Chapter 1: Arrival in Subura: Rome's Armpit
The sun beat down on Rome like an angry landlord trying to evict its tenants by sheer force of heat. Somewhere below the marble glories and sun-bleached banners of the Capitoline, tucked neatly between the Esquiline and Viminal hills like an afterthought—or a particularly suspicious stain—lay the Subura.
It was a district that smelled of ambition, desperation, unwashed feet, and onions. Sometimes all at once.
Down its cracked, pockmarked alleys tramped five individuals wearing the bronze-studded leather of Rome's proud legions—or at least a slightly less shiny version thereof. They moved with all the noble bearing of a band of men (and one woman) who were trying not to step in anything legally classified as "alive."
At their head marched Marcus Domitius Crispus, who had all the charisma of a particularly disapproving sack of turnips. His face bore the look of a man attempting optimism for the twelfth time that morning and rapidly considering treason instead.
Behind him, Titus Flavius Rufus bounded forward with the eagerness of a puppy that had spotted a suspiciously crunchy object. His armor clanked. His sword jostled. His brain, one imagined, sat quietly in the back humming to itself.
Gaius Aemilius Severus trudged beside Titus with the slumped shoulders of a man who had seen everything and regretted most of it. His sandals dragged audibly across the grime-slicked stones.
Aemilia Cornificia stalked forward with measured, careful steps, her sharp eyes scanning every corner. Her family name had once commanded respect. These days, it mainly commanded awkward silences and sympathetic pats on the shoulder.
And last of all came Lucius Junius Faustus, who looked like he had stepped straight out of a fresco titled Heroic Youth Contemplates Greatness and had promptly gotten lost looking for the marketplace. His wide eyes took in the sagging insulae and tattered awnings with a kind of misplaced wonder.
"This place has... character," he said brightly, narrowly avoiding a puddle that oozed uphill.
"No," said Severus, "this place has fungus."
The squad rounded a corner and came face to face with their destination: the "barracks" of the Subura Shield Division.
It was a building in the way that a pile of bricks could technically be called a building if one squinted and lied aggressively. The insula leaned slightly to the left as though attempting to flee its own foundation. Three of its walls still stood. The fourth had given up the ghost sometime during the reign of the last honest magistrate.
Marcus cleared his throat, straightened his back, and turned to his team with all the pomp he could muster.
"Men—and woman," he said solemnly. "Here we shall—"
A pigeon, having evidently mistaken Marcus for a statue (and one in urgent need of redecoration), chose that moment to redecorate his helmet.
There was a long, wet splat.
Marcus closed his eyes. Somewhere, the gods were laughing.
"I was going to say," he muttered, removing the helmet with a wet squelch, "that here we shall defend the honor of Rome."
"Maybe we can start by defending it from the smell," said Aemilia dryly.
Lucius sneezed as a particularly aggressive gust of aroma from the taverna next door—equal parts garlic and despair—wafted past.
"First rule of Subura," said Severus. "Never breathe too deeply."
They moved through the Subura like a dignified procession of increasingly horrified tourists.
Severus took it upon himself to act as guide.
"Over there," he pointed, "is where Honest Marcus 'fell' on his sword. Three times. Quite the accident, that."
A large, suspiciously mobile puddle gurgled as they passed. Titus lunged at it, sword half drawn, before Marcus barked, "Leave it!" like a weary dog handler.
Lucius paused to admire a crumbling archway carved with ancient runes.
"Beautiful craftsmanship," he murmured.
Three children immediately tried to sell him his own belt.
"Give them a minute," said Aemilia, tugging him along by the sleeve. "They'll have your sandals next."
Every corner revealed new horrors: rats the size of housecats; fountains decorated not with marble nymphs but discarded amphorae; a goat chewing meditatively on a toga that still had a man inside it.
Rome's glory, it seemed, was reserved for more photogenic neighborhoods.
Their new headquarters contained precisely one chair (missing two legs), five suspiciously moth-eaten blankets, and one goat, which had apparently claimed squatter's rights.
A scroll lay on the splintered table, its wax seal barely clinging to the parchment.
Marcus unrolled it and read aloud:
"To the honorable Subura Shield Division: Keep order. Minimize property damage. Do not die (if avoidable). Supplies forthcoming."
Titus peered hopefully into a battered crate beside the table.
The crate contained:
One half-broken shield,
Five ration packs ominously labeled "Not For Human Consumption (If Avoidable)," and
The goat, which glared possessively at the broken shield as if daring them to touch it.
Lucius, ever the optimist, said, "Well, at least they gave us rations."
Severus peered into one packet, sniffed, and recoiled.
"I've seen sieges with better cuisine," he said.
Titus, meanwhile, was engaged in complex negotiations with a passing merchant to acquire a real shield.
The negotiations escalated quickly into a headlock.
Marcus intervened with all the weary authority of a man putting out yet another small, stubborn fire.
"If we kill the merchants," he said, "we'll have to police ourselves for murder. And I do not have the paperwork for that."
