Prologue: The End Of Tyranny
Ides of January, 41 AD.
"Traitors!"
A brave praetorian guard shouted, his cry of injustice echoing down the torch-lit, gloomy tunnel like banshee's wail.
He was an elite protector of the Imperial family—sworn to them through years of bloodshed and loyalty—and he would rather die than let any harm befall his master.
That was his irrevocable vow.
'I will not bring shame to my honor,' he swore inwardly, even as chaos surged around him.
Then his eyes narrowed into slits.
'Like this disgraceful bunch.'
"Faithless dogs!" he roared.
Loudly.
Passionately.
"Die!"
With his shield on the right, he swung his gladius—a short sword—with his left.
It flashed like a glittering serpent in the air, fangs bared.
Ready to devour any opponent that came close.
SWISH
THRUST
"Urk—"
THUD
A body fell with a groan.
One of his enemies got a taste of his wrath—leaving a gaping hole in his opponent's chest, where blood erupted like water bursting from a shattered aqueduct.
The man grunted once for breath, then died, unable to even close his eyes.
'This is an embarrassment for the praetorians,' the brave guard's face twisted in distaste.
The dead man's skills were nothing—unlike the victorious guard, 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—his Imperial guard uniform—was the proof.
It spoke louder than any praise.
A golden scorpion, a brand of his undying allegiance, was emblazoned on his right sleeve, now soiled with blood.
A horsehair-crested helmet rested above his head, covering his sweaty black hair.
'How did they become praetorians with these garbage skills?'
CLANG CLANG
'No wonder they became traitors!'
"Ahhh!"
His fighting yells—throaty, raw, and desperate—were a stark contrast to the deathly silence that followed each clash of steel.
CLANG CLANG
The tunnel they were in, beneath the Palatium—the Imperial Palace—was supposed to be a secret passage meant to avoid overexcited citizens and lurking assassins.
The brave guard never imagined that it would become a deathtrap set by his own brothers—the disloyal bastards.
A discarded wooden scabbard lay amid the sprawled bodies of the fallen like a broken promise, soaked in crimson.
They had been ambushed en route to the Circus Maximus, where they were to attend the Palatine Games.
A set-up.
Now, there were only three against seven.
He was one of the three left standing.
It was a hopeless dance of death.
Of the three, only one was fighting—the brave guard.
His only remaining ally, another praetorian, was pinned behind him—defending, unable to break free.
He was protecting the last member in their group—their master.
Deflecting the attacks that he couldn't.
Yet the brave guard didn't lose heart.
With his gladius firm in his grip, his 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, wearing bloodstained tunica militaris with a narrow purple stripe, rammed his heavy shield into the brave guard.
It was an unnatural sight—praetorian guards, vowed to the same duty, turning on each other to the death.
Who was wrong?
And who was right?
Only the victor that would survive the day would know.
Using the momentum when his enemy crashed, the brave guard pressed his weight to his own shield.
His duty to serve and to protect had given him inhuman strength.
With gritted teeth and eyes blazing, a snarl tore from his throat, like a beast caged too long.
Shoving, clawing for an advantage.
He stood low on the ground.
His folded stance was wide.
His knees were solid.
His feet were like century-old columns, rooted in the ground.
Unshakeable.
He sized up the double-crosser, then spat on his face.
'Men like this don't deserve a virtuous fight,' he decided.
His eyes flared the moment he spotted a window of opportunity.
The enemy's shield weakened.
'An opening!'
Instantly, the brave guard vigorously shoved forward, slid his left arm below the shield, then plunged his gladius upward, bypassing the traitor's defense.
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 burst like a ripe pomegranate fruit.
"Ahh—!"
He earned himself an ear-splitting shriek of disbelief.
Then he yanked the blade free, and the rebel collapsed with a heavy thud on the ground.
Shields clattered on the stone with a clank.
The sound was swallowed by the tunnel's oppressive silence.
Then the brave guard kicked the dead man's chest aside with pure contempt.
The kick dirtied his sandals with accursed blood.
No time to breathe.
A coppery scent, thick and cloying, had become more prominent.
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.
He met every strike with flawless precision.
Knowing exactly how his enemies fight.
Familiar.
Nostalgic.
Fake.
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 sneered, countering the brave guard's declaration.
Denying the truth.
"IT WAS YOU!" the traitor 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 THUD
Suddenly, a sharp pain burst through the brave guard's back.
He was unable to comprehend where it came from.
And everything ended before the climax.
Dark liquid slowly blossomed on the purple.
It spread on his most prized possession—his proud Imperial uniform.
Warm.
Wet.
Sticky.
"Who—?"
He didn't see the traitor who had struck him.
Ending his life.
He and his enemy fell together.
The brave guard just lay there.
Their bodies were a tangled mess of blood and flesh.
No thoughts.
No flashback of the wonderful life he had lived for years.
Just darkness.
Now, only four remained.
Two on each side.
Three praetorian guards and one—a figure of unearthly beauty—stood amidst the carnage.
Arrogance painted the beautiful man's face.
He viewed his valiant guard's life as one that served its purpose.
His crimson robe that covered his slim but toned form was now a tattered testament from the ambush earlier.
His long, milky, delicate-looking legs were marked with small scratches.
Red painted them in jagged, ugly trails.
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 matted, blond curled hair.
A symbol of his status—his Imperial power.
His luminous eyes, which others described as the color of a clear blue sky—usually distant and imperious—now blazed with raw, animalistic fury.
Small thin lips now curled in disgust.
Even the air he breathed reeked of filth.
Even the sweet myrrh he once favored had turned rancid in the stench of death.
