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The long awaited chapter is finally here! sorry for the delay but as y'all know I have a battlefield of ideas splitting my head into pieces XD (and tbh I wanted to think carefully of where I wanted to go with this fic) anyway enjoy everyone! Chapter 1, chapter 2 here
You’re a student archaeologist on an internship in Turkey, drawn to a forgotten trail that might lead to a lost temple of Commodus. What you didn’t expect was that you landed in 180 A.D in a Roman military camp.
The guards hauled you to a small tent on the edge of the camp, not quite a prisoner's enclosure but far from any comfort. A cot, a small table, and a rough-looking wool blanket, probably left by a dead centurion. Your hand touched the fabric, it was a coarse, lanatus weave, the kind issued to legionaries, scratchy and utilitarian. The tent itself was standard issue, made of leather panels stitched together, but you noticed the seams were reinforced with hemp cordage in a pattern consistent with mid-Antonine military quartermaster practices. They posted two men outside, their shadows stretching long against the canvas as the sun bled into the horizon.
You were alone, but still a prisoner, and you had no idea how to get out. The air smelled of damp earth and the distant scent of cooking fires, but all you could focus on was the pounding in your chest. You were stuck in a place and time other than yours. You had no idea how you ended up here... was there a purpose? A curse? What did you have to do or find to go back to your world?
Hours passed. You paced the cramped space, your modern boots silent on the dirt floor. Every sound made you jump: the clang of metal, the shout of a distant command, the rustle of the canvas in the wind. You kept pinching yourself, a desperate, childish act. ‘Wake up! Wake up in Turkey, with Dr. Levent scolding you for wandering off!’ But the pinches only left red marks on your skin. The fear in your chest was real. The Latin voices outside were real.
You were suddenly startled by the flap of your tent thrown back without warning. You flinched, stumbling back against the cot as Commodus stepped inside. He was alone, the torchlight from outside casting his face in sharp relief, his curls wild, his eyes gleaming with something between amusement and impatience. He wore a fine tunic of deep red, a Tyrian purple-dyed wool, so deep it was almost black. The kind of dye that cost its weight in silver. The gold at his belt catching the light. He looked every bit the emperor's son, and every bit the predator.
"Salve, vates." He saluted, his voice, smooth and mocking by calling you prophetess. "Satisne commoda?" He asked, knowing well your quarters were anything but comfortable. You swallowed, your throat tight, wishing you truly had studied Latin harder. Now it would be a matter of staying alive.
"Ita... est." You nodded. The words feeling clumsy, unnatural on your tongue.
His smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. He took a step closer, and you instinctively retreated, your back hitting the wooden frame of the cot. His eyes detailed you in a way that made you feel most vulnerable. They lingered on your boots, your pants. You could only imagine how suspicious they looked: your boots were a composite of rubber and synthetic fabrics, a concept utterly alien, and your trousers were made of denim, a sturdy twill weave that wouldn't exist for another seventeen hundred years. More solid and comfortable than Roman caligae or leather breeches, and then... a woman wearing pants, how confusing.
"Non timeo." (Don't be afraid.) He spoke but the tone felt more like a command rather than to comfort you. "Pater meus putat te deorum missam." (My father thinks you sent by the gods.) He circled you slowly, like a shark. "Ego autem... dubito." (But I... doubt.) Of course he doubted, from what you knew, Commodus was smart, sly, and paranoid. You straightened slightly, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.
"Non sum... dea...sum..." (I am not... a goddess.) You struggled for the right words, your mind racing. "Sum... discipula. Historica." (I am... a student. A historian.)
"Historica?" He laughed, stopping in front of you, so close you could see the flecks of gold in his irises. "Barbarus historiam discunt? Obsecro, debes iocari." (Barbarian studying history? Please, you must be joking.) His tone shifted, the mockery giving way to something sharper, more demanding. "Narra mihi de me. Quid agam? Quid fiam?" (Tell me about me. What will I do? What will I become?)
Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was the test. You knew what history said, what you had told him in the emperor's tent. But to repeat it now, alone with him, felt like signing your own death warrant. You hesitated, looking away, searching for words that wouldn't get you killed.
"Tu... eras... Caesar." You began slowly, carefully. "Magnus... imperator." (Great... emperor.) He suddenly grabbed your chin, his grip firm but not painful, forcing you to look at him.
"Id iam scio. Volo aliquid novum. Volo veritatem." (I already know that. I want something new. I want the truth.) His voice was low, dangerous. Almost as if he didn't care what his father forbid. He released you, stepping back with a frustrated sigh. "Lingua tua... taedet." (Your language... tires me.) He began to pace the small space, his movements restless. "Loqueris sicut puer qui verba novit, non sensum." (You speak like a child who knows words, not meaning.) You blushed at his words in shame. Tears prickled in your eyes, from the stress of the situation and your inability to even make yourself understood.
"Ego... non... bene loquor." (I... not... speak well.) You gestured helplessly. "Latina... difficilis." You muttered, biting your lower lip to prevent yourself from crying in front of him. It would satisfy him too much or it would be a good excuse for him to strike you.
He stopped pacing and turned to face you, a glint of something like challenge in his eyes. He stepped close again, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
"Dic post me. Vero." (Repeat after me. True.)
"Vero." You repeated, the word feeling foreign on your tongue.
"Dubito." (I doubt.)
"Dubito."
"Monstrum." You froze at the word he pronounced and felt the dagger hanging above your head. You couldn't say it. Not to him. Not again. His expression hardened, his patience wearing thin.
"Dicas!" (Say it!) He grabbed your arms, his fingers digging into your flesh. "Dic verbum!" (Say the word!)
"Non possum!" (I cannot.) You whispered, your voice trembling as a tear escaped your eye. "Please..."
He stared at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Then, as quickly as the anger had flared, it subsided. He let go of you, stepping back with a frustrated groan.
"Inutilis." (Useless.) He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the perfect curls. You sank onto the cot, your body trembling. You needed to buy time, anything so your life wasn't threatened.
"Ego... posso discere." (I... can learn.) You looked up at him, desperation giving you courage. "Da mihi... tempus. Docebo te... de futuro. Docebo te... quod scio." (Give me... time. I will teach you... of the future. I will teach you... what I know.) He studied you, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, he nodded slowly.
"Bene." (Good.) He moved to the tent flap, pausing before leaving. "Cras. Cras veniemus." (Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will come.) He glanced back at you, his eyes lingering. "Et loqueris. Melius." (And you will speak. Better.)