The merchant fled, yelling something about "mad legionaries" and "unclean goats."
The goat belched pointedly.
By sunset, the squad stood on the cracked steps of a shrine so decrepit that even the lares looked apologetic.
Marcus cleared his throat.
"We swear," he intoned, "to defend Subura, uphold Rome's law, and endeavor not to die in stupid ways."
Each legionary repeated the oath, some more sincerely than others. Lucius, bless his soul, even looked inspired.
Titus stepped forward eagerly, tripped on a skull (human, by the look of it), and barely recovered with a flailing salute.
The shrine's old priest, half-blind and fully unimpressed, shuffled out to hand Marcus their first assignment:
"Investigate loud disturbances reported at Taverna Voluptas."
"Noise complaint?" said Severus, with the weary air of a man being asked to lecture an avalanche on decorum.
Marcus tucked the parchment into his belt.
"Shield Division, form up," he ordered.
They clattered down the steps, a ramshackle parade of hope, determination, and general disrepair.
Somewhere ahead, the streets of Subura waited—along with their first mission, and the suspicious sounds of what could only be described as a lyre being tortured by someone with hooves.
Chapter 2: Meet the Squad (and Instantly Regret It)
The official Subura Shield barracks consisted of one crate, one goat (still unreasonably possessive of the broken shield), and one chair bravely defying the ravages of time, termites, and structural engineering. Around these luxurious furnishings, the squad assembled with all the enthusiasm of prisoners awaiting sentence.
Marcus Domitius Crispus stood at the center, trying—and failing—to project authority. His tunic, freshly stained by pigeon-related misfortune, hung askew. His hair looked like it had lost a fight with a small tornado. Nevertheless, he soldiered on.
"Right," he began, tapping the scroll of duties against the crate like a gavel. The crate responded by wobbling ominously.
"Our orders are simple: maintain the peace, enforce the law, protect the citizens."
He paused, waiting for some spark of inspiration to ignite among his troops.
Titus Flavius Rufus raised a hand. Then, without waiting for permission, blurted, "Shortest way to enforce the law is the straightest route to trouble, right? Just... punch first?"
Marcus blinked. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Possibly, he was counting to ten. Or a hundred.
Gaius Aemilius Severus, sitting with his back against the crate and arms folded, muttered, "Fifty sesterces says we don't last a week."
Aemilia Cornificia didn't bother responding. She had produced a wax tablet and was making careful notes—likely of all the ways her new squadmates were going to get her killed.
Lucius Junius Faustus, meanwhile, was crouched in the corner, cooing at something.
"What are you doing?" Marcus asked, though his tone suggested he already regretted knowing.
Lucius straightened up, beaming, cradling a small, mangy rat in his hands. "Look! He's adorable! I think he winked at me."
The rat, for its part, looked like it was considering whether Lucius's fingers were a more viable food source than the nearby scraps.
"Put it down," Aemilia said without looking up from her notes.
Lucius sighed and reluctantly set the rat back on the floor, where it scurried away, possibly to inform its larger, angrier cousins.
Marcus inhaled deeply, instantly regretted it—one could practically chew the air in here—and pressed on.
"Right. Patrols will be assigned alphabetically—"
"Alphabetically?" interrupted Titus. "That sounds like a lotta letters. What about by who can run fastest?"
Severus offered, in a tone of deep condolence, "Maybe we can assign routes based on who's least likely to get mugged. Congratulations, Faustus—you'll be bait."
Lucius, always eager, nodded happily. "Bait sounds important."
Aemilia made a small noise that might have been a sigh or the death of a dream.
After the briefing (which ended when the chair finally gave up and collapsed under Titus), the squad conducted what could generously be called an "equipment check."
The armory was a battered crate containing assorted weaponry—and using the term "weaponry" here was optimistic in the extreme.
Titus dove in first, emerging triumphantly with a gladius so bent it resembled an enthusiastic boomerang.
"Look at this beauty!" he said, swinging it experimentally. The blade made a sad wobbling sound.
"With that," Gaius said dryly, "you could wound someone's self-esteem."
Lucius picked through the remains and selected a dagger with an ornate, if rusted, hilt. He held it up next to his face. "Matches my eyes, right?"
Aemilia, deadpan: "Perfect. If the enemy swoons at your prettiness, we'll call it a strategic win."
Marcus found a shield—or what remained of one—leaning against the wall. It had a hole in the middle suspiciously the size and shape of a goat's horn.
He weighed it thoughtfully and decided death by broken shield would at least be memorable.
Later, they sat on the barracks roof, a precarious collection of loose tiles and bad decisions, sharing cold, stale rations that could have been used as construction material in better times.
Subura spread out below them: a quilt of twisting alleys, smoke-choked taverns, shouted arguments, and the occasional suspicious explosion.
Lucius, chewing determinedly through something labeled "pork product," stared out at the chaos with shining eyes.
"It's beautiful, in its own way," he said.
Severus took a long, slow swig from a wineskin and said, "So is a funeral pyre, lad. Just depends which side of it you're on."
