Tunnels Flooded

The stone vaulted ceiling of the Cloaca Maxima loomed like a lowered sky, its arches dripping with dank cold that clung to the throat. A thin ribbon of steam rose from the shallow pool at their feet, curling around the lantern’s flickering flame until it vanished in the black. The air tasted of iron and wet earth, heavy enough to press against the lungs.

Selene crouched on a cracked marble step, her fingers brushing the smooth glaze of a broken tile. “The water’s rising,” she whispered, eyes fixed on the dark current that lapped at her boots. “It’s not just runoff. Something’s broken above.”

Marcus knelt beside her, pulling a length of leather rope from his belt. He twisted it around a rusted pipe, his scarred palm slick with sweat. “If we can tie it here, maybe we’ll stall the flow long enough to get through the next chamber.” His voice cracked, a low rasp that matched the distant groan of stone shifting far below them.

Livia stood a few steps back, her cloak soaked through, the once‑rich purple now a sullen gray. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the rapid beat of her heart. “We don’t have time for plans,” she hissed, “Carus’s men are already at the sluice. They’ll hear us if we make even a sound.”

A low thud echoed through the tunnel, reverberating off the walls like a drumbeat. The sound grew steadier, a metallic clang that hinted at hinges being forced. Selene’s eyes darted toward the narrow passage where a sliver of torchlight had just been snuffed.

“What’s that?” Marcus asked, his voice a thin whisper that seemed to dissolve in the damp.

“Their footsteps,” Livia answered, the words barely audible over the rising hiss of water. “They’re coming from the east arch. We’re pinned.”

The water surged forward, a surge that smelled of hot stone and volcanic ash, splashing against their legs with a hiss that turned every breath into a gasp. The lantern’s flame sputtered, then steadied, casting jittery shadows that danced across the soot‑blackened walls.

“Quick,” Selene urged, thrusting the rope toward the pipe. “Tie it tight. If the water breaks through the pipe, it’ll spill over the wall, buy us minutes.”

Marcus wrapped the rope, his fingers trembling. He pulled hard, the rope biting into the cold metal. “It’s not enough,” he muttered, watching the water level climb inch by inch. “It’s like the earth itself is swallowing us.”

A sudden, deep rumble rattled the arches, as if the very foundations were shifting. Dust fell from the ceiling, pattering on stone, mingling with the spray of water. The sound was accompanied by a faint, high‑pitched whine—metal grinding against stone—growing louder with each passing second.

Livia pressed her palm to the cold wall, feeling the vibrations travel through her skin. “They’re breaking the gate,” she said, voice edged with fear. “If they breach the sluice, the whole tunnel could flood. We need a wall, something solid to hold the water back.”

Quintus, who had been standing silent, his broad shoulders hunched against the damp, stepped forward. His eyes, hardened by years in the arena, scanned the narrowing passage. “There’s a support beam near the far arch,” he said, his tone low and steady. “If I brace it… I can hold the collapse a little longer.”

He moved, each footstep sending a splash of water up his boots. The beam loomed ahead, a massive slab of stone, slick with slime, its edge cracked but still sturdy. Quintus placed his palm on it, feeling the tremor travel from the stone into his arm.

“Help me,” he growled, a hint of desperation under his gruff exterior. “Push it back into place. If we can keep it from falling, we’ll have a moment to crawl through before the water swallows us.”

Selene and Marcus lunged to his side, their hands gripping the cold stone. Together they heaved, muscles straining, breath ragged. The beam shuddered, then settled, a thin line of light glinting off its edge as water crashed against its base.

A sudden splash echoed louder than the earlier rumble—a massive wave of scalding water crashing over the beam, sending a spray of steam that blinded them for a heartbeat.

“Too much!” Marcus shouted, his voice cracking. “It’s coming faster than we thought!”

The sound of heavy boots slammed against stone, followed by a guttural chant in Latin, pierced the thick air. Carus’s assassins were close, their torches flaring bright against the gloom, casting monstrous silhouettes that loomed like wolves on the walls.

Livia’s eyes widened, and she clutched the parchment hidden in her belt, the forged contract that could topple a senator. “We can’t let them take it,” she whispered, teeth gritted. “If they get the contract… the whole city dies.”

Quintus tightened his grip on the beam, his knuckles whitening. “Then we die here,” he said, voice hoarse, “but not before we keep that paper from falling into their hands.”