Then he was gone, leaving you alone in the dim light of the tent, the echo of his words hanging in the air. You had survived this encounter. But tomorrow... tomorrow you would have to speak better. Or face the consequences.
That's when you knew you wouldn't sleep that night. You had no time for that. You had to improve your spoken Latin and for that you needed to listen the way soldiers spoke, and speak to them; many didn't come from Rome but provinces and conquered territories, including Germania. Tomorrow you would be able to tell him better sentences.
And that was you did. The whole night you wandered the camp accompanied by the two soldiers in charge of making sure you didn't escape. As you walked you noted the layout of the temporary marching camp, its perfect square grid, the via principalis cutting through the center, just as described in Vegetius's De Re Militari. You saw the portable ovens made of clay and the standardized leather tents of each contubernium. But you couldn’t let yourself be distracted by your archeological interest. Your life depended on it.
Of course, the soldiers had been wary at first when you approached them. You had understood many rumors were already coursing about you, a witch, a barbarian from an unknown land, a creature sent by the gods to warn them all of the danger of Commodus, warn them about the dangers of the war...if they knew how far they were from the truth.
Still, you managed to make a few centurions talks with you, exchanging your neck scarf with a centurion, a bracelet with another, your money of exchange. Some asked you about their future, to which you couldn't answer, so you remained generic or made-up unimportant things. And just like when you travelled to other countries, your brain started to get used to the sonorities of the language, the accent. You started to slightly improve. Of course you wouldn't suddenly be bilingual, but you could manage very simple questions. Your knowledge of Italian also guided you for the vocabulary, Commodus wouldn't kill you tomorrow. You were starting to hope you would find a way out.
The next morning, as the Sun barely came out, and that you had barely gone to sleep, you were awoken by the noises of buzzing activity, like a hive awakening and hurrying to get to work. You frowned, wondering if it was like that every morning in a Roman camp or if something was happening. You quickly put your boots on and opened the flap of the tent. Your head was slightly spinning from tiredness, your mind groggy.
Your two guards were still there, merely glancing at you. You realized the whole camp was preparing to leave, soldiers packed supplies, officers shouted commands, horses were being fed and prepared. You swallowed down, where were they heading? Your memory assembled the pieces in front of you, searching through what you learned. It was cold, humid, numerous troops in Germania with both Marcus Aurelius and his son Commodus... this was the Marcomannic wars, the last war of Marcus Aurelius. They were packing to head back to Rome...but why in a hurry so suddenly?
You noticed a guard approaching you, the expression on his face was of impatience and tiredness.
"Commodus Caesar te vocat." (The Caesar calls you.) And to those words, your heart missed a beat. Was he already going to test you? And if you failed, what would happen? You felt anxiety fill in your chest, wishing you had more time. Your hands clutched into fists, your fingers nervously rubbing against each other as you followed to the imperial tent.
The guard opened the flap of the tent, letting you in without escorting you. You were no threat to their eyes. And even then, you knew the young Emperor was an excellent fighter. Commodus's tent was large, richly appointed, but sparsely furnished. Unlike the functional soldiers' tents, this one had a wooden floor, and the walls were lined with dyed wool tapestries depicting battle scenes in the style of the late Antonine period, the figures stiff and formal. And it was warm, so warm compared to your tent!
You suddenly froze in your steps as you noticed him. He stood near a basin of water, his body bare, his skin still gleaming with moisture. Water droplets traced paths down on his shoulders and arms. You couldn't help but notice the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, the strength in his arms as he wrung out a cloth, the droplets of water sliding down his curved back and down to his... behind. He was beautiful in a way that statues could never capture. And for a brief instant, you forgot how dangerous he was.
"Salve, historica." He turned, his eyes assessing you. Not minding to be naked in front of you, it was different times after all. "Melius dormisti?" (Did you sleep better?) he asked not to enquire but to test your language.
"Non multum." (Not much.) You answered, your voice steadier than yesterday. "Campus... sonorosus. Nimis frigus erat." (The camp... noisy. It was too cold.)
A flicker of surprise crossed his face. "Latina tua... melior est." (Your Latin... is better.) He dried his arms, his movements deliberate. "Quomodo hac nocte melius fecisti?" (How did you improve last night?)
"Soldatus... loqui." (Soldiers... talk.) You hesitated, then took the risk to make him test you harder. "Loquendo et... audiendo. Memoria bona est." (I talked and listened. I have a good memory). He nodded, the ghost of a cruel smile forming on his lips as he signed for a slave to dress him.
"Bona puella." (Good girl) he praised, making you blush in surprise. "Loquere." (Speak)
"Pater tuus... morietur. Romam non perveniet." (Your father... will die. He won't make it to Rome.) you let out, not knowing that words you pronounced would decide of your fate. The air in the tent grew still. Commodus stared at you, his face unreadable.
"Moriatur?" (Will die?) He repeated softly. "Quomodo hoc scis? Nemo in castris novit eum nocte graviter aegrotare." (How do you know? no one knows in the camp he fell sick last night) he asked with a hint of suspicion, could he have been mistaken? You looked at him with wide eyes, so that was the reason the camp was packing. To attempt to save the Emperor's life from the plague.
"Scio." (I know) you simply replied, mentally thanking God or the gods for this fortunate coincidence, it was saving your life in a way you didn’t expect. For a long moment, Commodus said nothing as if he was processing the news, pain flashing through his eyes. Then he laughed, a harsh, broken sound. The muscles of his jaw worked as his gaze briefly lost in emptiness.
"Bene." (Good.) He finished dressing, pulling on a fine tunic. "Si verum est... es vates." (If it's true... you are a prophetess.) "Si falsum est... es mortua." (If it's false... you are dead.) your stomach dropped at his words. No your life wasn't safe after all. He approached you just like the previous night, looking at you in the eyes. You looked up at him, wondering what would be his next move.
"Veni." (Come.) He stated, exiting the tent. You followed him out into the bustling camp. The cold hit you immediately, a sharp, biting wind that cut through your thin clothing. You shivered, wrapping your arms around yourself. Commodus noticed and stopped, his gaze sweeping over your inadequate attire.
"Vestimenta tua... ridicula." (Your clothes... ridiculous.) He sneered and gestured to a nearby servant, who approached with a thick fur cloak. "Tolle." (Take it.)
The servant draped the heavy fur over your shoulders. It was warm, impossibly so, smelling of leather and something else, Commodus, perhaps. You pulled it tight around you, grateful for the warmth but acutely aware of the implication.
"Mea carruca... mecum." (My imperial carriage... with me.) Commodus continued walking, not waiting to see if you followed.
