"What is your duty? To serve the Emperor's will! What is the Emperor's will? That we fight and die!"—chants from Warhammer 40,000 (videogame)
(Content Warning—this chapter contains scenes of graphic violence and gore. The reader's discretion is advised.)
**
Ides of January, 41 AD
A raw cry of—"Traitors!"—ripped through the torch-lit tunnel, echoing like a banshee's wail.
"Die!"
SWISH—
THRUST—
"Urk!"
THUD—
A body fell with a groan.
Lucius Aelius Sabinus, an elite protector of the Imperial family, stood over the whimpering fallen traitor, one of his sworn brothers.
With his gladius held in his left hand, he had delivered a swift wrath of justice, leaving a gaping hole in the man's chest.
Blood erupted, a crimson tide bursting forth like water from a shattered aqueduct, splattering on the shield in his right hand.
He barely registered his opponent's face, forever contorted in a final grimace.
'Was that… Marcus?' Lucius gritted his teeth, his face twisting.
'We both took the same oath.'
The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth, but it was the memory of Marcus' oath that truly soured his stomach.
Sacramentum militare—the Praetorian's oath—demanded unwavering loyalty to their master's command.
Never desert the service.
Face death rather than flee.
That was their irrevocable vow, etched in blood and honor.
A promise Lucius still held sacred, even as chaos surged around him.
'I will not bring shame to my honor.'
His eyes narrowed into slits, his resolve hardening.
'Like this disgraceful bunch!'
"Who is your master, you faithless dogs!" he roared, a battle-cry against his dishonorable former comrades.
He swung his gladius, blood still dripping from it.
It flashed like a glittering serpent in the air, fangs bared.
Ready to devour any enemy that came close.
'I would rather die than let any harm befall my true master!' he chanted inside his head.
CLANG CLANG!
With a contemptuous grimace, Lucius swayed past his attackers' pathetic lunge.
His short sword, an extension of his will, moved like lightning to disarm them all before they even realized what was happening.
He'd faced tougher challenges blindfolded in the training arena than this!
"Argh!"
Another enemy cried and fell.
They weren't on par with Lucius, whose prowess was widely known across the Roman Empire.
This was a fact he wore like armor, along with his rank and pride.
His purple-dyed tunica militaris was proof enough.
It spoke louder than any praise.
The golden scorpion, a brand of his undying allegiance, was emblazoned on his right sleeve, now soiled with blood.
He felt a sharp twinge in his heart.
Somehow, his oath had never felt this heavy.
Sweat rolled down his neck from beneath his horsehair-crested helmet, which covered his damp black hair.
How did they become Praetorians with these garbage skills?
The instructor in him scoffed as he steeled himself.
'No wonder they became traitors!'
CLANG—CLANG!
He struck his gladius into another betrayer—blood and guts spraying everywhere—painting the walls.
"Ahhh!"
Each clash of steel was followed by a deathly silence, broken only by his throaty, desperate fighting yells.
The gloomy tunnel they were in, under the Palatium, was supposed to be a secret passage designed to avoid overexcited citizens and lurking assassins.
Lucius never imagined that it would become a deathtrap set by his own Praetorian brothers—the disloyal bastards.
One of his sworn brother's discarded wooden scabbards lay amid the sprawled bodies of the fallen like a broken promise, soaked in crimson.
'Be proud! I'll carry the torch of your loyalty!'
He and his group on duty were en route to the Circus Maximus, where they were to attend the Palatine Games.
But it was a set-up.
An ambush waiting to happen.
'Was this the reason they told me to go on ahead?' he gnashed his teeth at the betrayal, 'Because they had different plans?'
'They were planning to kill us all along!'
Now only three stood against the seven back-stabbers.
It was a hopeless dance of death.
Of the three, only one was fighting.
Him.
Lucius.
His last ally, Aegillius—another Praetorian—was pinned behind him, locked in defense with no way out.
Aegillius held the line for their group's beating heart, their precious master, only deflecting the attacks Lucius couldn't.
Yet, neither of them lost heart.
"Kill them all!" his master roared in a melodious voice from behind them.
'It didn't suit him at all,' Lucius thought.
But that was all the encouragement he needed.
With his gladius firm in his grip, Lucius' eyes burned with composed fury beneath his helmet.
He goaded his former comrades.
The traitorous scoundrels.
His voice was a rasped challenge.
"Come!"
CLANG CLANG!
"Aaah-aahhhh!"
Another cry—neither victory nor pain, but betrayal—answered his provocation.
One of the traitors, Titus, wearing a bloodstained tunica militaris with a narrow purple stripe, rammed his heavy shield into Lucius.
He was grinning from ear to ear.
Sly.
Belittling.
The same grin he had on his lips last night, but now Lucius knew what that meant.
'He's mocking me!'
It was an unnatural sight—Praetorian guards, who vowed to the same duty, turning on each other to the death.
Who was wrong?
And who was right?
Only the victor who would survive the day would know.
Using Titus' momentum against him, Lucius pressed his weight into his shield.
His duty to serve and protect gave him inhuman strength.
He gritted his teeth, eyes blazing.
A snarl tore from his throat, like a beast caged too long.
He shoved, struggling for an advantage, but Titus was relentless.