Aemilia scraped her thumb along the blade she had polished to mirror finish. Her face was thoughtful, unreadable. Her family name had once echoed through the Senate chambers. Now, here she sat, eating chalk-flavored bread and planning for a future measured in heartbeats.
Marcus divided his attention between watching his squad and calculating how soon he'd have to send a casualty report.
Titus, oblivious, swung his bent sword in slow arcs against the evening sky, practicing flourishes that would have embarrassed a drunken goat.
Lucius looked around at his mismatched, battered, highly questionable team and smiled earnestly.
"We're all in this together, right?"
A silence fell that could have frozen the Tiber.
Severus coughed into his hand and muttered, "Until someone falls in it."
When the sun dipped low and Subura's real monsters began to stir, Marcus called the squad to order.
"First patrol," he said grimly. "Stay alert. Stick together. Avoid property damage if possible."
Titus saluted sharply, somehow elbowing Lucius in the process. Lucius stumbled into Aemilia, who sidestepped neatly, causing him to crash into Severus, who caught him with a sigh and an expression like a man rescuing a fish from a rooftop.
It was not an auspicious beginning.
The squad clattered down the broken stone steps into the streets of Subura. Somewhere, a lyre shrieked in agony. Somewhere else, an argument erupted into blows.
The city yawned before them, sprawling and restless, already sizing them up like a wolf eyeing a wounded rabbit.
Lucius, smiling, said brightly, "How bad could it really be?"
Titus tripped over a loose sandal the next instant and fell face-first into a vegetable cart, sending cabbages flying like startled pigeons.
Marcus closed his eyes.
It was going to be a long, long night.
Chapter 3: First Patrol: Greeted with an Old Boot to the Head
The streets of Subura at night had the warm, embracing aroma of damp socks, rotting onions, and the vague metallic tang of blood best not asked about. Dim torchlight flickered across the labyrinthine alleys, throwing long shadows that looked suspiciously like they were up to no good.
Five figures clattered into this scene, wearing mismatched armor and varying degrees of confidence. At the head of this noble formation marched Marcus Domitius Crispus, radiating the kind of stern dignity that only someone already resigned to disappointment could muster.
Behind him, Titus Flavius Rufus bounced on the balls of his feet like a gladiator itching for a fight and assuming one was around every corner.
Trailing after, Gaius Aemilius Severus offered a muttered running commentary that mostly involved betting how many minutes it would take before they were mugged.
Aemilia Cornificia walked with a purposeful stride, subtly herding Lucius Junius Faustus away from stalls, corners, and citizens that looked like they might view a pretty face as an invitation to theft—or worse.
Lucius, for his part, tried to make friends.
"Lovely evening, isn't it?" he chirped to a toothless man leaning against a crate. In response, the man attempted to sell Lucius a "genuine" senator's toga, stained in three interesting shades of red.
Aemilia snagged Lucius's arm before he could accept.
"No souvenirs," she muttered.
The patrol stumbled forward, a noble disaster waiting to happen.
They entered a cramped courtyard where laundry lines hung like the world's least appetizing decorations. A few vendors packed up the last of their goods, and a couple of suspicious figures melted into doorways at the sight of armored lawkeepers—granted, ones who looked like they'd lost a fight with a goat and a small earthquake.
Marcus raised his hand for a halt.
"This area is known for disturbances," he said in his best 'official briefing' voice. "Eyes sharp."
At that moment, from a second-story window—or perhaps from the gods themselves, feeling playful—a boot sailed majestically through the night.
It struck Marcus squarely in the forehead with the soggy thud of well-traveled leather. His helmet spun off in a lazy arc and landed with a metallic clang.
There was a moment of stunned silence, broken only by a wheezy giggle from above.
Titus reacted exactly as expected.
"Ambush!" he roared, drawing his gladius (still bent from the last misadventure) and charging into the courtyard like a cheerful madman.
Chaos bloomed.
Vendors shrieked. Stalls overturned. Produce exploded across the cobbles—cabbages, onions, and something that may once have been a carrot rolled underfoot. A small, angry dog attached itself to Titus's shin with the enthusiasm of a born soldier.
Lucius, dodging flying fruit, attempted diplomacy. "Good citizens! Remain calm! We are official representatives of—"
A ripe tomato splattered across his chest before he could finish.
Severus grabbed Marcus's discarded helmet, jammed it back onto Marcus's stunned head, and bodily dragged him into partial cover behind an overturned barrel.
"Seen worse," Severus grunted. "At least it's not on fire yet."
The gods, perhaps feeling challenged, arranged for a lantern to topple from a nearby window. It smashed into an abandoned cart, igniting a small but determined flame.
Severus grunted again. "I stand corrected."
When the dust and smoke cleared, the Subura Shields huddled in the narrow alley behind the ruined courtyard, nursing bruises, dignity leaks, and in Lucius's case, a small chicken bite on the wrist.