You stared after him, your mind racing. The imperial carriage? With him? This was more than you'd hoped for, more than you'd feared. You were no longer just a curiosity; you were now his prophetess, his possession. But it also meant you would have to be constantly on your guard until you figured out what to do. And as you followed him toward the ornate carriage waiting at the edge of camp, you couldn't shake the feeling that you had just made a deal with the devil, one that might save you or destroy you, depending on whether your knowledge of history was a gift or a curse.
The carriage was more magnificent than anything you'd seen in museums or read about in texts. It was a carruca of dark, polished wood, likely elm or oak, reinforced with ornate bronze fittings.. The wheels were massive, their spokes felloes made of ash for flexibility, designed to traverse the rough roads of Germania, and the suspension system, leather straps that would absorb the worst of the jolts was engineering you'd only studied in diagrams. For a moment, despite your fear, you felt a thrill of academic excitement. This was a piece of living history, a mechanical marvel of the second century.
"Admiris?" Commodus watched your amazed reaction with amusement. It was almost refreshing to see, like a child discovering the roman wonders for the first time.
"Ita... est. Mirabile." (It is... wonderful. Marvelous.) With your fingertips you traced the intricate carving on the door which depicted a lion hunt, a popular motif for the imperial family; forgetting yourself for a moment.
His expression shifted slightly at your words, but he said nothing as a servant opened the carriage door. He climbed first then gestured for you to join him, ignoring the stares of the soldiers. Whatever intrigued or amused it did not matter. You climbed inside, and the academic thrill vanished instantly. The space was smaller than it appeared from outside, richly appointed with velvet cushions and bronze lamps, but confining. The air was thick with the scent of leather, wine, and something else, a similar scent as the fur you wore. Commodus himself.
Commodus settled opposite you as the carriage began to move. The motion was smoother than you expected, but the confinement was suffocating. No one was there in this space but Commodus and you. Every shift of his body, every breath you took seemed to echo in the small space. You were trapped with him, miles from anyone who might help, your fate entirely in his hands. He was calm, very calm, his face hiding his thoughts as if he was waiting for you to bolt to bite you.
"Intueris, historica." (you are staring) He observed, his voice low. "Quid vides?" (What do you see?). You swallowed down, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.
"Video... imperatorem." (I see... an emperor.) But you saw more than that. You saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers drummed restlessly against his thigh, the flicker of something uncertain in his eyes when he thought you weren't looking. He was just a boy playing tough emperor, not knowing when his toys would break or when his luck would run out.
Commodus in that moment seemed content with your answer and focused on scrolls he had with him, ignoring you royally for the rest of the trip. You took a deep breath; this was going to be a long trip...
Days passed, you busied yourself by looking out the window or observing the young emperor, there was nothing else you could do anyway. Commodus didn’t even pass you his scrolls for you to practice latin, no. You weren’t worthy of such trust.
A routine of observations and tensions settled. After noticing you were bored out of your mind, Commodus started to make you talk each day, several times. A useful technique to make you improve and it worked. For basic conversations you didn't even translate in your head anymore, it was as if you were speaking your native tongue. Still, the young Emperor remained distant, not letting out a single word about his passions, what he liked or disliked. And he didn't seek to know you either. For him, you were just a strange barbarian in strange clothing who could foresee the future. A useful tool.
Sometimes Commodus would leave the carriage to ride ahead with his generals, returning with mud on his boots and news of his father's worsening condition. Sometimes physicians would enter the carriage, their whispers of fever and weakness filling the space before they departed with bowing heads. Through it all, you watched. You saw the cracks in his imperial mask, the momentary softening when a doctor mentioned Marcus asking for him, the flash of irritation when a general questioned his orders, the genuine grief that crossed his face when he thought himself alone.
One evening, as the carriage was about to stop for the night at a villa, the day's exhaustion finally claimed him. He had been arguing with a messenger about supply lines, his voice sharp and imperial, but as soon as the man left, the energy seemed to drain out of him. He slumped against the velvet cushions, his head resting back, his eyes closing. You watched as he tried to stay awake, his head bobbing forward as a reflex but he could not resist and fell alseep. His breathing evened out, the rhythmic sound filling the small space.
For the first time, he wasn't the Emperor, the predator, the threat. He was just an exhausted young man. The perpetual tension in his brow had smoothed out, his lips parted slightly. He looked younger, almost peaceful in the dim light of the carriage lamp. A strange warmth spread through your chest. Despite everything, you felt a pull of sympathy, a connection to the human being hidden beneath the golden armor. A small, genuine smile touched your lips as you watched him. He was adorable, your favorite emperor did have a softness to him. Part of you wished it was like in those time traveling novels, where he would be your savior and a friendship or love story would emerge from it.
In an instant, Commodus woke with a sudden, sharp inhale, his eyes flying open. For a disoriented moment, he simply stared, and then his focus sharpened, landing directly on you. He had seen you. He had seen the smile.
The softness vanished from his face, replaced by a guarded, calculating hardness. The peaceful air between you shattered, and a tension so thick it was suffocating appeared.
"You were smiling." He said, his voice low, devoid of sleep. "What makes you smile?" he asked, his tone on the edge. You froze, your heart leaping into your throat.
"Nothing Caesar...nothing." you quickly replied. You had been careless and now you were putting yourself at risk. What was a harmless, almost tender moment had been perceived as an attack. And Marcus Aurelius couldn't save you this time.
Commodus moved then, not with the lazy grace of a man just waking, but with the deliberate, predatory grace of a hunter. He shifted from his seat to yours, the space between you vanishing. He didn't touch you, but he was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin, close enough that his next words would be a breath against your ear.
"Do you find my exhaustion amusing, historica?" The mocking title was back, but this time it was laced with something new, something dangerous. "Or do you find me... weak? Vulnerable? What are you planning?"
You couldn't answer. Your voice had deserted you. You felt as if no matter the answer he had already made up his mind. His eyes, which had been soft with sleep moments ago, now gleamed with a sharp, unsettling light.
"You watch me. All the time." he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You see everything. My anger, my grief... my weariness. Yet, you give me nothing. No blessing, no more predictions." He leaned closer, his gaze dropping to your lips. "Some say that intimacy with those touched by the gods... might bring favor." His eyes met yours again, holding you captive. "That if I prove myself pleasurable enough... divine blessing will follow." your breath hitched at his words, understanding all too well what he meant.
"Caesar...I'm not touched by the gods..." your voice shook. You had put yourself in a situation without exit. He smiled, a slow, dangerous smile.