Lucius dropped his center of gravity, sinking his weight into the tunnel's floor.
The powerful impact of Titus' shield shook his bones, but his feet refused to slide.
He held his ground, with a lowered, unwavering stance, rooting himself like the century-old columns, as he proved himself unshakable.
But it was a tough battle.
"Urgh—!"
Lucius sized up his enemy's monstrous frame—his gaze was sharp as he sought for an opening, no matter how small that could be.
But Titus' rigid guard and incredible strength were a known fact among the Praetorians.
'Men like this don't deserve a virtuous fight,' he growled inside, every heartbeat bleeding away the last of his strength.
He had to think fast.
'To defeat him, the only thing left to do is…'
His nose flared.
'... to play dirty.'
He spat directly at Titus' taunting eyes, making the ogre of a man blink in surprise.
'Yes!!'
That was all Lucius needed, but then he hesitated…
"I want my father to be proud of me!"
Titus' voice from a long time ago, when he was still a trainee, echoed in Lucius' ears, but he squashed it like an ant immediately.
'No! Don't be reluctant now! He's a traitor!'
A vicious snarl left his throat.
He vigorously shoved forward, using the distraction—Titus still had one of his eyes closed.
A catastrophic blunder.
In one swift motion, Lucius slid his left arm below the shield, seizing the created opportunity to the fullest.
Then, he plunged his gladius upward, bypassing the traitor's defense.
'Your parents won't be proud of you,' he gritted his teeth.
'Goodbye!'
"Ahhhhhh!"
It went through.
The tip of the blade bit into the chin, passed through the mouth, and went out at the top of the betrayer's head.
He drove it to the hilt, rage propelling his arm.
Blood and pieces of Titus' brain burst like a ripe pomegranate fruit.
'Be more honorable in your next life!' Lucius closed his eyes as Titus' words repeatedly played in his mind like a cursed ghost.
"You know, I look up to you like a father."
His eyes snapped open, then glowered.
'Liar!'
"Ahh—!"
He earned himself an ear-splitting shriek of disbelief.
Then he yanked the blade free, and the rebel collapsed with a heavy thud.
Shields clattered on the stone with a clank.
The sound was swallowed by the tunnel's oppressive silence.
He kicked the dead man's chest aside with pure contempt, dirtying his sandals with accursed blood.
'I can't afford to go all sentimental now.'
This was a matter of life and death!
'Duty before anything else!' Lucius chanted once more.
No time to breathe.
The coppery scent of blood grew permanent, thick, and cloying.
It mingled with the musty, earthy stench of the tunnel.
"You'll pay for your treachery!" he declared.
His voice was a low growl, eyes glinting with cold resolve.
'What made you break our sacred oath?' he wondered.
He turned to meet the next attacker—there were three—his gladius at the ready.
Each parry, a silent question.
'Why did you do this, Rufus?'
Lucius met every clumsy strike with flawless precision.
'I'm the one who trained you, Ateius.'
Knowing exactly how his enemies fight.
Familiar.
Nostalgic.
Fake.
'I gave you that scar on your chin, Flaccus.'
His arms trembled.
He could still hear the playful laugh of the deserter in his ears.
His knees quivered, remembering just last night they all merrily drank wine and ate their fill.
Together.
'You said it was nothing… you said that it was only natural to get hurt in our line of duty.'
A bitter smile crossed Lucius' lips.
'You said… we are family,' he glared, his heart turning into stone.
Steel clashed.
Gladius to gladius.
Brutal.
Screams tore through the air, followed by dull thuds of bodies hitting the floor.
Three more enemies fell.
Their dying cries echoed through the confined space.
"We're not the traitors here."
Another man, wearing an eye-patch, sneered—it was Sestius—countering Lucius' declaration.
Denying the truth.
"IT WAS YOU!" Sestius growled, full of resentment.
A false statement.
Venomous and full of weight.
Only one way to find out.
CLANG—CLASH—CLANK!
The final clash—more vicious and suicidal.
An imperative.
CLANG! CLASH! THWACK! THUD! SHINK! SQUISH—!
Suddenly, a sharp pain tore through Lucius' back.
It deepened, then twisted.
He tasted iron in his mouth, his ears were ringing, his body becoming heavy—disobeying his will…
"—?!"
Unable to comprehend where the pang of pain came from, Lucius could only stare blankly—everything seemed to be in slow motion.
Dark liquid slowly blossomed on the purple on his chest.
It spread on his most prized possession—his proud Imperial uniform.
Warm.
Wet.
Sticky.
"Who—?" Lucius' question got cut off, his eyes widening, while Sestius grinned with blood dripping from his lips to his chin.
The traitor pulled his body forward, then whispered, "Who do you think?"
**
INDEX FOR LATIN WORDS AND OTHER TERMS:
Praetorian—elite bodyguards of the Emperor and Imperial family
gladius—short steel sword
Sacramentum militare—the Praetorian's oath (credits from Vegetius, a Roman writer)
tunica militaris—Praetorians Imperial uniform
Palatium—Imperial Palace
Circus maximus—a vast chariot stadium, long and oval shape, it was also used for other public spectacles like gladiator fights
Palatine Games—a public event that includes games and theatrical performances