moment. But slowly, your muscles sigh. Your thoughts quiet.

A man beside you offers a dab of perfumed oil. You accept, unsure whether you’re being pampered or subtly challenged to a duel. He introduces himself as Lucius, a leatherworker. Talks about his workshop, his dog, and his opinion that imported Egyptian sandals are overrated. You nod politely, unsure how to disagree without also insulting a continent.

You finish with the frigidarium—the cold plunge. It is exactly as unpleasant as it sounds. But afterward, you feel reborn. Clean. Awake. Slightly less doomed.

In the changing room, Lucius claps you on the shoulder and says, “You’re not so weird.” You thank him. He doesn’t understand.

Outside, the sun is setting. The buildings turn gold. Voices grow softer. Fires are being lit. Rome is exhaling.

You walk aimlessly, letting the cool air dry your damp hair. Somewhere, someone is playing a lyre again. This time, it sounds like a lullaby.

You find yourself back near the Forum, now mostly empty except for a few loitering philosophers and a dog licking a statue’s foot.

You sit on a step, watching the sky change. The stars begin to emerge—faint at first, then bolder. The kind of sky you don’t see through modern light pollution. The kind of stars ancient people charted, prayed to, navigated by.

You look up and wonder which one brought you here. And whether it’s still watching.

Maybe the girl was right. Why are you here?

And more importantly… how do you leave?

Chapter 13

The stars keep watching.

You sit on the Forum steps long after the last public speaker packs up his scrolls and the wine sellers start muttering about closing. The city dims but never sleeps—distant clatter from a tavern, the slap of sandals on stone, someone singing off-key about Jupiter’s jealous rage. Even in semi-darkness, Rome pulses.

You stand and stretch, sore in muscles you didn’t know existed. You should find somewhere to sleep. Or at least somewhere less likely to involve rats the size of melons.

You start walking. You’re not picky. At this point, you’d take a patch of hay and a blanket that doesn’t double as a biohazard. But as luck—or misfortune—would have it, a kindly woman near a small food stall notices your exhausted state. She offers you a spare corner in her shop if you help tidy for the evening. You nod gratefully. The cost? Wiping counters, stacking baskets, and keeping a suspiciously persistent cat away from the fish barrel.

Her name is Junia. She’s wiry, no-nonsense, and speaks the way a shovel does when it hits packed earth—blunt, purposeful, but oddly reassuring.

While sweeping the floor, you overhear her talking with a customer about omens. Apparently, there was a bad reading from the sacred chickens this morning.

Sacred. Chickens.

Yes, that’s real.

In Rome, augury is big business. Priests—called augures—interpret the will of the gods by observing birds. Their flight patterns, calls, even their eating habits. If chickens refuse to eat? Bad omen. If they devour their grain like it’s the Last Supper? Good sign.

You can’t help but imagine a military campaign canceled because a hen was full. And honestly? That tracks.

Historians still argue whether Romans believed in omens or simply used them as political tools. Did they really think Jupiter sent pigeons as divine texts? Or was it a handy way to delay senate meetings?

You finish cleaning and curl up in the corner Junia offered. She covers you with a rough wool blanket and says, “Don’t die tonight.” You’re not sure if it’s a joke or just good Roman hospitality.

Sleep comes in waves. Fitful at first. Your dreams are a mix of centurions and scrolls, chickens and vinegar. You wake once to the sound of drunken singing, once to a dog sniffing your foot. But eventually, your body forgets it doesn’t belong here. You sink deeper.

By morning, the shop smells of olives and baked bread. Junia is already up, clattering pots and shouting at a boy for stealing figs. She hands you a crusty loaf and says, “You breathe loud.”

You thank her. Again, she doesn’t understand. But she nods all the same.

Outside, Rome begins to hum once more. You wander with no real goal—just curiosity. That dangerous traveler’s instinct that got you here in the first place.

You pass a procession of Vestal Virgins—women devoted to Vesta, goddess of the hearth. Dressed in pure white, they move like shadows stitched with sunlight. Heads bowed. People clear a path. The sacred fire they tend must never go out. If it does? Well, bad things. Let’s just say a Vestal failing her duty might face a punishment involving being buried alive. Relaxing, right?

The girl leading the line looks barely older than fourteen.

You wonder if she volunteered, or if her family offered her. If she dreams of something else.

Someone bumps into you. You mutter a sorry, but they’re already gone. The streets swell again with life: butchers yelling, loaves trading hands, a goat standing on a cart like it’s made partner at a law firm.

You pass another shrine—this one to Mercury, god of travelers and thieves. Fitting. You toss in a small pebble. Not currency, but maybe Mercury will appreciate the effort. Or at least the irony.

And then, without warning, you hear your name.

Your real name.

Your modern name.

It’s faint. Windblown. You spin around, heart in your throat. No one’s looking at you. The crowd flows like always—busy, indifferent, noisy.

But there it is again.

Whispered, like static.