"You say that now. But you are something special. Something rare. Something that sees." His hand finally moved, not to grab or harm, but to gently brush a stray strand of hair from your cheek. The touch was deceptively tender. "And the gods... they say they reward those who seize what is offered...I am ready to do it. I know you barbarians fuck to talk with the gods and my father won't stand in the way this time... What do you say, historica?" he purred, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. You had to find a way to escape his clutches and quickly.
Thank you for reading and don't forget to like, reblog or comment if you enjoyed it <3
I stood frozen in the golden glow of the oil lamps, my breath suspended in the delicate cage of my ribs as though the very gods had commanded time to pause. The weight of the Empire pressed upon my shoulders like a marble yoke I could no longer bear. Slowly I turned, my lips parting, trembling with words that hovered on the edge of my soul.
“Livia,” I called, my voice a fragile thread woven through the heavy silence.
Her footsteps halted the instant my voice reached her. She stood with her back to me, the soft fabric of her stola catching the flickering light like liquid moonlight. For a breathless moment the world narrowed to the elegant curve of her spine, the familiar silhouette that had haunted my dreams since we were children racing through the gardens of the Palatine.
“Stay,” I whispered, the word both plea and prayer.
At the sound of my voice, she turned. Her weary yet luminous eyes met mine, and something ancient and unspoken passed between us — the same invisible thread that had always bound us, even when duty and silence tried to sever it. Before the first ashamed tear could fall and betray me completely, she crossed the distance in a whisper of silk and warmth, wrapping her arms around me with a tenderness that threatened to undo what little remained of my composure.
Her fingers slipped into my curls, gentle yet possessive, as I broke against the soft hollow of her neck. The scent of her — roses, myrrh, and something uniquely her — enveloped me like a forgotten memory of safer days. She held me fiercely, as though she could shield me from the entire Empire with nothing but her embrace. My sobs rose like a storm-tossed sea, raw and unrelenting, shaking my frame against hers.
“I am a failure to the Empire,” I choked out, voice cracking like brittle parchment. “A disgrace to my father’s legacy… a shadow of the son he deserved.”
Livia hushed me softly, her breath warm against my temple. “You are no such thing, Commodus,” she murmured, her voice steady as the columns of the Temple of Jupiter, yet soft as the summer wind through olive groves. “You carry the weight of Rome upon your heart, and still you breathe. That alone makes you stronger than most men who claim greatness.” Her fingers continued their soothing path through my hair, each stroke a silent confession of care she dared not speak aloud.
I wanted to believe her. By the gods, how I longed to drown in her faith in me. Yet doubt coiled cold in my chest. With a heavy heart I pulled back just enough to create a fragile space between us, though every inch felt like a betrayal. I could not meet her eyes — those deep, knowing eyes that had seen me at my brightest and darkest since we were children stealing figs from the imperial orchards. Instead, I wiped the traitorous tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand, angry at their weakness.
Livia’s hand lingered on my arm, reluctant to let go. “Look at me,” she whispered, a quiet command wrapped in velvet. When I finally lifted my gaze, the air thickened. Her face was so close I could see the faint flush on her cheeks, the way her lashes trembled. For years we had danced around this — stolen glances across crowded halls, hands brushing longer than necessary, laughter shared in secret corners of the palace. We had grown up together, two souls intertwined by childhood innocence, only for time and title to turn that innocence into something deeper, more dangerous, and utterly unspoken.
“You have always carried too much,” she said, her voice barely above a breath. “Even as a boy you tried to conquer the world with wooden swords and dreams too vast for mortal shoulders. But you do not have to carry it alone tonight.” Her thumb brushed a lingering tear from my jaw, the touch feather-light yet searing.
My heart thundered. The words I truly wished to speak — I have loved you in silence for as long as I can remember — burned on my tongue, yet fear sealed them behind my teeth. She was my oldest friend, my brightest light in this darkening palace. What if my confession shattered even this? What if the heir to Rome was not allowed something so pure?
Livia’s eyes searched mine, and for a fleeting second I saw the same storm of longing mirrored in her gaze before she veiled it with practiced grace. She stepped a fraction closer, her forehead nearly resting against mine.
“Stay with me a while longer,” I managed, my voice hoarse. “Just… stay.”
A soft, bittersweet smile curved her lips — the same smile that had once comforted me after scraped knees and lost games. “I have never truly left you, Commodus. Not in all these years.”
In the quiet that followed, with her warmth still pressed against me and the weight of unconfessed hearts hanging between us, the Empire felt momentarily distant. There was only Livia — my childhood companion, my secret solace, and the one soul who made me wish I were simply a man, and not the son of Marcus Aurelius
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My never ending loyalty- Commodus x Praetorian!reader, Final chapter
Male reader, preatorian’s guard love story with his emperor. Entering at his service when Commodus was facing Maximus. A bond that grew stronger over time but could it resist Rome? previous chapters: Chapter 1; Part 2; chapter 3 , chapter 4 , final chapter
Here is the final chapter! I apologize for taking so long. I suppose I pressured myself too much with this story to the point I was unable to work on it for months even though it's a story I adored at the start but I ended just wanting to finish it. I feel a bit bad for it, I tried to write the best final chapter for you all, and I hope you will enjoy it <3 who knows maybe an extra or HC about them can be written later if you want. Anyway, enjoy loves <3
I had been perhaps naive when I thought I would be the one to save Commodus from the darkness that inhabited him. But could I be blamed? Commodus wasn’t the man I had imagined, yet I still loved him, not just for his beauty but the fire in his eyes as he looked at the Senate, the passion in his voice as he spoke of his projects for the empire; his smile and laughter when we played gladiators together. He was a refreshing young Emperor, groundbreaking, ahead of his time, I found myself thinking. And I was honored to be by his side.
Our relationship, though remaining hidden, grew stronger each day. Most nights I managed to sleep in the Emperor’s room, either for a night of passionate love making or simply to fall asleep while chatting in each other’s arms. I felt blessed, my dreams had come true and I desired nothing else. Nothing else but serving the Emperor and love Commodus. Sometimes I even felt as if we had become a true family. The both of us taking care of Lucius as if he was our son.
I remember an afternoon we escaped the city walls, the three of us on horseback, the Roman countryside sprawling around us in a haze of summer green. Lucius, on a sturdy horse, rode ahead, his laughter echoing as he urged his mount into a gallop. Commodus and I followed at a slower pace, our powerful warhorses ambling side-by-side.
"Tell us a story, Uncle!" Lucius called back, reining his pony in to wait for us. Commodus smiled, a genuine, easy expression that I rarely saw in the palace.