It was now suffocating him.
SPLOTCH SQUELCHED
SWISH SWISH
He stumbled backward.
The rough stone bit into his sandals.
Soggy.
Nasty.
Offensive.
It warmed his feet.
"Hah haa-ahh ugh!"
Suddenly, the guard before him—the one he believed was his remaining protector—turned and grabbed him roughly.
A knife with fresh blood, still dripping, dangled from his waist.
Without a word, he bound the beautiful man with a coarse rope.
Confused and dizzy, the arrogant man shook uncontrollably.
He swayed like a drunkard, unable to stay upright.
His praetorian guards, sworn to obey him, now had a mind of their own!
They were turning against him.
'Their Emperor!'
The one they served.
The one who owned their lives!
'How dare they?!'
The Emperor seethed.
'How dare they do this to their God?!'
Still delusional.
His mind clouded.
He still didn't see them as people—only tools to be used.
"This is blasphemy!" he screamed.
SWISH SPLAT
A guard forced him to his knees.
The cold, jagged stones scraped his skin, sending a jolt of excruciating pain through his body.
'This humiliation!'
Raw anger burned a coal in his chest.
'I'll give this back to you all tenfold!'
A dark promise of revenge.
The orange light from the torch struggled to penetrate the tunnel's murk, but the glint of steel was unmistakable as more and more figures emerged from the shadows.
Finally—
It was time for them to reveal themselves!
The real orchestrators.
The masterminds behind it all.
One, two… ten.
Blood squelched under their feet as they moved towards their Emperor with purpose.
The Emperor thrashed wildly.
His bonds chewed into his skin.
He looked around for someone or anyone to free him.
But all he could see were his fallen guards.
'Useless!'
He looked up and stared at the blurry faces of the three backstabbing guards now standing beside him.
'Traitors!'
They held him in place.
"Struggling is of no use…"
A voice he knew so well—the head of his guards—broke the choking silence.
He was a known coward who hid in the darkness, yet the Emperor had still chosen to appoint him.
A fatal mistake.
The guard's voice was flat.
Emotionless.
Like what he was doing was just one of his daily chores and not an assassination.
"Untie me this instant!" he demanded.
But the Emperor's command fell on deaf ears.
"Obey me!" he screeched.
Normally, a tantrum like this would have his guards scrambling to their feet and fulfilling his wishes.
But instead, he was met with a cold, emotionless question.
"Why would I?"
The Emperor faltered.
He wasn't used to this kind of treatment.
"I AM YOUR EMPEROR!"
His bound hands clenched into trembling fists, nails digging into his palms.
"I AM YOUR GOD!" he continued to scream.
The guards remained silent, treating his yells like the buzzing of a fly.
"Down here…" the head of his guards muttered quietly, almost to himself.
"...you are nothing."
The words tightened around his neck like a noose.
Then came the echo of distant dozen footsteps above.
A thunderous cheer followed—mocking him.
"A god? Listen to the people above you… they are celebrating their god's downfall—" he taunted.
The guard's voice held a trace of cruel amusement.
"I WILL KILL YOU! I WILL KILL ALL OF YOU!!!" the Emperor screamed.
He couldn't stop the sudden outburst.
Veins throbbed, blemishing his smooth temple, as if they were threatening to pop.
But he was unable to do anything.
He had never felt this powerless in his entire reign.
Helpless.
Pathetic.
"I'LL DESTROY YOU!"
SPLASH SPLASH SWOOSH
"This is for your madness!"
The first blade plunged into his side, then twisted.
A man wearing a toga, a senator, cut off the Emperor's bellow.
"Ahhhh!"
A searing pain tore another scream from him, it shot through his whole being, as if a hot iron had been thrust into his flesh.
This pain was unlike the shallow cuts he'd received earlier.
Deeper.
Personal.
"You forced our children to prostitute themselves in the palace!"
Then, another blade, this time in his stomach.
A noble—from one of the ten great gentes that he didn't recognize.
'Nonsense!' the Emperor tried to speak, but blood bubbled from his lips.
"Blegh.. Urk…" he choked.
"You slaughtered our families, you demon!"
A dagger pierced his right shoulder.
This time, it was a man whose voice he knew too well.
One of his advisors, his childhood friend.
'Even you?' he wanted to answer.
The litany of accusations continued.
Each blade was a record of his supposed cruelty.
Then, the final blow.
From the head of his guards came a quiet whisper…
"This one… is for my wife."
Without ceremony, he shoved the Emperor to the ground after sticking his own knife.
SPLAT
'Ah, of course.'
His consciousness was already fading away, unravelling like a thread.
'Ughh.'
"The tyrant bleeds like any other man…" someone commented, followed by a snicker.
SQUELCHED SQUELCHED
The Emperor tried to crawl.
A macabre trail of sticky blood followed him—
Until a sandal-clad foot stopped him from moving forward.
He weakly craned his neck, looking up, trying to make out the face above the sandal.
Blood blurred his vision, but through the haze, he saw him—
Warm honey-toned skin.
Long dark raven hair—tied loosely on his back.
Straight nose.
Strong well-defined jaw.
And those expressive green eyes full of something…
'... unreadable…'
Recognition struck him like lightning.
It was…
'...Lepidus.'
The lover he thought had died many months ago.
"Y-you—!"
Blackness.
**
INDEX:
gentes(plural)/gens(singular)—noble families/noble family.
Palatine Games—a public event that includes games and theatrical performances.
Circus Maximus—a vast chariot stadium, long and oval shape, it was also used for other public spectacles like gladiator fights.