By Vol IV, the marble has cracked and the gods wear human skin — thin, twitching, flaking at the edges. This is the empire after the pageantry has collapsed. Tiberius broods on his island. Caligula speaks to the moon. Nero tunes his lyre while Rome smolders. And in this volume, their masks fall completely.

Translated with unnerving elegance, the French softens nothing. It renders excess with grace — cruelty with calm, madness with poise. That contrast makes the text feel colder, stranger. Like watching a beautiful man drown in slow motion.

Every page is intimate with the grotesque. Anecdote becomes confession. History folds into theater. The emperors become less human and more like reflections in polished obsidian: fascinating, distorted, and deadly.

This is not the rise of Rome. This is the fever-dream before the fire. And in French, it reads like a requiem written in silk

-Great - Book is well kept and displays minimal signs of age or wear.

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