"A story?" he mused, his gaze soft as he looked at the boy. "Very well. Let me tell you of Castor and Pollux. Twin brothers, one mortal, one divine, who shared a single heart between them."
As we rode, he wove the tale, his voice a rich, captivating baritone. He spoke of their adventures, of battles fought side-by-side, of a bond so strong that when the mortal Castor fell, the divine Pollux begged Jupiter to share his own immortality, unwilling to live without his brother. The god, moved by such devotion, granted his wish, placing them together in the heavens as the Gemini constellation. Lucius listened, enraptured, his eyes wide.
"So they are together forever?" he asked as we finally dismounted by a small stream, letting the horses drink.
"Together forever." Commodus confirmed, his hand resting on my saddle as he looked from the boy to me. His eyes held a silent, profound meaning that made my chest ache. We made a small fire, and as the sun began to dip below the hills, we ate bread and cheese, the juice of ripe peaches staining our fingers. There was no talk of Senate edicts or imperial decrees. There was only the crackle of the fire and the comfortable silence of shared contentment.
The boy had grown more peaceful in these months, seeing his uncle in better health by my side. The haunted look in his eyes had been replaced by the bright curiosity of a boy learning to trust again. In the warm glow of the fire, watching Commodus gently wipe a smear of juice from Lucius's cheek, I allowed myself to believe. He would make a great heir to Commodus one day. A ruler who knew both the strength of a sword and the wisdom of a myth, guided by the love of the two men who had shown him what family could be.
However, the first crack in my dream appeared. It was not with a shout or a decree, but with a whisper. It was a name, spoken by Commodus as we stood on the balcony overlooking the Forum, the evening air cool on our faces.
"Senator Aulus Fabius." he said, his voice casual, as if remarking on the weather. "He has been… overly critical of the new grain tax. He calls it 'tyranny dressed as charity'."
"He is a patrician, Commodus. His estates are vast, he can afford the tax. He is simply afraid of a Rome where he is not the sole master of his fortune." I replied as I turned from the view.
"Afraid?" Commodus mused, a faint, dangerous smile playing on his lips. "Or conspiring? I have heard things. Meetings at his villa, men who were loyal to my father. Men who saw Maximus as their true champion." He looked at me then, his eyes searching. "He is a weed, Y/N. In the garden of Rome. If we do not pull it out, it will choke the roses we are trying so hard to grow."
"What are you suggesting?" I asked as my stomach tightened. I felt this wasn’t going to be pleasant.
"I am suggesting we make an example." he said smoothly. "Not with death. No, that is too… final. We will simply… remind him of his place. Confiscate a third of his lands. Redistribute them to the veterans of the Praetorian Guard. The men who bled for us. It serves two purposes: it silences a critic and it rewards the loyalty that keeps us safe." He grinned at me proudly, his smile radiant.
"Is that fair, Commodus? To take a man's property on rumor alone?" I hesitated. It was a punishment without a trial. A seizure of property based on whispers. It was the kind of act I would have once condemned. He stepped closer, his hand finding mine, his thumb stroking my knuckles.
"Is it fair of him to use his wealth to sow dissent against an Emperor who feeds the people? Is it fair for him to plot our downfall while you and I stand here, trying to build a better world from the ashes my father left?" His voice was low, persuasive. "Justice is a luxury for the innocent, my love. We are dealing with men who are anything but. We are not being unjust. We are being pragmatic."
The word hung in the air: pragmatic. It sounded so reasonable, so necessary to protect the world Commodus was building. I looked into his eyes and saw not a tyrant's greed, but a leader's burden. I thought of the families the grain tax would feed. I thought of my guards, who deserved more than a meager pension for their service.
"Alright." I heard myself say, the word feeling foreign in my mouth. "Do it. But make it public. Frame it as a gift to the soldiers, not a punishment for the Senator. Let the people see the generosity, not the force." I advised. Commodus always seeked my counsel and now I gave it to him without waiting for permission. He smiled, a brilliant, triumphant smile. He leaned in and kissed me; I sighed against his lips, all resistance melting.
"See? You are the heart of my reign. You remind me of the man I must be." His words filled me with pride, I was keeping him in the light, bringing balance to prevent unnecessary bloodshed.
Weeks melted into months. We fell into a rhythm of power and passion. There were days of light, days when I felt we were truly making a difference. We commissioned a new aqueduct to bring fresh water to the poorer districts. Commodus, at my suggestion, oversaw its construction personally, wading into the mud with the engineers, his laughter echoing as children splashed in the newly-formed pools. On those days, he was the Emperor I had always dreamed of serving, and my love for him felt pure, untainted. But there were other days. Days of darkness that even I could not prevent.
A playwright had staged a comedy that mocked the Emperor's love for wrestling. It wasn't vicious, just bawdy, the kind of thing Romans had always enjoyed. But Commodus saw it as treason. He saw mockery in every line, betrayal in every laugh from the crowd. He had the man arrested. I found him in his chambers that night, pacing like a caged animal.
"They laugh at me!" he raged, his hands clenched into fists. "They think I am a fool, a gladiator playing at being Emperor!"
"He is a playwright, Commodus.” I said, keeping my voice even. "It is his craft to poke fun at those in power to entertain the masses. It means nothing. Ignore it, and the joke dies. Punish him, and you give his words weight."
"Weight?" he snarled, turning on me. "They already have weight! They are stones being thrown at my image! I will not be a figure of fun in my own city!" He grabbed my arm, his grip tight, desperate. "You don't see it, do you? You don't hear the whispers. They are testing me. Seeing how far they can push. If I let this go, they will keep pushing because they think me weak. And weakness my love, invites wolves." I saw the genuine fear in his eyes, the paranoia that was his constant companion. I saw a fragile boy beneath the purple robes. And that hurt to see him in such a state.
"Then what would you have me do?" I asked, my voice quiet. I couldn’t tell why I really complied. Perhaps I couldn’t bear to see him in such distress, perhaps if I supported him there he would feel reassured and would calm down. I would see my beautiful Achilles smile again.
"He needs to be reminded of the power of the state." he said, his voice calmer now, his hold on my arm loosening. "Not death. But… a public flogging. And his tongue. I want his tongue cut out. So he can never speak ill of me again." He listed, sounding boyish.
My blood ran cold. It was barbaric. It was the act of a monster. I opened my mouth to protest, to tell him he was crossing a line, that this would make him the very thing he claimed to be fighting against. But then I looked at his face. I saw the fragility there, the terror of abandonment. And I thought of the aqueduct. I thought of the fed families. I thought of the good we were doing. Was the soul of one mocking playwright a fair price to pay for the stability of an empire? Was my own moral comfort more important than his security?
