"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.)

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Ides of January, 41 AD

"Traitors!"

The cry, full of self-serving rage, tore down the torch-lit tunnel, echoing like the wail of souls condemned to Tartarus.

“Agh!”

Shadows writhed along the walls, as if they were dancing. 

SWISH—SWISH—

Lucius Aelius Sabinus, an elite protector of the Imperial family, drove his gladius forward. 

“Die!” he screamed.

THRUST—

The tip of his blade bit into a hard flesh.

“Urk!”

A thick spray of blood splashed across the stone walls, nearly dousing the nearby torch.

THUD—

His opponent's body collapsed with a heavy groan.

Lucius stood over the fallen traitor—a man who had once been his sworn brother.

Without hesitation, he delivered a swift, merciless stroke of justice, finally killing the man.

Another fountain of blood erupted, like a crimson tide, bursting forth like water from a shattered aqueduct.

It splattered on the shield that Lucius held in his right hand.

He barely registered his enemy’s face, forever contorted in a final, agonizing grimace, as Lucius tugged his blade free, leaving a gaping hole in the man’s chest.

‘Was that… Marcus?’ Lucius’ teeth ground together, his expression twisting.

He still couldn’t wrap his head around it.

They had been betrayed—not by an enemy, but by someone he had shared daily bread with.

‘What in Jupiter's name… why?’

He swallowed the bile rising from his throat—bitter and metallic.

‘We both took the same oath.’

He thought he could taste blood, 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 steel.

‘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 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—heavier than his shield.

‘Focus, Lucius,’ he told himself, blinking.

Sweat rolled down his neck from beneath his horsehair-crested helmet, pooling in his damp black hair.

How did they become Praetorians with these garbage skills?

‘They should have known better!’

He’d taught them himself—every strike, every guard, every feint!

But none of them ever truly learned how to fight him—his left-handed stance fooled them every time!

‘Unworthy curs!’

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 and heavy breathing.

He had fought battles to the death before—but never like this.

Never against his brothers-in-arms.

He had trained them, yes.

Sometimes he even made them bleed, leaving them with a dozen scars.

Some even left the training arena—limping and cursing.

Training was training.

But this?

‘This is different.’

“Ahhhhh!”

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.

A wooden scabbard, belonging to one of the few who stood by his side, 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!’

For a heartbeat, the clangor of metal dimmed, replaced by something heavier than his oath—the realization that this was no drill, no skirmish.

‘How could they?’

He and his group on duty had been en route to the Circus Maximus, escorting their master to watch 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 thought, gnashing his teeth as he connected the dots.

‘Because they had different plans?'

A heartbeat passed.

'They were planning to kill us all along!’

He felt his pulse skip, then quicken, as he gripped his shield tightly.

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.

He was focused on defending their precious master, deflecting only the attacks that broke past Lucius’ forward guard.

Yet, neither of them lost heart.

“Kill them all!” their master roared in a melodious voice from behind them.

‘How can someone… this mad… have such a pretty voice?’ Lucius incredulously thought.

‘It didn’t suit him at all.’ 

But that was all the encouragement he needed.

With his gladius firm in one hand and his shield in the other, Lucius’ eyes burned with composed fury beneath his helmet.

He goaded his former comrades, the traitorous scoundrels—he struck his sword against his shield, a display of sharp, metallic intimidation.

CLANG!

CLANG!

“Come!” 

His voice was a rasped challenge.

“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 that unsettling grin had haunted his sleep 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 had vowed to the same duty, now 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, he calmed his breathing, parting his feet wide, rooting himself to the floor like the century-old columns of 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 he slammed his heavy shield forward.

“Take this!”

The powerful force jarred Lucius’ teeth, making him forget how to breathe, but he turned the blow, using Titus' momentum against him to meet the attack with solid counter-pressure.

Lucius clenched his jaw, eyes blazing.

‘How dare you!’

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 countered every blow and tried to push back.

But it was a tough contest.

‘This damned brute!’

"Urgh—!"

Lucius lifted his gaze, sizing up his enemy's monstrous frame.

He felt exhausted and anxious, his vision tunneling from the ringing and the vibrations their colliding shields made.

‘I refuse to fall here!’ he gritted his teeth, tasting blood.

The salty taste of his own blood helped him focus.

His eyes sharpened as he sought an opening, no matter how small it might be.

Their shields continued to grind on each other, neither giving an inch.

Lucius was defending, Titus pushing.

The destructive pressure threatened to shatter his bones.

‘He’s like a mountain! Urgh! He barely moves!’

Titus' rigid guard and brute strength were a known fact among the Praetorians.

‘Men like this don’t deserve a virtuous fight,’ Lucius 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.

But the words sank too deep.

‘I know that too well… but I…’

“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, his face becoming serious.

“Join our side.”

A second passed, Titus’ jaws hardened, then he said in a quiet voice, almost like a silent plea—

“Teacher.”

Lucius instantly stopped struggling.

