"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.
'Focus, Lucius,' he blinked.
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 tried to steel 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!
"Aaahh—haahhhh!"
Another cry—neither of victory nor of pain, but of betrayal—answered his provocation.
Titus the giant, one of the traitors, stepped forward.
His tunica militaris, marked by a narrow single purple stripe, was stained with the blood of their dead brothers.
He feinted a sudden jab with his short sword, then withdrew just as quickly, as if he was testing the waters.
And then, he grinned—wide, sly, belittling.
It was the same grin he had worn the night before as they drank together.
But now Lucius understood why it had made him uneasy, as his own blade swept through empty air where Titus' thrust should have been.
'He's mocking me!' he thought, eyes fixed on every movement of Titus' towering frame.
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 one left standing would know.
"Ahhh!" Titus roared and pounced, his heavy steps shaking the tunnel.
But Lucius only slid back a step, parting his feet wide, and rooting himself to the floor like the century-old columns that supported their temples.
He then dropped his center of gravity, knees folding for stability, as he raised his own shield to meet the oncoming blow.
Titus' eyes narrowed—then slammed his heavy shield forward.
The powerful force jarred Lucius' teeth, but he turned the blow, using Titus' momentum against him, meeting the attack with solid counter-pressure.
Lucius gritted his teeth, eyes blazing.
A snarl tore from his throat, like a beast caged too long.
He shoved forward, muscles trembling, struggling for an advantage, but Titus was relentless.
He struck Lucius' shield again with more brutal vigor.
The violent impact shook Lucius' bones, but his feet refused to slide.
He held his ground in a low, unwavering stance—his duty to serve and protect lent him inhuman strength.
He proved himself unshakable as he pushed back.
But it was a tough contest.
"Urgh—!"
Lucius lifted his gaze, sizing up his enemy's monstrous frame.
His eyes were sharp as he sought for an opening, no matter how small that could be.
Their shields continued to grind on each other, neither giving an inch.
But Titus' rigid guard and brute strength were a known fact among the Praetorians.
'Men like this don't deserve a virtuous fight,' he growled inwardly, 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 nostrils flared.
'... to play dirty.'
"He isn't worth it," Titus said suddenly, voice steady amid the strain.
"He isn't the man he used to be."
Lucius only glared, unwilling to waste his breath.
"That man is a monster," Titus continued, glancing past Lucius with mocking eyes.
"I refuse to serve him as my master any longer."
Then Titus looked Lucius in the eye.
"Join our side."
Lucius instantly stopped struggling.
Titus smiled, thinking he'd won him over—but then—Lucius suddenly exploded forward, shoving hard and catching him off-guard.
Using all his remaining leg power, Lucius sprang upward and spat directly at Titus' eyes, making the ogre of a man blink in surprise.
'Yes!!'
That was all Lucius needed.
But then he hesitated, dropping back to his lowered stance.
"Even so," Lucius roared, his voice echoing through the tunnel, not denying Titus' claims.
"This isn't the right way."
Titus rammed his shield into him again, more vicious and revengeful this time.
"I want my father to be proud of me!"
Titus' youthful voice from a long time ago, when he was still a trainee, suddenly echoed in Lucius' ears, but he squashed the memory like an ant immediately.
'No! Don't be reluctant now! He's a traitor!'
A ferocious snarl left his throat.
"I don't bite the hands that feed me!" he spat.
Lucius vigorously pushed forward with all his strength—Titus had one of his eyes closed.
A catastrophic blunder.
'I kept telling him—never take your eyes off the enemy, not even for a second.'
"This will be your final lesson from me!" Lucius growled.
In one swift motion, Lucius slid his gladius beneath the rim of Titus' shield, bypassing the traitor's defense.
He seized the moment and plunged his short sword upward.
The tip of the blade punched through Titus' chin.
Rage propelling his arm, Lucius drove his gladius to the hilt.
The steel passed through the mouth, and burst out at the top of the betrayer's head.
'Your parents won't be proud of you,' he thought, teeth clenched.
Then Lucius let out a primal scream of rage—
"Ahhhhhh!"
'Goodbye!'
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—"You know, I look up to you like a father!"—repeatedly played in his mind like a cursed ghost.
His eyes snapped open, then he glowered.
'Liar!'
"Ahh—!"
He yanked the blade free, and the rebel collapsed with a heavy thud.
Two shields clattered on the stone floor 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 snarl, 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 eyepatch, 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