Aemilia, miraculously free of visible damage, took stock of their situation with brisk efficiency. She pressed a few coins into the hands of a furious vegetable vendor, barked a few apologies, and firmly suggested—by tone alone—that it would be unwise to pursue complaints.
Lucius handed out smiles like bandages, bright and mostly ineffective.
Marcus, helmet askew, attempted to rally.
"We must," he declared, voice muffled slightly by cabbage fragments stuck in his breastplate, "maintain discipline. Remember our training."
Titus, bleeding slightly from a suspiciously square-shaped cut on his forehead, raised a hand.
"What training?"
Marcus chose to ignore him.
Severus was meanwhile restraining Titus from marching over to a twelve-year-old boy who had hurled a withered lettuce with lethal aim.
"Not worth it," Severus said, voice flat. "You win nothing by fighting children. Except, maybe, faster public humiliation."
"But he hit me!" Titus growled, nursing his pride.
"A lettuce, soldier. I believe you'll recover."
The squad limped along the alleyways, battered, grumpy, and somehow a little closer than before. There was something about surviving public ridicule together that bonded men faster than shared victories ever could.
They paused under a crooked archway, torchlight glinting off tarnished armor and bruised egos.
Lucius examined his bitten wrist thoughtfully. "That chicken was very determined."
"Subura's unofficial militia," Severus said dryly.
Marcus straightened his helmet with a grimace. "Well," he announced, "we survived."
Aemilia, inspecting a dent in her greaves, said without looking up, "Technically."
"Good enough," Marcus muttered.
Titus was already flexing his arms, eager for the next disaster.
Lucius, still optimistic despite everything, grinned. "And we're not done yet! Remember, we have to investigate the Taverna Voluptas!"
There was a long, meaningful silence.
From somewhere nearby, a lyre played a note so wrong it might have been a cry for help. Then a crash. Then loud, slurred singing.
Marcus sighed the sigh of a man who had realized his life was now a series of increasingly ridiculous regrets.
"Form up," he said wearily.
They moved toward the noise, stepping into the heart of Subura's chaos once again—bruised, battered, and somehow, improbably, still standing.
Chapter 4: Taverna Voluptas – Trouble on Tap
The heavy door of Taverna Voluptas creaked open with a groan that sounded far too familiar for a place that should be brimming with cheer. Inside, the tavern was dimly lit, the air thick with the kind of smells that could only be described as "adventure"—cheap wine, burning meat, and something faintly like wet fur. The wooden beams overhead creaked with the exhaustion of bearing up the weight of both the roof and the patrons. A rickety sign swung lazily in the breeze outside, depicting a centaur playing a lyre. It was the only decoration that suggested this tavern was ever a place for joy.
Marcus Domitius Crispus stepped in first, his boots slapping the worn, sticky floor. Behind him, the rest of the squad followed. Titus Flavius Rufus practically skipped in, eyes wide, as though the tavern's chaos was the greatest thing he'd ever seen. Gaius Aemilius Severus made his way in with the grace of someone who had already given up. Aemilia Cornificia stepped over the threshold last, her gaze scanning the room with that same professional, calculating air she always carried—looking for the quickest way out, just in case this turned into one of those jobs you could never finish.
Lucius Junius Faustus, ever the optimist, leaned in close to Marcus, grinning like a man who had just been offered a golden coin by an angel.
"Isn't it charming?" he said with a broad smile, glancing at the mismatched patrons who were either passed out on the tables or engaged in some form of argument that could only be described as very passionate.
"No," Marcus replied dryly. "But we're here for a job. Focus."
Lucius continued smiling, blissfully unaware of the storm of chaos about to be unleashed. His eyes twinkled at the colorful array of people—drunken, rowdy, and altogether unbothered by the noise from the far corner.
Aemilia raised an eyebrow at Lucius's perpetual cheeriness. "Don't get too comfortable," she muttered. "This is a real job, not a social visit."
Titus, unable to keep still for even a moment, bounded toward the counter, attracting the attention of an already rather annoyed looking barkeep. "Excuse me!" he called cheerfully, "We're here on official business! Have you seen anything suspicious? Loud noises? People in need of our official services?"
The barkeep barely glanced up, wiping a mug with what looked like the same cloth he used to wipe the bar—possibly since the previous century. "Loud noises? Always. People needing help? Never," he grunted.
Lucius, not to be outdone, sidled up to a nearby table and smiled at a burly man with a patchy beard and an empty wine mug. "Hello there! My name's Lucius! Anything interesting going on around here tonight? Perhaps you'd like to share?" His voice was too chipper for this room, but his smile could light a thousand oil lamps.
The burly man squinted at him and grumbled something unintelligible before belching loudly enough to shake the table.
At this, Gaius sighed deeply, shaking his head. "Well, this is going well," he muttered. "I think we've seen all we need to. Let's get out of here before they think we're part of the entertainment."
Just as Marcus was about to suggest that they leave—mostly to salvage their dignity—there was a sudden commotion from the back of the tavern. The music. The music was absolutely awful.