"He has a family." I said, my last, weak attempt at a defense.
"Then they will learn to hold their tongues, as well." Commodus said coldly. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, my decision was made.
"I will see to it." I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I will make sure it is done quietly, without spectacle. It will be a matter of state security, not public entertainment. A mercy, of sorts." He looked at me, his relief palpable, complying with my suggestion. He pulled me into an embrace, his body trembling slightly against mine.
"Thank you..." he whispered into my hair. "Thank you for understanding. For protecting me."
I stood there, holding the man I loved, the man whose hands I had just stayed from committing a horrific act, a political wrong, by agreeing to commit it myself. And I felt nothing. No guilt, no shame. Only a profound, hollow sense of victory. I had protected him. I had done my duty.
That night, as he slept beside me, I stared at the ceiling. I thought of the playwright, whose voice would be silenced forever. And for the first time, I didn't feel pity. I felt only a cold, hard certainty. It was necessary. And I would do it again, a thousand times, if it meant keeping this man, this reign, this fragile, beautiful, terrible thing we had built, safe. I was no longer just his guard. I was the hand that held the dagger in the dark, while he slept, dreaming of a better Rome.
The silence in the wake of the playwright's punishment was heavier than any scream. I had carried out the sentence myself, not with my own hands, but with my authority. I stood in the courtyard as the flogging was administered, my face a mask of stoic indifference, my presence lending the brutal act the veneer of state necessity. I watched the man's back become a canvas of raw flesh, and then I watched as the soldier, with a quick, practiced motion, severed his tongue. The sound was a wet, final cough. The man collapsed, a mute, bleeding ruin. I didn't flinch. I told myself it was a mercy. I told myself it was for Rome. I told myself it was for my love.
That night, Commodus was serene. The anxiety that had clawed at him was gone, replaced by a calm, confident energy. He moved through his chambers with an easy grace, pouring us both wine, his touch light, affectionate.
"You did well today." he said, handing me a cup. "We are safe now." He beamed, wrapping an arm around my waist and pressing against me.
"Anything for you, Commodus" I corrected, my voice low. I had always been obssessed with him and I realized I had no control over it.
"You are me." he replied simply, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world. His fingers traced the line of my jaw. "When you act, it is my will. When you speak, it is my reason. We are one mind, one heart, one… fist." He smiled, a slow, dangerous smile. "And now, we must show the Senate the strength of that fist."
He led me to a map of the Empire, spread across a polished mahogany table. "Egypt." he said, his finger tracing the long, fertile line of the Nile. "As you know, the grain basket of Rome. But the Prefect there, Gaius Tullius, is an old man. A relic of my father's administration. His reports are late, his tribute is… lacking. He whispers of drought, of bad harvests. But my sources tell me his granaries are full. He is hoarding, waiting for the price to rise, lining his own pockets while the people of Rome wonder if they will eat."
"What do you intend to do?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. He was going to go against the Senate.
"I intend to replace him." Commodus said, his eyes gleaming. "I have a man in mind. A young general from the legions in Germania. Brutal, efficient, utterly loyal. He will squeeze every last grain from that province and ensure not a single ship is delayed." Now, this was more than a punishment. It was a purge. Replacing a high-ranking official on the basis of rumor, installing a hardliner in his place.
"This will anger the Senate." I cautioned. "Tullius has many allies. They will see it as an overreach of your power."
"Let them." Commodus scoffed. "What can they do? Clutch their pearls and whisper in their halls? You control the only army that matters in this city. You command the gates. You are the gatekeeper to my person. They are nothing." He turned to me, his expression softening. "But I will not do it without you. I need your agreement, your strength. When I face them, I need to know you watch my back."
How could I refuse? He had framed it as a partnership, a shared burden. To say no would be to betray him, to weaken him in the face of his enemies. To say no would be to choose the hollow traditions of the Senate over the tangible reality of the man I loved.
"Do it." I said, my voice firm. "Replace Tullius. But send a legionary escort with your new man. Ensure the transition is peaceful. We do not want a rebellion in Egypt on top of a discontented Senate."
“Of course, I thought of it.” He beamed, his pride in me radiating from him. "Always worried my love." he murmured, kissing my forehead. "What would I do without you, my handsome praetorian?" He purred, his fingers tracing the muscles of my chest suggestively.
I took him that night. Again and again until I could no more. Until he was trembling, bearing my marks all over his body and his eyelids heavy. He held me tight, our legs entwinned , whispering fond words about a future golden empire and our rule as equals in front of all. What a beautiful dream. And how much I wanted it to become true.
Still, the question echoed in my mind in the weeks that followed. The transition in Egypt was not peaceful. The new Prefect, a man named Severus, arrived with a contingent of Praetorians under my command. Tullius refused to step down, citing his authority from the late Marcus Aurelius. It ended in a brief, bloody confrontation. Tullius was slain, his staff arrested, and Severus took control, his rule beginning not with diplomacy, but with the sword.
The news sent a shockwave through Rome. The Senate erupted in outrage. They convened an emergency session, demanding an audience with the Emperor. Commodus granted it, but on his terms. He would meet them at his own chosen time, and I would stand at his side.
I stood by the throne, my hand resting on the hilt of my gladius, my face an unreadable mask. The Senate, a sea of indignant white robes, filled the hall. Their leader, a man named Cassius Dio, stepped forward, his voice trembling with fury. "Emperor, you have murdered a loyal servant of the state! You have installed a butcher in his place! You have overstepped your authority and shamed the legacy of your father!" Commodus listened, his expression bored. When Dio was finished, he sighed, a long, theatrical sound.
"Loyal?" he said, his voice dripping with scorn. "He was starving my people to line his own pockets. He was a traitor to the crown. I removed him. As is my right."
"It is not your right to act without the consent of the Senate! Your late father would be ashamed!" Dio roared, supported by the cheers of half the Curia.
"You speak of my father." Commodus laughed, a cold, sharp sound that silenced the hall. He stood, and the room seemed to shrink around him. “You cling to his memory like a shield. But I am his heir, the son born in the purple. Favored by the gods, the only surviving male among my brothers. The gods chose me to save Rome for corruption.” he spoke with confidence, a light purr in his voice, his gaze meeting the eyes of each senator as if daring them to defy him. “I did what I had to do to protect my birthright. To protect Rome from his weakness and make it better. And any man here who thinks to challenge me, who thinks to avenge a man who would have sold this Empire to the highest bidder… will share the same fate." He turned his gaze on me, his eyes burning. "My Praetorian Prefect, the man who stands at my side, knows this. He was there. He knows the truth. And he stands with me. As do all loyal men of Rome."
