Ides of January, 41 AD.
"Traitors!" a praetorian guard shouted.
His cry—echoed down the torch-lit secret tunnel like an angry banshee.
He was an elite protector of the imperial family, sworn to them with his blood.
"Die!" he swung his gladius—a Roman short sword.
It flashed like a glittering serpent.
Maw wide open.
Ready to devour any opponent.
His skills were known across the Roman Empire—a fact he wore like an armor, along with his rank and pride.
His full purple-dyed tunica militaris—military tunic—was the proof.
Speaking louder than any praise.
A golden scorpion—emblazoned on his sleeves—a brand of his loyalty.
Horsehair-crested helmet rested on his head, his black hair covered.
CLANG CLANG
"Ahh!" his yell sounds throaty. Raw and desperate.
CLANG CLANG
A stark contrast to the deathly silence that followed with each clang of steel.
The tunnel beneath the palatium—imperial palace—was supposed to be a secret passage.
It was used to avoid overexcited citizens and assassins that lurked everywhere.
He never imagined it would become a deathtrap.
A discarded wooden scabbard lay amid the sprawled bodies of his fallen brothers—a broken promise, soaked in blood.
Their march to the Circus Maximus to attend the Palatine Games had been ambushed.
Now—there were only two against seven.
A hopeless dance of death.
But only one fought.
The other guard—his ally—was behind him.
Occupied.
He was protecting someone. Unable to move.
Deflecting what he could not.
Yet, the brave guard despite it all did not lose a heart.
His gladius firm in his grip—his eyes burned with desperate fury beneath his helmet.
He goaded his former brothers—the traitorous bastards—his voice a rasped challenge.
"Come!"
CLANG CLANG
"Aaaaaa-aahhhhhh!" a cry—of neither victory nor pain, but of betrayal.
One of the traitors, who wore a bloodstained tunica militaris with a narrow purple stripe, rammed his heavy shield into his senior.
It was an unnatural sight—praetorian guards, vowed to the same duty, turning on each other.
Lower-ranked guards attacking higher-ranked officer.
Using the momentum when his enemy crashed—he pressed his weight.
Gritting his teeth.
Eyes blazing. Growling like a beast in a cage.
Shoving, clawing for an advantage.
He stood his ground.
His stance was wide. His feet—like a column on the ground.
Unshakeable.
Then he spat on the double crosser's face.
The enemy did not deserve a virtuous fight.
His eyes widened a bit when he saw an opportunity.
'An opening!'
He did not waste time and plunged his gladius upward on the betrayer's eyes.
It went through. He buried it to the hilt.
Earning himself an ear splitting shriek of disbelief.
Then, the traitor collapsed with a loud thud.
Shield clattered on the stone with a clank, the sound swallowed by the tunnel's oppressive silence.
The guard kicked the dying man's chest aside with contempt.
Smearing the blood on his sandals.
No time to breathe.
The coppery scent of blood, thick and cloying has become more prominent, it mingled with the musty, earthy stench of the tunnel.
"You'll pay for your treachery!" his voice was a snarl, his eyes glinting with cold resolve through the helmet's slit.
'What made you break your oath?' he wondered.
Each parry, a silent question.
He expertly countered every sword that swung his way.
He knew exactly how his enemies moved, familiar with them from being on the same team for so long.
Steel clashed. Metal to metal. Brutal.
Screams tore through the air, followed by the dull thuds of a body that hit the floor.
Three more enemies fell, their dying cries echoing in the confined space.
"We're not the traitors here, YOU ARE!" a sneering counter of another traitor.
A false declaration. Venomous and full of weight.
CLANG CLASH THUD
The final clash—more vicious and desperate.
With a sense of urgency.
It ended with both the defending guard and his attacker falling, their bodies a tangled mess of steel and blood.
Sharp pain burst through the higher ranked praetorian guard's back.
Unable to comprehend what happened.
Dark liquid slowly blossomed on the purple.
Spreading on his most prized possession—his tunica militaris.
Warm. Wet. Sticky.
He did not see the traitor that struck him from behind.
Ending his life.
He just laid there.
No thoughts. No flashbacks.
Just darkness.
Four remained.
Two on each side.
Three guards and one—with a figure of unearthly beauty, stood amidst the carnage.
His crimson robe that covered his slim but toned form, was now a tattered testament from the betrayal earlier.
His milky long legs that looked like they could run a mile—were full of small scratches.
Red human blood decorated it.
His stumbling feet were clad in elegant leather sandals, polished to a warm sheen.
The golden diadem—its emeralds and rubies flashing in the dim torchlight—sat askew on his golden curled hair.
Once a symbol of his imperial power.
His luminous blue eyes—the color of a clear sky—usually distant and imperious, now blazed with a raw, animalistic fury.