At first, it was just faint—strange, distorted notes that seemed to be coming from a very poorly tuned lyre. But as the noise grew louder, so did the bellowing and laughter from the drunken crowd. It was an assault on the ears, a melody that could only be described as screaming for help.
The source of this inspiration was a centaur—yes, a centaur—who was slouched on a rickety chair in the corner, strumming the lyre with all the grace of someone who had forgotten how to hold it. His expression was that of a creature who had learned the hard way that a drink was no substitute for musical talent.
Titus, ever the enthusiast, immediately rushed forward. "I like it!" he called out. "I'll bet you're a professional, huh?"
The centaur squinted at him, his glazed eyes narrowing with drunken suspicion. "I'm a musician," he slurred. "What are you looking at? Do you want to hear me play, human?"
Marcus, who had been halfway to the door, froze. "No, no, we are not here for a musical performance," he said quickly, "We're here for a—"
Before he could finish, Titus, ever the eager enthusiast, held up a hand. "Play something else! You've got talent! I can tell! Let's get a song!"
The centaur, looking both insulted and vaguely amused, turned back to his lyre and strummed another tune, which sounded even more horrendous than the first. As the music wailed, Lucius, ever the optimist, leaned over to Aemilia.
"I think he might just be misunderstood," Lucius said with an innocent grin.
Aemilia watched the centaur. "No," she said, shaking her head, "he's just terrible."
Just as she said that, Titus, now fully invested, leaped forward and grabbed the centaur's arm.
"I think you need a little help! Let's get you another drink!" Titus said, hoping to steer the centaur away from his self-inflicted musical misery.
This, of course, sent the centaur into a rage. "A drink? A drink?! I don't need your pity!" he shouted, and the lyre went flying through the air, narrowly missing Lucius's head.
The tavern patrons, predictably, erupted into laughter.
Amidst the ruckus, Titus, oblivious to the growing tension, knocked over a basket of what appeared to be various unsold goods. From within the basket, a large chicken emerged with an almost comical squawk.
The chicken was furious. Its feathers puffed up like a small, avian explosion, and it gave Titus a look that could only be described as personal.
Before anyone could react, the chicken launched itself at Titus, pecking at his boots and causing him to yelp and stumble backward.
"Get it off!" Titus howled as he danced around in circles, desperately trying to avoid the angry bird, which seemed to have taken a very personal dislike to him.
Aemilia, ever the pragmatist, grabbed the chicken by its wings. "Calm down, you ridiculous creature!" she muttered. But the chicken, not content with her calm approach, promptly bit her ankle.
With a sharp cry, Aemilia dropped the bird, which continued its rampage, flapping wildly and chasing Titus as he tried to retreat behind the bar.
Lucius, completely fascinated, stared at the chaos and asked the nearest drunken patron, "Is this part of the act?"
The patron blinked, burped, and mumbled, "Yup. Happens every night."
Just as the chicken mayhem began to die down, the centaur, still glaring at Titus, shouted, "Enough of this! Let me show you how it's done!"
With a mighty crash, he plucked the lyre from the ground and began another soul-wrenching rendition of a tune that sounded like a goat had stepped on the strings.
The tavern patrons cheered in their usual, drunken fashion, none of them noticing the truly suspicious sounds coming from the back.
At last, Severus turned to Marcus. "We've gotten about as much intel as we can here, don't you think?"
Marcus nodded grimly. "We'll head out soon. Let's just... let this be."
Having endured the drunken centaur's performance, the squad made their way back toward the door, leaving a scene of disorder behind them. Titus, still smiling despite the chaos, commented, "Best performance I've ever heard!"
"Please," Severus muttered, "Let's get out of here before this place burns down."
Marcus, with a sigh of relief, led the team out into the cold air of Subura. As they walked back through the streets, Lucius turned to Marcus.
"I think that went well," he said brightly.
The rest of the squad exchanged tired glances.
Chapter 5: Marcus Attempts a Rousing Speech; Inspires Mild Nausea
Inside the dimly lit barracks, the air was thick with the smell of damp leather, stale bread, and something that could only be described as "regret." It was here, among the scattered remnants of yesterday's meal and the dented shields piled haphazardly against the wall, that Marcus Domitius Crispus found himself facing the squad.
His squad.
The words my squad felt wrong even in his own head. This band of misfit legionaries, with all their quirks and failings, didn't exactly inspire confidence. They were supposed to be Rome's elite peacekeepers, but Marcus had started to wonder whether "elite" was a word best reserved for other squads.
But that didn't matter now. Marcus was determined to rally the troops. He had a speech prepared—a speech meant to ignite the fires of honor, inspire courage, and remind the squad of their noble purpose. He even stood tall as if the very floorboards beneath him could somehow be imbued with his dignity.
He cleared his throat. "Alright, listen up!" he barked, a little too loudly. The squad turned their attention to him, but no one looked particularly impressed. Severus, predictably, was seated on a stool near the fire, arms crossed, looking like a man who had seen a thousand speeches and could barely muster the energy to sigh.