The water rose higher, now licking their calves, then their knees. A faint, sour smell of sulphur curled up from the torrent, mixing with the earthy rot of centuries-old sewage. The lantern’s flame flickered violently, casting erratic shadows that danced like ghostly hands reaching for them.

“Move!” Selene shouted, pulling Marcus toward the narrow crack in the wall where a sliver of fresh air hinted at an exit. “The beam will give soon. We have to get out before it collapses completely.”

Marcus stumbled, his boots slipping on the slick stone, but Selene caught his arm, pulling him forward. Livia followed, her cloak dragging behind her, the parchment clutched tight to her chest. Quintus stayed, his massive form anchored to the beam, his muscles trembling as the stone creaked ominously.

The tremor beneath their feet intensified, a low, bone‑deep rattle that seemed to come from the very bowels of the earth. The sound of shifting tectonic plates echoed through the tunnel, a terrifying, relentless grind that promised a final, crushing collapse.

A sudden, deafening crack split the air—the beam split in two, a jagged edge biting into the stone, then crumbling into the water with a spray of scalding steam. Quintus let out a guttural roar, his body lurching forward as the support gave way, the torrent surging over him.

“Quintus!” Selene shouted, eyes wide with horror, but the water roared louder, drowning her words.

The last thing Marcus saw was Quintus’s outstretched hand, fingers slipping on slick stone, before the wave of hot water engulfed him, pulling him down into the blackness.

The tunnel filled with a deafening roar, water pounding against the walls, the sound of crushing stone, and the distant, frantic shouts of Carus’s men. Selene, Livia, and Marcus pressed forward, their steps frantic, hearts hammering, the claustrophobic darkness pressing in from all sides.

They could hear the assassins’ torches flicker at the far end of the passage, the echo of blades being drawn, the promise of death just beyond the rising tide. The flood surged higher, the air grew hotter, and the stone ceiling seemed to close in, a ceiling of doom that threatened to swallow them whole.

Breathless and drenched, Selene glanced back once, catching a glimpse of the falling stone and the silhouette of a massive, broken form disappearing beneath the water. She turned her face toward the dim exit, the parchment burning against her chest, the only thing keeping her mind focused as the tunnel threatened to become a tomb.

The scene ended in a churn of water, stone, and the distant clatter of enemy footfalls—waiting, breathless, for the next step that might be their salvation or their doom.

The narrow stone doorway yawned ahead, a sliver of cold night air slipping in between the roiling torrent. Selene's lantern sputtered, the orange light fighting a losing battle against the ash‑gray gloom. The sound of water surged like a living thing, swallowing the clink of armor and the ragged breaths of the three survivors.

“Keep moving,” Livia whispered, her voice a brittle thread. She clutched the parchment tighter, the parchment’s edges damp against her palm. The faint scent of burnt oil rose from the torches that the assassins carried, burning hotter than the water that lapped at their boots.

Behind them, a low, metallic grunt grew louder. The assassins—five men in dark tunics, their faces half‑hidden by leather hoods—were already at the far arch, their torches throwing wild shadows across the wet walls. One of them, taller than the rest, lifted a glinting dagger, the metal catching a stray spark.

“What do we do?” Marcus asked, voice raw, eyes flicking between the water and the approaching men.

Quintus’ massive form, though half‑submerged in the murky flow, loomed like a statue of stone. He rested his forearm against the still‑standing fragment of the broken beam, the cool stone biting into his scarred skin. His breath came in short, rattling bursts, each exhale fogging the air.

“Listen, boy,” Quintus rumbled, his voice low enough that only the three could hear. “I have fought in the arena. I have watched men drown in blood. This… this is just another fight.”

He turned his head slightly, eyes meeting Marcus’s. In them flashed a flicker of memory—glimmering images of the sand, the roar of crowds, the clang of swords. He swallowed, the water sloshing around his knees, and let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a lifetime.

“I have spent my life beating the sword into the stone,” he said, voice cracking like a whip. “Now I must beat the stone into the water.” He pressed his forehead against the crumbling arch, feeling the tremor travel from the stone into his shoulders. The arch shivered, a slow, terrible sigh that foretold its collapse.

A sudden rush of water slammed against his leg, sending a spray of scalding steam up his face. He laughed—a harsh, guttural sound that echoed off the tunnel walls.

