Betrayals in the Baths

The night air in the Subura hung heavy with the smell of roasting meat and cheap wine, the flicker of oil lamps casting jittery shadows on the plastered walls of Livia’s hidden school. Inside the tavern‑turned classroom, tables were strewn with clay tablets, bundles of parchment, and a half‑finished mosaic panel that Selene kept under a tarp. The hum of conversation was suddenly split by a splinter of glass hitting the floor, a sharp crack that sent a shiver up the wooden beams.

“Did you hear that?” Selene whispered, her eyes darting to the doorway where a thin beam of moonlight cut across the cobbles.

Marcus stood by the low bench where he had been reviewing the stolen imperial documents, his hand instinctively tightening around the edge of the scroll. The scent of sweat and incense clung to his skin; his scarred forearm throbbed, a reminder of battles fought far from Rome’s tangled alleys.

A sudden rush of boots hammered against the stone. The Praetorian Guard, their black helmets glinting, burst through the entrance, swords drawn, torches sputtering as they forced the door open. The clang of armor echoed off the vaulted ceiling, each step a hammer on the night’s fragile calm.

“Everyone down!” shouted Livia, her voice cutting through the chaos like a sword. She dropped the weight of her cloak and lunged toward the largest chest in the corner, the one stuffed with ink‑stained letters—evidence of Carus’s forged contract. Her hand closed around the iron latch, but a guard’s blade flashed too close, the steel whining as it sang past her fingers.

“Marcus! Get the scrolls!” Livia barked, his name tangled with urgency.

He turned, eyes locked on the frantic movement of a girl he barely knew—Phoebe, a bright‑eyed freedwoman’s daughter who carried a basket of herbs for the school’s infirmary. She slipped between a pillar and the fire‑lit counter, her face pale, her breath shallow.

“Marcus, I—” she began, voice cracking, then she stopped, eyes widening in terror as a legionary’s spear struck the wall beside her, splintering stone. “I— I’m sorry. They paid me. They said they'd take my brother if I didn’t tell you where the copies are hidden.”

The words hung in the air like a dropped dagger. Livia’s face hardened, a flash of grief and fury.

“Phoebe!” Selene cried, stepping forward, hands trembling. “You could have—”

“—could have saved us all if you’d listened to me first,” the girl snapped, tears spilling onto the dusty floor. “Now they’re here. They know everything.”

A Praetorian shouted, “Search the cellar! Find the papers!”

The group surged toward the narrow stairwell that led down to the school’s hidden cellar, the only place they could hope to destroy the incriminating parchments. The scent of damp stone and stale air rose as they descended, the torchlight swinging wildly, casting grotesque, elongated shadows that seemed to chase them.

Quintus, his massive frame moving with surprising swiftness, thrust open the heavy wooden door at the bottom. Inside, rows of stacked boxes and barrels held the school’s secret archives. He slammed the door shut, slamming his forearm against the iron bolts, the sound reverberating through the cavernous space.

“Quick!” Livia shouted, pulling a sack of parchments from the far corner. She tore the bundles apart, scattering them onto the stone floor. “Burn them! They must not fall into their hands.”

Flames leapt from a brazier they had kept for the evening’s dinner, the orange tongues licking the dry paper. The heat surged, and the smell of burning vellum mixed with the acrid bite of smoke. Selene cupped a bundle of clay tiles, her fingers trembling, and hurled them into the blaze. The tiles cracked, scattering shards that glittered like broken glass.

The Praetorians' shouts grew louder, their steps reverberating down the stairwell. “Seal the exit!” one ordered, his voice echoing off the damp walls.

Marcus, clutching a half‑torn scroll, felt a sudden sting at his side. A guard’s sword had glanced his thigh, the blade slicing through his tunic and biting into flesh. He winced, the pain sharp, a hot pulse that made his vision blur. He stumbled, catching himself on a low beam, blood seeping onto the stone.

“Marcus!” Livia lunged forward, gripping his arm, pulling him to his feet. “You can’t stay.”

He gritted his teeth, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. “We have to go. We have to—”

A sudden crash echoed above. The roof of the tavern gave way, splinters of wood and a cascade of flaming embers falling like rain onto the courtyard. The sound of breaking glass and shouted curses rose in a chaotic chorus.

Quintus slammed his massive hand against the cellar door, trying to hold it shut. “St—stay! Hold the door!” he roared, his voice booming, muscles straining as the wood groaned under the onslaught of armed men battering it from the other side.

The door shuddered, splinters flaring outward. Selene, eyes wide, slipped a small leather satchel into her own cloak—inside were the last of the secret mosaic tiles, their colors still muted but holding the hidden code. “Take them,” she whispered to Livia, “they might save us later.”

Outside, the air was thick with ash that drifted like gray snow, the faint tremor of distant rumblings from Vesuvius barely audible over the clamor. The smell of burning wood mingled with the acrid odor of sweat and fear. A gust of wind carried the distant wail of a trumpet, a signal for the Praetorians to advance.

“Now!” Livia shouted. She thrust the door open a crack, the black silhouettes of the guards peering in, swords drawn. With a sharp pull, she yanked the door wide, and the group surged through the opening, spilling onto the cobblestones below.

Chaos reigned. The tavern behind them erupted in a blaze, orange flames licking the night sky, the heat palpable on their faces. Citizens shouted, merchants fled, and the clatter of overturned tables rang out.

The quartet ran toward the hidden entrance to the Cloaca Maxima, a narrow opening concealed behind a stack of barrels. Selene pushed a loose stone aside, revealing the dark maw of the ancient sewer. A rush of cold, fetid air hit their faces, the scent of stale water and earth filling their nostrils.

“Down!” Quintus bellowed, pulling the heavy lid up with a grunt. He shoved the others in, the stone steps slick with rain and ash. As they descended, the sounds of pursuit faded, replaced by the echo of their own footsteps and the distant drip of water.

Marcus clutched his wound, blood seeping through the fabric of his tunic. The pain was fierce, but he forced himself forward, each step a battle against the throbbing in his thigh.

Behind them, the tavern roared, a beacon of destruction against the night. The flames reflected in the puddles, casting dancing shadows that seemed to chase them down the stone steps. The last thing they heard before the darkness swallowed them was the crack of a timber snapping—Livia’s school, their sanctuary, collapsing in a roar of fire and ash.

They emerged, coughing, into the cool, damp tunnels of the Cloaca Maxima, the water level barely reaching their knees. The tunnel stretched ahead, a maze of stone arches that smelled of mildew and old stone. For a moment, the only sound was the ragged breathing of the group and the faint, distant rumble of the earth, a reminder that the world above was still on fire.

Livia paused, eyes blazing with fierce resolve despite the loss. “We’ll regroup,” she said, voice hoarse but steady. “The evidence is safe. We’ll find a way to finish this.”

Selene pressed the satchel against her chest, feeling the weight of the hidden tiles. “The Mosaic will speak when we need it,” she murmured, a thin smile breaking through the grime on her face.

Quintus turned his back on the tunnel’s darkness, his shoulders still heaving. “We’ve lost the school,” he said, “but we still have each other. Let’s move.”

Marcus, breath shallow, nodded, his hand still clenching the torn scroll. Pain flared, but the fire in his eyes outshone it. “The Praetorians won’t find us here,” he growled. “They’ll have to follow us into the shadows.”

The group slipped deeper into the sewers, the darkness closing around them as the night above burned bright. The chaos behind them was a blaze of ash, blood, and betrayal, but ahead lay the cold, winding passages that might yet carry them to safety—and to the final reckoning.