Marcus tried again. "We are the Subura Shields! We've been tasked with the protection of the streets of this great city. We are here not just to keep the peace, but to ensure that Rome's legacy remains untarnished, its citizens safe from harm!"
Titus Flavius Rufus immediately raised his hand, though his expression suggested he was more excited than actually listening. "I've got a great idea! How about we just charge in and punch anyone who looks at us funny? I mean, if we're gonna keep the peace, let's really keep the peace, right?"
Marcus winced but pressed on. "We will, Titus. We will keep the peace, but with restraint. With wisdom. We will be a shining example of Rome's greatest qualities—valor, honor, and discipline!"
Lucius Junius Faustus, the perpetually bright-eyed and bushy-tailed recruit, stood up with a smile that could melt any statue. "Right! I'll show them how it's done, Marcus! No one can stand against us, can they? We're heroes!"
His optimism was like a fresh breeze—unaware, naively hopeful, and just a touch too naïve. Marcus shot him a tired look. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Lucius."
Gaius Aemilius Severus, seated at the far side of the room, mumbled something under his breath. Marcus couldn't quite make it out but was pretty sure it was something like, "Valiant last words."
Severus never did have much faith in Marcus's speeches. Marcus straightened up, undeterred. "We are a unit, a team! And together, we can accomplish anything. No matter how difficult the challenge, no matter how grim the odds, we are Subura Shields, and we—"
Titus interrupted him, naturally. "And we'll win every time! Just like I'm gonna win this fight right now—" Titus rushed forward, making a wild attempt to grab one of the shields stacked near the door. It wobbled precariously but didn't fall—yet.
The squad's attention shifted to Titus, whose recklessness had already kicked up a cloud of dust and distracted everyone from Marcus's speech. Severus leaned over to Aemilia. "This is either going to be a disaster or a very long, drawn-out disaster."
Aemilia, ever the realist, nodded and whispered back, "I'm betting on disaster."
Marcus, who was trying to keep the pieces of his dignity intact, tried again, raising his hand in a dramatic gesture. "We will face whatever comes our way with courage. I believe in each and every one of you!" He looked from Titus to Lucius, then finally to Aemilia and Severus. "We are stronger together than apart!"
Lucius, always the enthusiast, jumped to his feet, clapping. "I'm ready! Let's go show Subura what we're made of! We'll make them remember our names!"
Titus, meanwhile, had somehow managed to turn his shield into a makeshift battering ram. "I say we get out there and smash some heads! For the glory of Rome!"
Aemilia raised an eyebrow. "That's not what Marcus meant."
"But it could work," Lucius chirped, completely serious.
Severus rolled his eyes and muttered, "A bit of subtlety goes a long way, lads."
Marcus, now thoroughly defeated by his own attempt at leadership, sank back onto the only chair that wasn't too broken. "Well… that went well," he muttered.
Outside the barracks, the streets of Subura awaited. The air had cooled from the afternoon heat, and the sounds of the city—shouts, the clinking of coins, the hum of late-night commerce—filled the background. The squad prepared for their patrol, and despite Marcus's failed speech, there was still a sense of purpose that flickered in their movements.
Titus, filled with enthusiasm after Marcus's pep talk—however disastrous it may have been—decided to take charge in his own way.
"I'm in charge of this patrol!" he declared, pushing ahead and leading the way, clearly excited to show the team just how it was done.
"No, you're not," Severus grumbled under his breath. "This is going to be—"
"Quick! We'll get there faster if we go down this alley!" Titus shouted, already charging forward, past half-sleeping vendors and crumbling doorways.
"Wait, Titus, don't—" Marcus started, but Titus was already gone, a blur of reckless energy in the distance. He might have looked like he knew where he was going. In fact, he didn't.
The rest of the squad followed reluctantly, unsure whether to follow Titus's lead or try to regain some control over the situation. It was inevitable, really. Titus was the kind of person who believed that if you ran fast enough, you could outrun the consequences of bad decisions.
Their "quick" route, naturally, brought them straight into a scuffle between two vendors over some spoiled produce. The pickpockets, always on the lookout for opportunity, immediately seized upon the chaos, aiming to make off with a few stolen goods.
Titus, seeing his moment to shine, ran directly into the fray with all the grace of a stampede.
"Stop right there!" he shouted, arms flailing as he charged forward, only to trip over a stray bag of apples and fall directly into one of the pickpockets. The thief yelped in surprise, and Titus's enthusiasm managed to pin the man down—unintentionally, of course.
The vendor, seeing the pickpocket subdued by sheer happenstance, turned to Marcus, who had arrived breathlessly at the scene. "I think he's doing a good job... somehow."
"Somehow," Marcus echoed with a wince. "I'll take it."
Severus, always prepared, strolled forward, his arms folded. "Tell you what, I'll make sure the rest of the street knows we're doing a great job." He handed over a few coins to the vendor and took the pickpocket by the collar, dragging him away before he could start crying about his "harsh treatment."