“If I fall, let the water take me,” Quintus muttered, eyes narrowing. “But I will not let those men take the parchment. Not while I still have breath.”

A knife sliced through the air, missing his cheek by an inch. The assassin who wielded it shouted in Latin, “¡Morituri!”—a promise of death. The words ricocheted off the stone, chilling the blood in Marcus’s veins.

“Stay—stay,” Quintus instructed, voice now urgent. He shifted his weight, using his massive chest to brace the arch. The stone cracked again, small shards spiraling down into the water like tiny meteors. “You have to run through the opening before it gives completely. On my word, you will make it out alive.”

Selene’s eyes were wide, tears mixing with the water that streamed down her cheek. “Quintus, you can’t—”

“Can’t?” Quintus snarled, the sound raw and fierce. “I have been told I could not be a man of peace. I have been told I could not bear a child’s cry. I have been told I could not save any soul.” He lifted his massive arm, slamming it against the failing arch, forcing the stone to stay upright for a heartbeat longer than any of them expected.

The beam groaned, a sound like a dying animal. The water rose to his waist, hot enough to hiss against his skin. Yet his grip did not falter. He felt the weight of the world pressing down, the weight of his past sins, of the boys he had trained, of the lives he could not save. The thought of his son, Marcellus, flashed before his eyes, a boy with a stern face that had once looked at him with a mixture of scorn and yearning.

“I will be remembered,” Quintus thought. “Not as the man who swung a blade, but as the man who held a wall.”

The assassins reached the arch, their torches flaring brighter, as if trying to outshine the darkness that threatened to swallow them all. One of them stepped forward, a grim expression hidden beneath the hood, and raised his hand with the dagger.

“Give us the parchment,” the man hissed, his voice a low growl that seemed to vibrate through the stone.

Livia’s jaw tightened. “Never,” she spat, clutching the scroll to her chest. “You will not have it.”

Quintus felt a surge of anger—a sudden, bright heat that rose inside him, burning hotter than the water. He pressed his back against the arch, forcing the stone to hold. The sound was deafening: water battering stone, stone cracking, men shouting, the flicker of torches.

“Hold,” he grunted to Selene and Marcus. “Hold while I make the last stand.”

Selene’s voice trembled, but she obeyed, pulling Marcus forward. “Come on, we’re almost at the hole,” she urged, her hand slipping on damp stone.

Marcus glanced back, his face wet and pallid, and saw Quintus’ eyes—an ancient, unflinching stare that seemed to drink in the chaos. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, guilt choking his words.

“Don’t be,” Quintus answered, a thin smile cracking his weathered face. “My life ends here. Remember me not for the blood I shed, but for the stone I held.”

An ear‑splitting crack ripped through the tunnel as the arch finally gave way. A massive slab of rock shattered, sending a torrent of molten‑hot water crashing over Quintus. The water surged, enveloping him, the steam rising into a white cloud that hid his final breath.

“Quintus!” Selene screamed, her voice swallowed by the roar.

The light of the assassins’ torches flickered against the spray, casting the water‑filled chamber a ghostly silver. In the briefest instant, as the slab fell, a flash of copper‑red blood glinted from Quintus’s wound, a tiny comet against the dark water.

Then the torrent pulled him under, the stone of his hand disappearing into the blackness. The water rushed past, the smell of sulphur sharp, the heat of the volcanic steam biting at their skin.

Selene, Livia, and Marcus slipped through the narrowing gap, the parchment clutched tight to Livia’s breast. Their clothes clung to them, heavy with slime and ash. The sound of the assassins’ footsteps faded behind the broken arch, their torches sputtering as the water swallowed the passage.

Outside, the night air was colder, thinner. The distant clamor of the city’s cries rose above the hiss of the flood. Selene looked back once, her breath fogging in the chill, and saw a faint ripple where the stone had fallen, then nothing—only the dark water that had claimed a man who chose to become a wall.

She turned to Livia, eyes wet but fierce. “We keep moving. We hold the parchment. We honor him.”

Marcus nodded, his hand still trembling on the rope that had once tried to stop the water. “For you, brother.” He whispered, the word sounding like a promise to a ghost.

Together they ran, the lantern’s flame trembling, the echo of a heroic sacrifice ringing in the stone‑filled night, urging them forward toward the uncertain light of the harbor.