Small thin lips—curled in disgust.
The air was thick with the smell of iron and decay.
Even the sweet myrrh he once favored had turned rancid in the stench of death.
It is now suffocating him.
SPLOTCH SQUELCHED
SWISH SWISH
He stumbled backward, the rough stone biting into his leather sandals.
Blood. Sticky. Repulsive.
It warmed his feet.
"Hah haa-ahh ugh!" suddenly, the remaining guard, whom the stumbling man thought was his remaining protector, grabbed him roughly and tied him up with a rope.
Confused and dizzied.
He shook uncontrollably, unable to keep his body from standing straight.
The elite guards, sworn to protect him, had now tied their emperor up!
Blood oozed from the slashes in his expensive robes, inflicted by the traitorous blade that had cut deep into his flesh.
'How dare they do this to their God!' the beautiful man seethed.
Still delusional.
'This is blasphemy!' he wanted to scream, but he bit back the words, refusing to give his enemies the satisfaction.
SWISH SPLAT
A guard forced him to his knees, the cold, sticky wet stone scraping against his skin.
Sending a jolt of pain through his body.
'The humiliation!' his anger was a burning coal in his chest.
The torch's dim light struggled to penetrate the tunnel's gloom, but the glint of steel was unmistakable as more and more figures emerged from the shadows.
One, two... ten.
Blood squelched under their feet as they moved towards the emperor.
He thrashed, his bonds biting into his skin.
He looked around for someone or anything to untie him.
But all he can see are his fallen guards.
'Useless! And the others are traitors!' he looked up and stared at the blurry faces of the other three backstabbing guards standing beside him.
Holding him in place.
"Struggling is of no use..." the head of his guards spoke.
The coward that hides in the darkness.
Voice flat and emotionless, breaking the choking silence.
"Untie me this instant! Obey me!" the emperor's command, usually so potent, was now devoid of strength.
"Why would I?" the guard's question feels so empty, devoid of fear or respect.
"I AM YOUR EMPEROR!" his bound hands clenched into trembling fists, nails digging into his palms.
"Down here, you are nothing..." a distant dozen footsteps, and a thunderous cheer, echoed through the tunnel.
"Listen to the people above.. they are celebrating your downfall—" the guard taunted him, enjoying his despair.
"I WILL KILL YOU! I WILL KILL YOU!!!" the emperor screamed.
He can't stop the sudden outburst.
His nerves showed in his temple. But unable to do anything.
Helpless.
SPLASH SPLASH SWOOSH
"This is for your madness!" the first blade plunged into his side.
A man wearing a toga, a senator, broke the emperor's bellow.
"Ahhhhhh!" a searing pain that made him scream, shot through the emperor's whole being, as if a hot iron had been thrust into his flesh.
It's a bit different from the cut wounds that he received earlier when the traitors attacked first.
"You forced our children to prostitute themselves in the palace!" another blade, this time in his stomach.
It's a noble, from the gentes family that he did not recognize.
Blood bubbled from his lips.
BLEGH BLEGH
"You slaughtered our families, you demon!" a dagger in his shoulder.
This time, it was a man whose voice he knew so well, one of his advisors.
The litany of accusations continued, each blade a record of his cruelty.
Then the final blow, from the head of his guards, was a whisper...
"This one is for my wife," then he shoved the emperor down the ground.
SPLAT
'Ughh.'
"The tyrant bleeds like any other man.." someone commented, followed by a snicker.
SQUELCHED SQUELCHED
He tried to crawl, the sticky blood a macabre trail, but a sandal-clad foot stopped him.
The emperor weakly craned his neck, looking up, trying to make out the face of the owner of the feet.
Blood blurred his vision, but through the haze, he saw them—
Warm honey-toned skin. Long dark raven hair—tied loosely on his back. Straight nose. Strong well-defined jaw.
And those piercing green eyes.
It was filled with something unreadable.
Recognition struck him like lightning.
It was Lepidus.
'You!'
Darkness.
**
TA-ta-TA-Taaa!
A trumpet blared loudly. Vibrations resonating through the air.
The city of Rome.
A sprawling metropolis of marble temples, grand basilicas, and winding streets.
It pulsed with life.
Music, dance, and acrobatic performances filled the air.
Accompanied by the sweet scent of incense wafting from processions led by priests honoring Apollo.
Chariot races, athletic competitions, and theatrical events drew cheering crowds, while at night, torches and lanterns cast a magical glow over the revelry.
Another trumpet blast pierced the air, momentarily halting the lively celebrations..
The people, busy celebrating the Ludi Palatini—ancient Roman festival games held in honor of the gods or goddesses—stopped and wondered why.
A low murmur spread through the colorful crowd.
Trumpets had already sounded once, on the first day of celebrations, following the emperor's speech.