Back in a quiet courtyard, the squad took a moment to regroup. Titus was still grinning, proud of himself for handling the situation, but Marcus's frustration simmered just below the surface. He stared at his team, the weight of his role heavy on his shoulders.
"I'm not cut out for this, am I?" Marcus muttered, staring at his boots.
Aemilia, who had been quiet throughout most of the ordeal, finally spoke. "No one is, Marcus. That's the point. Leadership isn't about being perfect. It's about knowing when to get out of the way."
Marcus gave a rueful smile. "Not sure I can do that either."
Titus, completely unaware of the serious tone, slapped Marcus on the back. "Don't worry! We're a team! We'll make it through!"
Severus, still adjusting his coat, shrugged. "I suppose we're learning. Slowly."
Lucius smiled, trying to be helpful, "I think we did well, honestly. We got the job done!"
It was a small victory, but it was something. Marcus stood, stretching his arms. "Alright. We're not done yet. Let's head to the next job. It's time we make this work."
Back at the barracks, the squad gathered their gear in preparation for their next assignment, which would be a real test of their ability to work together. Despite their chaotic start, there was a palpable sense of camaraderie beginning to form. Even Titus's rash decisions had brought them closer, in a strange, roundabout way.
Marcus glanced over his squad, still reeling from his failed speech but recognizing that they were, indeed, starting to find their way—albeit very slowly.
"I'll try not to mess this one up," he said, with an almost apologetic glance at Aemilia.
"Just keep them from running headfirst into trouble again," she replied dryly, nodding at Titus.
Titus grinned. "Headfirst, right! That's how we do it!"
Marcus sighed but couldn't suppress a smile. Maybe it wasn't perfect—but it was their squad.
And they were still standing.
Chapter 6: Rats, Unions, and Other Natural Disasters
The sun had barely dipped below the horizon, leaving Subura to settle into its usual haze of noise, filth, and lingering smells of questionable food. The streets, narrow and cluttered, had an air of pervasive chaos—fitting for a district whose idea of "organization" could only be described as an ironic joke.
The squad was on its way to a new task: a rat infestation of epic proportions. And no, not just your average vermin problem. No, this was different. The rats had unionized.
Marcus Domitius Crispus, standing at the forefront of this absurd mission, was already regretting his life choices. His tunic, now stained with remnants of previous chaos, clung to him as he led his ragtag squad through the dirt-slicked streets. He'd dealt with criminals, drunks, and rowdy mobs before, but this was something else entirely. A rat union.
"We're not going to deal with these like normal rats, are we?" Marcus muttered to himself. "They're organized."
Severus, as usual, walked with a dry, bored expression, his boots crunching over the garbage-strewn ground. "What did you expect? The rats were probably tired of living in filth. Might as well have a picket line outside the sewer."
Titus, with his usual unfiltered enthusiasm, piped up from the rear, his voice too loud for the early evening air. "That's right! We should just march in, shake some cages, and show them who's boss! Maybe a little fire and brimstone!"
"Please, Titus, no fire this time," Aemilia said flatly from behind him. "We don't need another incident like the last time you thought fire was the answer."
Lucius, who had been trying to chat with a vendor about whether "cheese" was really supposed to smell like that, finally looked up, eyes wide with optimism. "Maybe the rats just need more food? Maybe we can offer them a feast, show them our good will?"
Marcus let out a long sigh, rubbing his forehead. This was going to be a long day.
The team arrived at the scene—a dilapidated building so far beyond repair that the mere sight of it made Marcus's knees buckle. The entire structure was sagging to one side, and a thin stream of what was most definitely sewage trickled lazily across the street. It was here, in this corner of Subura, that the rats had made their stand—literally.
A city official met them by the door, his face pinched in discomfort. "You've come for the rats, yes?" he asked, his voice high-pitched as if he was too nervous to even be near the problem.
"We've come for the rat union," Marcus corrected. "You said it was bad, but this... is worse than I imagined."
The official nodded solemnly, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. "They've gotten organized, sir. Not just the rats. They've formed a union, and now they're demanding better living conditions. It's madness."
Titus's eyes lit up, clearly intrigued. "A union? So, are we negotiating with rats now? That's some next-level diplomacy!"
"No," Aemilia replied dryly, "we're here to stop a rat infestation. We'll negotiate later, if necessary."
Lucius, still filled with naive optimism, asked, "Do they... want a union hall or something? Maybe a little cheese and a seat at the table?"
Severus let out a long, drawn-out sigh. "We're here to stop a problem, Lucius. Not encourage it."
Marcus, feeling the weight of the situation, squared his shoulders. "Let's get to it, then. We need to figure out what this rat union wants and how we can solve it without making more of a mess."
The squad descended into the depths of Subura's sewer system, where the rat union had made its headquarters. The air grew thick and fetid as they navigated through narrow passages, the sounds of scurrying feet and distant squeaks growing louder with each step.
As they entered the central sewer chamber, they encountered the rat union's leadership: a particularly large and scarred rat that seemed to have an unsettling command over the others. He stood on a makeshift podium, which looked like a pile of discarded barrels, and addressed a crowd of larger-than-average rats who nodded solemnly, as if taking notes on every word.
