Chapter Text
Rome, the Eternal City, pulsed with the energy of celebration. The streets were filled with the sounds of laughter, music, and the roar of the crowds as they gathered to honor a recent victory. The city’s ancient stones seemed to vibrate with pride as the news of Rome’s triumph over the Numidians spread like wildfire through the population. It was a rare moment of unity and joy, a bright beacon amidst the shadows of Rome’s darker days. But even amidst the jubilation, a quieter, more sinister current flowed beneath the surface.
The imperial family stood at the center of the festivities. Emperor Commodus, though physically present among his people, seemed a distant figure. His cold eyes, dark with private thoughts, stared out over the cheering masses, yet his mind was far from the celebrations. Commodus, who had clawed his way to power in a violent and chaotic rise, still carried the scars of that struggle within him. They were etched deep into his soul, hidden from the world but never fully healed.
His sister, Lucilla, stood by his side, regal and composed but equally burdened. A woman of remarkable intelligence and grace, Lucilla knew the weight of the empire rested on her shoulders. As the sister of the Emperor, and the widow of a slain general, she had always walked a tightrope between duty and her own private grief. Today, however, her heart was heavy with worry. Her eyes, although veiled with practiced composure, spoke of a mother’s anguish, a mother who had lost her son to the cruel tides of fate.
And standing beside her, his strong frame still imposing despite the years that had passed, was Maximus. The legendary gladiator who had once been a general and now, miraculously, an emperor in his own right. His muscular physique, worn from years of battle, was still capable of striking fear into the hearts of his enemies. But those who looked into his eyes would see a sadness that no victory or accolade could erase. The memory of his lost family—wife and son—lingered in his heart, a shadow that cast a pall over every triumph, every decision. His pain was as much a part of him as his strength.
A new figure had emerged, however, to capture the public's imagination. General Marcus Acacius, a seasoned warrior and close confidant of Maximus, had recently gained fame for his victories. His name was now known across the empire, whispered in awe by the common people, and carefully scrutinized by those in power. Though Acacius was loyal to Maximus, the Emperor's eyes never fully trusted him. In his eyes, every victory could be a potential threat, and every rising star a future rival.
"Marcus," Maximus greeted the general with a warm smile, his voice betraying a genuine affection. "Your success has done Rome proud. You are a symbol of our strength, of our resilience."
Acacius bowed his head, hiding the ambition that simmered beneath his disciplined exterior. He was aware, as anyone with a sharp mind would be, that Commodus had noticed his rise—and Commodus, ever the cautious ruler, regarded him with a mix of admiration and wariness.
As the day unfolded, the undercurrent of politics simmered just beneath the surface of the celebrations. The empire, once a symbol of unshakable power, now teetered on the edge of uncertainty. Commodus, in his unyielding desire for absolute control, sought to solidify his rule in every way possible. Maximus, by contrast, had a different goal—to ensure that Rome would continue to flourish long after his reign had ended. The future of the empire, its stability, and its very soul depended on the choices made by these powerful figures.
As the sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the city, a darker reality loomed in the shadows. The fate of Rome was uncertain, and the decisions made by those at the heart of power would determine whether the empire would rise to greater glory or fall into ruin.
In the quiet, candle-lit halls of the imperial palace, Acacius stood in silent vigil, watching as servants scurried past, unaware of the weight of the moment. His mind raced, consumed by the task at hand. Maximus had asked him to stay behind after the evening's celebrations, and the gravity of his assignment was not lost on him. The Empress, Lucilla, had asked for news of her missing son. Acacius had searched tirelessly, but there was no good news to share.
"Have you found him?" Lucilla's voice echoed in his mind, a quiet plea that would never fade.
Sadly, the answer remained the same. The boy, Lucius Verus Aurelius, was lost to them. A mere child when he had been sent away to safety, his whereabouts remained a mystery. The only clue they had was a grisly tale of a lady-in-waiting who had perished at the hands of deserting soldiers, and with her, the secret of the prince’s hiding place.
Maximus’ study was quiet when Acacius entered, and Lucilla, sitting near the window with a glass of wine in her hand, barely acknowledged his presence. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed from sleepless nights spent searching for her son, hoping against hope that he might return.
"Marcus," Maximus greeted him, his voice soft yet commanding. "We have yet to hear anything."
Acacius bowed his head, the weight of the news settling heavily on his shoulders. "There is no word, my Emperor," he said, his voice tinged with sorrow. "We have found nothing. We have brought back the leader of a city, along with his general. There’s a chance they may know something, but—" he paused, unsure how to proceed.
Maximus, sensing the hesitation, leaned forward. "But?"
"The leader was killed in Marcinus’ area," Acacius continued, his voice quiet but firm. "We’ve brought him here, but he was already dead before we arrived. There’s nothing more to go on."