He had made me an accomplice in the open to his tyranny. I could feel the weight of a hundred stares, the weight of their judgment. I could deny it. I could step away, condemn him, and save myself. Then, I looked at Commodus. He was looking at me fiercely, and afraid. He was daring me. Daring me to choose another side than his. Daring me to betray him, break his heart just like his sister did. His paranoia gnawing at him once again. I stepped forward, my hand leaving my sword and resting over my heart, a gesture of absolute loyalty.
"The Emperor speaks the truth." I said, my voice clear and steady, betraying none of the storm raging in my soul. "My spies reported corruption in Egypt, an attempt to provoke hunger in Rome, to raise the grain prices. The traitor wanted to create revolts. The Emperor saved us all.”
The hall was deathly silent. We were no longer an Emperor and his Praefecto Praetorio, we were rulers. Standing against the world. Commodus didn't look at the Senate. He looked at me, and in his eyes, I saw everything. Relief, adoration. And a terrifying, boundless love. And I had become the most powerful man in the Empire after Commodus. I saw the fear, the anger in the eyes of the Senators. And instead of feeling shame, I felt a need to show my power, to use that fear so I could keep us safe, forever.
As we walked from the hall, the whispers of the senators following us like the cries of ghosts, Commodus leaned close to me. "We suceeded. The Empire will shine brighter tomorrow." he whispered, a note of triumph in his voice. "Just us against the world. Achilles and Patroclus!"
"Yes." I whispered back, my heart clenching in my chest as I thought of their fate "Achilles and Patroclus..."
Time kept passing, and with it, my old self faded into a memory. The man who had once flinched at the thought of unjust punishment was gone, replaced by the man who saw the necessity in every cruelty. I believed in Commodus. I was blinded by love, yes, but it was a love forged in the crucible of power. I shared his dream, a vision of a unique Rome, a Colonia Commodiana, an eternal city forged in his image and protected by our will.
We made it real. The statues of old gods and forgotten senators were torn from their niches, their faces replaced with the serene, powerful likeness of Commodus. The months of the year were renamed, each one a tribute to his victories, his virtues and one received my name. He was no longer just an Emperor; he was the living soul of Rome. And I was his shadow, his fist, his beating heart.
I saw the admiration in the eyes of the people as we passed in the street, their cheers. He was a living god, their Hercules reborn. They loved him. We were safe. We were strong. And we were absolute.
One afternoon, we stood in the Imperial box overlooking the Colosseum. The games were a spectacle unlike any before, a celebration of our reign. The crowd roared, not just for the gladiators, but for us. Commodus, dressed in white and gold, turned to me, his face alight with a joy so pure it was almost divine. In front of thousands, under the blazing sun, he took my face in his hands and kissed me. It was not a chaste peck, but a deep, possessive kiss, a declaration to all of Rome. The crowd's roar swelled, becoming a deafening chant of his name. In that moment, there was no guard and no Emperor. There was only us, the masters of all we surveyed. He was feared. He was respected. And I was his.
That night, the celebrations continued in the palace. But as the wine flowed and the courtiers laughed, I saw the flicker of paranoia return to his eyes. He smiled, but his hands clenched into fists. He accepted their praise, but his gaze kept darting to the shadows in the corners of the room. He was a god surrounded by potential assassins, a king crowned with thorns. The weight of the world was always on his shoulders, and only I could see it.
"Let them have their empty revelry." he murmured to me, his voice low. "I need to feel clean. I need to feel you."
We left the hall, the sounds of the party fading behind us as we walked through the silent, torch-lit corridors to the imperial baths. The air grew warmer, the scent of wine and roasted meats giving way to the clean, steamy smell of heated stone and myrrh. This was our sanctuary. One where all worries left Commodus. Where he was just a man.
The water in the imperial baths was warm enough to turn the marble to silk, steam curling like ghosts around the columns and up into the vaulted ceiling, where painted gods stared down with indifferent eyes. I leaned my head back against the edge of the pool, the water lapping at my shoulders, and watched Commodus. He floated, weightless, his eyes closed, the lines of worry and command finally smoothed away into something resembling peace.
It had been a good day. A productive day. We had passed a new edict, one that increased the grain dole for the poor and levied a heavier tax on the wealthiest patrician families to pay for it. The Senate had grumbled, of course, their whispers like dry leaves skittering across the floor of the throne room, but they had acquiesced. They always did now. I had stood beside Commodus, a silent, armored presence, and watched their forced smiles. Then we had enjoyed the games, loved each other publicly, he had squeezed my hand as we cheer for the green charioteer. In that moment, he wasn't a tyrant; he was a reformer and a man of the people. And I, his steadfast partner, felt a surge of pride that drowned out the faint, lingering whispers of doubt.
"Stop thinking so loud." Commodus murmured, his eyes still closed. A small smile played on his lips. "I can feel you strategizing from over here."
"I was merely admiring the view." I replied, my voice a low rumble in the echoing chamber. And I was. The sight of him like this, unguarded, was a treasure I hoarded. The man who ruled an empire, who had ordered deaths with a flick of his wrist, now looked as harmless as a boy.
He opened his eyes, and they were the color of the sea at dusk, deep and turbulent but calm for now. He swam closer, the water parting before him. He stopped between my legs, his hands resting on my thighs, his touch familiar and electric. "The view is better from here."
He leaned in, and his kiss was slow and deep, tasting of wine and contentment. There was no desperation in it now, no frantic grasping for reassurance. This was the kiss of partners, of equals. It was a language we had perfected, a silent conversation of forgiveness and desire. I wrapped my arms around his waist, pulling him flush against me, feeling the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against my chest.
"Did you see their faces?" he whispered against my lips, a gleam of the old fire in his eyes. "Gaius Valerius looked as if he'd swallowed a live frog."
"He'll survive..." I said, chuckling. "He will have to chew on more laurel leaves to swallow his pride.”
"You see? You understand them. You know just how little their suffering truly costs them!" Commodus laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound that I cherished more than any victory. He pulled back slightly, his gaze searching mine. "And how much it helps those who truly need it. We are doing good, Y/N. We are."