You move toward it. Through a crowded lane. Past a statue of Minerva, her stone eyes unimpressed. Past two street performers pretending to sword-fight with sticks.

The sound sharpens. A hum layered beneath everything else. Like electricity behind a wall.

You push through a doorway into what looks like a disused storeroom. Dust swirls. Sunlight filters through cracks in the wood.

And there—in the center—is a shape.

Not Roman.

Not anything that belongs here.

It shimmers. Moves slightly, like light refracted through water. A rippling curtain hanging in space.

Your breath catches.

You step closer. The air around it crackles faintly. Time doesn’t feel normal here. The dust hangs longer. Your heartbeat slows. Even the noise from the street fades into a muffled thrum.

Is this it?

A way back?

You don’t touch it. You just stand and stare, waiting for the dream to dissolve. But it doesn’t.

Instead, you hear something else. A child’s laugh. Familiar.

You turn and see the girl from the fountain—the one who asked why you were here. She’s standing in the doorway, hands on her hips.

“Are you going home?” she asks.

You nod. Or maybe you don’t. You’re not sure.

She smiles. “Okay.”

And with that, she walks away.

You step forward. Closer to the shimmer. Your reflection warps in it—tunic, sandals, Rome etched across your skin. You don’t know what’s on the other side. Maybe it’s your apartment. Maybe it’s Thursday. Maybe it’s a chicken coop in Toledo.

But you’re ready.

Almost.

You look back one last time.

At Rome. At chaos. At a world that, despite its broken teeth and fish guts, has been kind to you in its own loud, ridiculous way.

And then—

You step through.

Chapter 14

You don’t land with a thud. No flash of light, no thunderclap, no wild spinning. Just a soft shift. Like turning the page of a thick, dusty book and suddenly finding yourself in a different story.

You open your eyes.

Still dark.

Still stone.

But quieter now.

You’re standing—not in your apartment, not in a lab surrounded by blinking machines, not even back at the fountain where this bizarre Roman vacation began. No. You’re in a room that feels… half-familiar. A library, maybe. Shelves carved from stone line the walls. Scrolls—some cracked and curled like dried leaves, others tightly wound—rest neatly on bronze racks.

There’s no one here.

You take a step. Your sandals scuff the marble floor. No guards yell. No chickens peck your ankles. For the first time in what feels like days, no one’s watching you.

On a nearby pedestal sits a single open scroll. You approach. The writing is Latin—florid, looping, official. But just below it, scrawled in a different hand, is a line in modern English:

“Always leave the timeline cleaner than you found it.”

You blink. Your stomach drops.

Someone else has been here.

You start to scan the room with new eyes. Symbols etched faintly into the stone. Not Roman—definitely not decorative. A pattern. A language. Something layered beneath history, like graffiti left by someone who didn’t belong.

Another traveler? A warning?

You run a finger along the symbols and find a tiny notch in the wall. A compartment? You press. A soft click. The wall slides slightly open, revealing—

A device.

Black. Smooth. Cool to the touch.

You don’t recognize the brand. Which is odd, because you pride yourself on knowing obscure tech—especially gadgets so sleek they practically whisper “sci-fi protagonist.” It lights up briefly. No buttons. No screen. Just a small projection:

“Exit coordinates confirmed.”

Then: “Warning: Temporal drift detected.”

You take a slow breath. That doesn’t sound good. In fact, it sounds like a polite way of saying, “You left the stove on in the space-time continuum.”

You pocket the device. It’s probably smarter than you, and definitely cleaner than your tunic.

Outside the chamber, the city is still—too still. Rome asleep, maybe. Or you’ve landed in a pocket between ticks of the universal clock. Either way, you step carefully.

The streets are washed in moonlight. No torchlight. No voices.

You walk slowly past familiar landmarks now shrouded in shadow. The Forum. The Baths of Agrippa. The Temple of Vesta. All quiet. Ancient skeletons of a world that should be bustling.

You’re not alone, though.

In the distance, you spot a figure. Cloaked. Moving slowly. You follow, more curious than cautious—because, let’s face it, caution would’ve kept you in bed with a cup of tea and a Netflix account.

The figure moves through the city with purpose, never turning back. You trail them through alleyways and arches until they stop at a column that looks far too modern for this time. There’s a faint blue shimmer—just like before.

A portal.

The figure steps through without hesitation.

And you pause.

Do you follow? Do you step into the unknown again, another city, another century? Or do you stay and fade back into the Roman rhythm you were starting to understand—bread, baths, mildly aggressive fishmongers?

You reach for the device. It glows again:

“Window closing: 1 minute.”

Well, that’s helpful.

You think of Junia and her gruff kindness. Of the boy with the pot-lid shield. Of the sacred chickens, the gossip baths, and the impossibly stubborn way Rome keeps standing.

It was messy. It was exhausting. It smelled deeply of vinegar and goat.

But it was alive.

Still…

You step forward.