Titus gently smiled, thinking he’d won him over—but then—Lucius suddenly exploded forward, shoving hard, springing upward with all the strength left in his legs, and spitting straight into Titus’ eyes.

The ogre blinked in surprise.

He never imagined his old mentor would do such a thing.

‘Yes!!’

That was all Lucius needed.

But then he hesitated, dropping back to his lowered stance.

“I want my father to be proud of me!” 

Titus' youthful voice from a long time ago, back when he was still a trainee, suddenly echoed in Lucius’ ears. 

“Even so,” Lucius roared, his voice echoing through the tunnel, not denying Titus’ claims.

“This isn't the right way!”

“You!” Titus growled like an injured animal, then rammed his shield into his teacher once again, more vicious and vengeful this time.

‘Don’t be reluctant now, Lucius!’

He squashed the haunting memory of Titus’ voice like an ant.

‘He’s a traitor!’ 

For an instant, his eyes caught on something—a custom-made sandal he’d given Titus himself, because the man’s feet never fit the standard Praetorian sandals.

He remembered how the man was often forced to go around on foot, suffering the snickers and low jibes of other Praetorians at his giant build and clumsy, pathetic stature.

‘He was also born at the lowest ladder of Rome’s brutal social hierarchy,’ his helmeted head momentarily dipped in a brief, commiserating twitch.

The memory hit like a blow.

Then, a ferocious snarl left Lucius’ throat.

“But unlike you—” he spat.

“I don’t bite the hands that feed me!”

Lucius vigorously pushed forward with all his strength—Titus had one of his eyes closed, unable to wipe away the spit.

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.

Rage propelling his arm, he plunged the blade upward.

“Ahhh!”

Lucius drove his gladius to the hilt.

The pointed tip punched through the man’s tough chin, piercing through Titus’ mouth, then bursting out at the top of the betrayer's head.

Blood and pieces of Titus' brain exploded like a ripe pomegranate fruit.

‘Your father won’t be proud of you,’ Lucius thought, teeth clenched.

For a moment, deep sadness washed over him as he inhaled deeply.

Then he let out a primal scream of rage—

‘Goodbye!’

“Ahhhhhh!”

‘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.

Both of their shields clattered on the stone floor with a loud clank, signaling the end of their bond.

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,’ he gripped his gladius with two shaking hands, the weight of his missing shield felt like a sudden, cold absence.

But 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 all 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 couldn’t help but to wonder.

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.’

He knew exactly how they moved and fought.

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.

‘Flaccus, Ateius, Rufus… Titus… Marcus… you all 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 stepped out of the shadows and sneered.

“You?” Lucius faltered.

It was Sestius.

A man Lucius knew so well—countering his declaration—denying what he had been fighting for.

“Why…?” Lucius managed to ask, almost mumbling to himself.

But Sestius only growled back in response. 

“THE TRAITOR HERE IS YOU!” 

His voice was brimming with resentment.

A false statement, venomous and full of weight.

Only one way to find out.

‘No!’ 

Lucius wanted to deny it, but a huge lump inside his throat forbade him to speak.

His heart stopped beating as he watched Sestius run toward him, gladius raised high.

He could feel the killing intent in his sweat-soaked skin.

The floor suddenly felt like a quicksand, but he shoved the paralyzing feelings aside.

He had to move.

Now!

CLANG—CLASH—CLANK!

The final clash—more vicious and suicidal.

An imperative.

CLANG! CLASH! THWACK! SLASH!

A savage cut tore through Lucius’ right sleeve—ripping the golden scorpion in half.

STEP—

CLANG! 

His helmet got knocked off the ground from his head.

STEP—

CLASH! SLASH—!

“Ugh…”

STEP—STEP—STEP!

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—abruptly disobeying his will…

“—?!”

Unable to comprehend where the pang of pain came from, Lucius could only stare blankly—time itself seemed to slow down.

Dark liquid slowly blossomed on the purple of his chest.

It spread on his most prized possession—his proud Imperial uniform.

Warm.

Wet.

Sticky.

“Who—?” Lucius’ question died in his throat, his eyes widening.

Sestius grinned, blood trailing down from his lips to his chin.

He pulled Lucius’ body close.

The warmth of their dying breath fanned against each other—and with it, a forgotten memory they once shared surfaced amid the haze of pain and dimming vision.

A sweet memory of one summer night full of passion.

Then Sestius leaned his head and whispered intimately into his ear—

"Who do you think?"

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INDEX FOR LATIN WORDS AND OTHER TERMS:

Tartarus—in Greek/Roman mythology, a deep abyss used as a dungeon of torment and suffering for the wicked and enemies of gods, the lowest region of the Underworld

Praetorian—elite bodyguards of the Emperor and Imperial family

gladius—a short double-edged steel sword used by Romans

Sacramentum militare—the Praetorian’s oath (credits from Vegetius, a Roman writer)

tunica militaris—the standard Roman military tunic, in this context, it refers specifically to the Praetorians Imperial uniform, which was of a finer quality than those worn by regular soldiers

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