"We are." I agreed, and the conviction in my voice surprised me. It was true. We were. The edicts were just. The roads were safe. The people were fed and entertaine. The Senate was cowed. Was it so wrong if a few ambitious men had to be removed to achieve that? Was it so wrong if the methods were… harsh? Was it so wrong to publicly love the Emperor. I pushed the thought away. In this warm water, with his hands on my skin, the world seemed simple. We were building a better Rome. Our Rome.
"I never could have done this without you." he confessed, his voice soft and his forehead against mine. "Before you, it was all… noise. The Senate, my father's ghost, the fear. You are the silence in the storm, Y/N. You are the only thing that makes sense. You made this life make sense."
"And you..." I whispered, my thumb stroking his wet back "are the reason for it all. All I do is because of you. Because I believe in you and I love you, Commodus." He replied. Months ago I would have believed two men like us couldn’t be such romantics. But we were.
We stayed like that for a long time, a tangled embrace in the steaming water, two men against the world. It was in these moments that I felt most certain. Most righteous. The blood, the fear, the compromises, they all faded away, leaving only the profound, unshakeable certainty that we were meant for this. To rule together. To love each other. To face whatever came, as one.
I should have known that peace, for men like us, was just our enemies gathering their strength before the final, cruel blow.
The doors to the baths, heavy bronze-studded oak, creaked open. I didn't think anything of it at first. Slaves came and went, bringing oils, more wine, fresh linens. I didn't even look up, too lost in the feel of Commodus's hands tracing the scars on my chest. But Commodus tensed. His head lifted, his body going rigid in my arms. I followed his gaze.
It wasn't a slave. It was Marius. One of my own. A man I had personally recruited from the legions, a young, fierce soldier I had trained myself, whose family I had seen fed during the harsh winter. He stood there, in the uniform of the Praetorian Guard. And in his hand, he held his gladius.
"Marius?" I said, my voice laced with confusion as I turned in the bath to face him "What is the meaning of this?"
He didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on Commodus, and they were filled with a cold, dead certainty. Behind him, the shadows in the hallway shifted, and more figures emerged. Other guards, my men. Their swords were drawn.
The air grew cold. The steam seemed to vanish, replaced by an icy, metallic chill. The scent of myrrh and wine was replaced by the sharp, coppery tang of imminent bloodshed.
"Marius." I called again, my voice harder now, a command. "Stand down. That is an order." He finally looked at me, and there was no remorse in his eyes. Only pity.
"I am sorry, Prefect." he said, his voice flat. "The Senate pays better. They gave me the opportunity. You refused their offer to be the next Emperor. So they offered to me and this is something I can’t refuse. Either you step away and you will survive or you will meet the same end as Commodus." Commodus began to laugh, a dry, brittle sound that was more terrifying than any scream.
"Of course." he breathed, his eyes wide with a mad, knowing light. "Of course. It always comes back to gold and power." He looked at me, and in his gaze, I saw not fear, but a profound, heartbreaking resignation. "They can't be bought, you said. They were loyal, you said." My blood ran cold. My life's work, my legacy of loyalty, was a lie.
“They are. I did all that was necessary!” I retorted, I had taken young promising men out of the gutter. Men who approved of Commodus politics, who wanted to be part of it. “Turns out that men of conviction can’t be found today. Only corruptible ones.” I spoke darkly, furious at them. I moved, jumping out of the bath. My instinct taking over. I stood in front Commodus behind me, my body a shield. I was naked, unarmed, but I was still the Praetorian Prefect.
"You will have to go through me." I snarled, my voice echoing in the vast chamber.
"As you wish, my lord." Marius only nodded, as if that was exactly what he had expected.
The first man lunged. I met him, my bare hands closing around his sword arm, twisting, hearing the bone snap with a sickening crack. I wrenched the blade from his grasp and drove it into his throat. But another was already there. And another. I was a whirlwind of desperate, brutal force. I fought for him. For us. For the future we had promised each other in this warm water. I took a slash across my ribs, a searing pain that barely registered. I drove my stolen sword into a belly, kicked another away. But I was one man against many.
I gasped as I felt a sharp, piercing agony in my back. I stumbled forward, my strength flooding out of me. I looked down and saw the tip of a blade protruding from my stomach. Marius. I fell to my knees, the sword clattering from my hand. The world began to tilt, the marble rushing up to meet me. I turned my head towards Commodus. Terrified, who would protect him? Who would look after Lucius?
He was no longer in the bath. He had had jumped out, his face a mask of such pure, unadulterated agony that it broke my heart more than the sword in my back. He looked from my failing body to the men who had betrayed me, and the mask of the Emperor, the god, the tyrant, shattered completely. All that was left was a man who had just lost his only reason to live.
"Y/N…" he whispered, his voice cracking. I tried to speak, to tell him I loved him, to tell him to run, but all that came was a gurgle of blood.
Commodus roared, the sound of a wounded, grieving animal. He launched himself at them, unarmed, naked, fueled by nothing but rage and pain. He tore the sword from the hands of the nearest guard, a man who looked too surprised to resist, and he began to swing.
He was a blur of divine fury. He was Hercules in the flesh or Achilles avenging his fallen Patroclus. He cut down Marius, then another guard, his movements impossibly fast, his face a terrible, beautiful thing to behold. But he was still one man. And they were many.
I watched, my vision blurring, as they surrounded him. A sword entered his side. Another guard locking his arm around his throat to choke him to death. Commodus struggled all he could, but his adversary was stronger. His eyes found mine across the fog of the baths. He fell to his knees, just as I had, his strength gone. He reached for me with tears in his eyes, his fingers stretching out, just inches from my own. Then he collapsed, all air crushed out of his lungs, his body hitting the ground heavily.
The last thing I saw, as darkness took me, was his hand brushing against mine, his lifeless eyes locked onto mine and our blood, mingling together in the warm water of our bath, our haven and our tomb.
We had died together, trying to protect what we had built. Our bodies would probably be discarded like trash and burned. Perhaps thrown in the Tiber or perhaps sealed in an amphora in the Columbarium with the past Emperors. It didn’t matter to me. The only thing that comforted me is that our ashes mingled together for eternity. We had become one...
Light blinded my eyes, I used my hand to cover them. I felt wind on my face, neither cold or warm. I smelled the sea, it reminded me of Commodus villa by the sea.
“You have taken your time, soldier.” a voice all too familiar called me. I gasped, freeing my eyes to look for the source. I was in a meadow by the sea and in front of me stood Commodus. Peaceful, smiling, wearing a simple white tunic. I laughed in joy, running to him, wrapping my arms around him; this was Elysium. Now we would be together for eternity, safe and free to love without having to choose. And that night, two stars of the same constellation shone brighter than ever.