Your foot hits the shimmer, and this time, you feel the pull—like a tide sucking you through a narrow tunnel of memory and heat and light.

Then darkness.

And then—

Morning.

Not birdsong.

Not Roman gossip.

But… the beep of a microwave.

You blink against sudden fluorescence. You’re on the floor of your kitchen. Your smart watch blinks: “9:42 AM – Friday.”

Your hoodie smells faintly of lavender bath oil and charcoal smoke.

You sit up slowly, checking your limbs. Everything feels… fine. Your hair is still damp. Your pockets are empty—except for one thing.

That device.

Still cool. Still unreadable.

You stare at it for a long time, then place it on the table next to your half-eaten lasagna.

Your phone buzzes. A notification:

“Reminder: History podcast live stream in 10 minutes.”

You laugh. Softly. Then louder. It’s too absurd not to.

Because now, you know.

It’s not just a podcast anymore.

It’s personal.

The Ending Chapter

You sit there a while, fingers brushing the strange device on your kitchen table. It doesn’t buzz again. It doesn’t light up. It just sits there, quiet, innocuous—as if it hadn’t just yanked you through time and dropped you headfirst into ancient fermented fish sauce and bureaucratic chaos.

But it’s real. And you know it.

You take a long shower, letting the modern plumbing wash away the dust of centuries. The water pressure alone feels like a miracle. No one’s yelling about omens. No one’s charging you an amphora of wine for towel rental. You don’t even need to bring your own sponge-on-a-stick. Luxury.

Yet, as the steam fogs the mirror, a flicker of something ancient lingers behind your eyes. A mosaic here, a whisper of Latin there. That girl at the fountain. Junia’s broom. The cat with political opinions. Rome has left fingerprints all over you.

Back in your room, you collapse on the bed—clean sheets, memory foam pillow. But the quiet? Feels… off.

You open your laptop, more out of reflex than purpose. Tabs spring to life: memes, work emails, a half-finished article about Caesar’s hairstyle (yes, it was a comb-over, and no, historians still haven’t agreed on how dramatic it really was).

You almost click away—but then, a new email pings in. No sender. No subject. Just one line:

“Don’t get too comfortable. Time leaks.”

Your blood runs cold. You check the headers. Blank. No metadata. Just there, like a whisper slipped into your inbox by someone with keys to reality’s backstage.

You slam the laptop shut and look around, half expecting a toga-clad figure to be lounging on your desk, peeling a grape and criticizing your décor.

Nothing. Just silence.

Except for a faint hum coming from the device.

It’s glowing again. Just barely. A pale shimmer.

Curiosity itches. You pick it up.

It pulses once—soft, like a heartbeat.

You wonder: was that just one detour? Or the beginning of something bigger?

Your eyes flick to the shelf where you keep your passport, old travel journals, and a tiny figurine of Mercury you picked up at a yard sale years ago.

Coincidence?

You’re not so sure anymore.

Maybe you weren’t just pulled through time. Maybe you were recruited.

And suddenly, your heart’s pounding like a Roman war drum.

You lean back, close your eyes, and exhale. This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The city may be 2,000 years gone, but in your memory, in your bones—it’s as vivid as ever. The scrape of sandals. The roar of the Colosseum. The quiet ache of the Forum at dusk.

Rome is never just a place.

It’s a fever dream, a time loop, a lesson carved in stone and olive oil.

And somewhere out there—in this world or another—someone else is about to be pulled through the shimmer.

But for now…

You’re home.

You’re safe.

And your pillow smells like modern laundry detergent instead of smoky laurel leaves.

Still, you whisper, just to the dark: “Vale, Rome.”

Because no matter how far you’ve come—or how far you might still go—you’ll never quite leave it behind.
And now, with Rome behind you and the hum of the present wrapping gently around your shoulders, let the noise of the world soften.

Let the clatter of sandals fade to the distant hush of memories…
The shouts of the Forum become the whispers of breeze brushing past your window…
The weight of tunics and time falling away like dust from your fingertips.

Breathe in.

Slowly.

Feel the rhythm of history settle.
Not in chaos—but in stillness.
Not in stone—but in your own steady heartbeat.

Where once there were cobbled streets and sacred chickens…
Now there’s the quiet creak of your mattress, the soft sigh of pillows shifting under your head.
You’re no longer running from goats or dodging toga-clad lawyers.

You’re here.

Present.

Safe.

And that ancient sky, once filled with omens and stars, now cradles you in gentle darkness.

So let it hold you.
Let the echoes of Rome fade into dreams, slow and silken.
Let your breathing carry you away—
Not through time, not through portals…
Just into rest.
Into warmth.
Into sleep.

You’ve walked through centuries.
You’ve tasted strange bread, outwitted bureaucrats, and survived ancient plumbing.
You’ve seen how even the greatest empires slow… soften… hush.

So now, you do the same.

Goodnight, traveler.
Sleep well.
And if you hear distant drums again…
Just smile.

You’ve already been there.