Lucilla’s face fell, her heart visibly breaking as her hope, once again, was dashed. Maximus let out a bitter laugh, devoid of humor. "We arranged a talk with him after the first match," he murmured, the words heavy with irony. "If he survives that long."
The tension in the room was palpable. Maximus, always the warrior, understood that the future of Rome depended not only on physical strength but on the subtler machinations of politics. And here, in this moment, he was faced with a mother’s desperate plea and a father’s broken heart.
"We will speak to him, no matter the cost," Maximus declared, his voice hardening with resolve. "An imperial order trumps all else. Even the Gladiators' handlers cannot stand in our way."
Acacius hesitated, his brow furrowed in thought. "You wish me to order the handler to comply?" he asked, voice laden with concern. "It could draw unwanted attention to our actions. Commodus will notice."
Lucilla, unable to hide the agony in her eyes, spoke softly but firmly. "General, I have lost my son. If there is a single thread of hope, no matter how faint, I will not let it slip away." She turned toward her brother, her gaze filled with an almost palpable desperation. "If there is even a flicker of hope that Lucius is alive, I cannot—will not—let that hope die."
Maximus, his voice low but filled with sympathy, handed Acacius a sealed scroll. "Take this," he said, his words barely audible. "This will give you the leverage you need to speak with the gladiator. Macrinus can deal with any resistance."
With a heavy heart, Acacius accepted the scroll and left the study. His mind was consumed with the task ahead, but a faint glimmer of hope ignited in his chest. Perhaps there was still a chance to find the lost prince.
The Colosseum stood as a brutal reminder of Rome’s power, its cold stone walls echoing with the cries of the dying and the cheering of the crowds. Acacius moved through the corridors with practiced ease, presenting the Emperor's scroll to the handler, a bald, sour-faced man who seemed less than pleased to be dealing with imperial matters.
After a brief exchange, the handler led him through the winding passages to the gladiator’s quarters. Acacius steeled himself for the confrontation ahead. The gladiator, a massive man with eyes filled with distrust and hatred, met him with a glare.
"You," the gladiator snarled, his voice thick with disdain. "What do you want?"
"I need information about Lucius Verus Aurelius," Acacius said, his voice low but firm.
The gladiator’s face softened for a moment, a flicker of recognition crossing his features. "You’re asking about the prince?" he asked in a hushed voice. "I know something. But it’s not a simple story."
Acacius leaned in, his heart quickening. "Tell me everything you know."
The gladiator recounted a tale of a young boy, hidden away in a remote village, kind and gentle. The village had been attacked, and the boy had disappeared, vanishing without a trace. Acacius listened intently, his mind racing. Could this be the lost prince?
As the gladiator finished his tale, Acacius felt a surge of hope. Could it be? Could Lucius Verus Aurelius still be alive?
He left the Colosseum, the weight of the information pressing heavily on his shoulders. The search for the lost prince was far from over, but for the first time in years, there was a glimmer of hope. However, lurking in the shadows, a figure watched with dark intentions.
The gladiator, Hanno, had led Acacius to believe he held the key to the prince’s fate. But in reality, the very boy who had been sent away for his safety, abandoned by his own mother and father to live in secrecy, the boy who had once been the heir to the empire was no longer a boy at all, but a man consumed by rage and betrayal.
Hanno's transformation had been slow, but it had been complete. Years of suffering, living in the shadows, and the harsh life of a gladiator had hardened him. The boy who had once been sheltered by love had grown into a man fueled by bitterness and fury. He had seen the world for what it truly was—cruel, unforgiving, and full of those who cast him aside. His parents, his flesh and blood, had chosen to abandon him, and he would never forget it.
The smirk on Hanno’s scarred face twisted into a grimace of hatred. The information he had fed to Acacius wasn’t a mere tale—it was a carefully constructed lie. He wanted to lead the general down the path of false hope, to use him as a pawn in his own twisted game. The vengeance he now sought would not be for the empire, but for himself.
As Acacius walked away, unaware of the betrayal he had just witnessed, Hanno stepped deeper into the shadows. His heart burned with the memories of his abandonment, the cruel fate of being cast aside by those who should have cared for him most. The plan was set into motion now, and Hanno would see it through, no matter the cost.
The game had only just begun, and the fate of the empire—of Lucius himself—now rested in the hands of the son who had been forgotten. The vengeance of a prince abandoned was a dangerous thing indeed. Lucius lived years in hiding, not daring to walk during the day due to people looking for him.
He had once made a mistake of thinking his mother finally sent for him and trusting the soldiers. That was the night when he had lost his first friend - Roman arrows pierced Octavius' torso as he tried to ran from the soldiers. Lucius watched from the shadows, afraid for his own life back then. The mother he loved and knew had abandoned him, the figure he looked up to had abandoned him as well. His uncle, the person who tried to fill the empty space left by his father, had sent soldiers after him to murder him.
Rome was a disease and he would help the world get rid of it. No matter his legacy, no matter his family and their dreams. The city would fall and turn into dust.