But why were they being used again, on the last day of Ludi Palatini?
Another celebration?
What was the occasion?
The people exchanged curious glances, wondering.
Then people came running from the palatium, "Hup hup.... Go to the palatium! They are announcing something! Hurry!"
Calling out to the masses.
The message spread like wildfire.
Curious about the announcement, the people decided to go.
Once they gathered at the palatium ground, instead of the emperor or a high-ranking magistrate, a herald stood before them.
Unrest spread among the people, afraid it was one of the emperor's whims again.
When the large crowd had gathered, the herald stood straight and, in a loud voice, said:
"Romans! Rejoice!"
But the people were silent.
They looked at each other.
"We are celebrating the end of the tyranny of the MAD EMPEROR!"
You could have heard a pin drop as silence ensued.
The herald looked around at the faces of the people.
"As of right now, the mad emperor Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus has already died."
A long pause.
Then one person broke into cheers. Crying even.
And like a wave, the entire crowd erupted into loud cheers.
"Hurrrrahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!" The crowd boomed.
What joyful news!
**
The news of the emperor's death circulated rapidly, igniting a frenzy of jubilation and destruction, forgetting about the festivities.
Mobs of people who were just enjoying the music and the mood of the celebration earlier, surged through the streets, targeting the numerous statues and effigies of the fallen emperor.
In the Roman forum—a central public space in the heart of Rome—a massive marble statue of the emperor stood tall, until a group of enraged citizens, armed with hammers and chisels, attacked it.
The sound of cracking stones echoed through the forum as the statue's arms shattered.
Broken and in pieces. They stomped on it.
THUNK THUNK
Nearby, a bronze effigy of him stood atop a pedestal.
A bonfire was lit beneath it, and the flames engulfed the metal, melting its features into a twisted, grotesque appearance.
The people were pleased.
They danced around the fire.
Throughout the city, similar scenes are happening.
Statues toppled. Effigies smashed. Images of the emperor defaced.
A hand severed at the wrist. A marble head rolling, cracking against the paving stones.
The once-revered symbols of his power now lay broken, a proof of the people's rejection of the emperor's tyranny.
As night fell, Rome's streets were glowing with fires, illuminating the destruction.
The air resonated with cheers, shouts, and the clanging of hammers, as the city purged itself of the tyrant's presence.
CLACK CLANK CLACK
The sound of creaking wood and scraping wheels mingled in the air.
CLACK CLANK CLACK
An ox pulling a plaustrum, a wooden cart used for transportation, is making its way out of the city.
The driver, wearing a black cape with hood drawn to his head, halted the ox and gazed back at the riotous scene unfolding behind him.
His face is illuminated by an orange glow coming from the fire that is lit.
It was Lepidus—his face disinterested in the ongoing commotion.
Then his green eyes dropped down to the plaustrum.
There is a thick large cloth covered in a shape that unmistakably resembles a body, breathing slowly and quietly under it, hidden from the world.
The cloth covering the body shifted slightly, as if the person beneath it was trying to get more comfortable.
Lepidus's expression remained inscrutable, a flicker of concern betrayed his eyes.
His gaze still fixed on the subtle movement of the cloth.
The burning city, the roaring crowds, the destruction—all of it faded into a distant hum.
His attention was solely on the plaustrum, on the secret it held.
He gave a slight flick of the reins, and the ox moved forward.
The sound of the creaking wood and scraping wheels, became the only sound that he cared about.
He continued driving the plaustrum, leaving the burning city behind, a little bit more quickly now.
CLACK CLANK CLACK
**
INDEX:
Palatine Games- a public event that include games and theatrical performances
Circus Maximus- primarily known for chariot races, but it was also used for other public spectacles
gentes- noble family
forum- public space
**
FUN FACT!
The tunnels under the palatium were called cryptoporticus. These secret passageways were used by the Imperial Family for private movement, dramatic entrances at public events, or to avoid assassins, ironically, Caligula was assassinated in one of these passageways. Historical accounts indicate that Caligula was stabbed 30 times. And it was orchestrated by the senators and his guards. Following this, they announced his death to the masses and made that day a holiday.
Another fact! Purple is the color symbol of the Imperial family. It was generally exclusive to them, although sometimes, they permitted it to their praetorian guards as a sign of their imperial connection.
So! If anyone other than an Imperial family have a fully dyed purple garment, then it only means, you are trusted—if you are a guard—or if you are an ordinary noble—then it means, you are close, very very close to the Imperial family.
That is why, the high ranked-guard at the beginning of this chapter was very proud of his own tunica militaris—called it his most prized possession too. While his enemy—only has a narrow purple stripe.
Well.. maybe that was the reason he became an enemy. He was bitter. LMAO.
**