The rat leader, a creature of surprising intelligence, stepped forward. "You've come to hear our grievances?" he asked, his voice sharp and surprisingly articulate for a rat. "We demand better conditions—cleaner sewers, more food, and better treatment from the city. Our families deserve to live in dignity!"
Marcus blinked, struggling to process what he was hearing. "You've organized... a union of rats?"
"Rats," the leader corrected with a flick of his whiskers, "and allies. We demand what's rightfully ours. We will not live in filth anymore."
Titus, eager to resolve things quickly, stepped forward, fists clenched. "I say we just... clear them out. Eradicate them!"
Marcus shot him a look, his patience wearing thin. "This isn't just about clearing out rats, Titus. These are demands. We need to understand why they're doing this."
"Rats are always demanding," Severus muttered. "But they're right about one thing. The city's sanitation system is a disaster."
The rat leader, sensing an opening, addressed the squad. "We have been mistreated for too long. We are organized now. No more will we scurry in the shadows. We will stand together and demand our rights."
Marcus hesitated. "What do you want from us?"
The rat's eyes gleamed with a mix of cunning and pride. "Better living conditions. And a promise that no rat will be harmed until our demands are met."
As the tension thickened and the rats continued to argue among themselves, Severus stepped forward with a characteristic shrug. "Let's make a deal. You want better conditions? We can make that happen... for a price."
The rat leader's eyes narrowed. "What price?"
"We'll speak to the city. But you need to calm down. No more militant actions," Severus said, his voice dripping with cynicism. "You want food, sanitation, all the luxuries of a clean sewer? Fine. But you'll have to work with us. No more picketing."
Aemilia, impressed by Severus's directness, added, "We can try to negotiate better living conditions. We're not promising anything. But you need to stop this now."
The rat leader, after a long pause, gave a reluctant nod. "We will stop for now. But only if you keep your word. If not... we will return."
The squad made the agreement. The rats, for the moment, were appeased. But as they left the sewers, Marcus felt a deep, unshakable sense of doubt. Could this bizarre situation truly be resolved with a mere agreement? Or had they simply delayed the inevitable?
The squad emerged from the sewers, filthy and exhausted. The sky above Subura was still streaked with orange from the setting sun, but there was no peace in the air. They had dealt with the rats, for now, but the sense of satisfaction was lacking.
Lucius, ever the optimist, clapped Severus on the back. "That was incredible, Severus! I didn't think anyone could talk down a rat."
Severus, still irritated, muttered, "It wasn't the rats I was talking to. It was their leaders."
Aemilia gave Marcus a glance that said everything without words. He still had much to learn. Much to adapt to. Subura didn't bend to order, no matter how many speeches he made.
"Well," Marcus said, looking at his team, "we survived. I suppose that's the best we can ask for."
"Just another day in Subura," Titus added cheerfully, stretching as if nothing had happened.
Severus couldn't help but chuckle. "If that was a 'day,' we might not make it to the next one."
Chapter 7: Gaius Recounts the 14 Ways This Will Go Wrong
Inside the rickety barracks, the squad was gathered in a haphazard circle around a crate that might have once been a table but had since surrendered to the unrelenting weight of time and neglect. Dust hung thick in the air, a reminder that the air in Subura was always one bad decision away from becoming unbreathable.
Marcus Domitius Crispus stood before them, attempting—yet again—to command attention, his expression a mixture of stubborn determination and an unspoken acknowledgment that this might not be going as planned. His tunic was slightly frayed, and his helmet had seen better days, but he was, at least, present. His squad, however, was another matter entirely.
"I trust we all understand the seriousness of this mission," he began, trying his best to channel some semblance of leadership. "We are going to Subura's Eastern District to investigate a series of disturbances. There have been reports of an uptick in gang activity. We need to be sharp, efficient, and—"
The rest of his speech was drowned out by Titus, who, with the enthusiasm of a man who had just discovered that breathing was, in fact, free, jumped up and waved his arms. "I've got it!" he shouted. "We'll go in with full force, knock on every door, and—"
"No," Marcus cut in, glaring at Titus. "No 'full force.' We need tact, precision."
Titus raised his eyebrows, visibly disappointed that his grand idea to batter down doors was being stifled. "But, Marcus, it worked last time, right? We just go in, swing first, ask questions later!"
"No," Marcus repeated, his voice firmer. "We don't swing first. We—"
"Marcus," Gaius Aemilius Severus interrupted, his dry voice cutting through the tension, "before you try to teach them the ways of subtlety and grace, I'd like to remind you that nothing—absolutely nothing—has gone to plan since we arrived here."
Marcus opened his mouth to respond, but Gaius held up a hand, silencing him. "No, let me. There are fourteen ways this mission will go wrong. I'll list them for you, and I'll even give you a generous timeline of when each will occur."
The squad, tired and accustomed to Gaius's gloomy outlook, waited in silence.
"Number one," Gaius began, pacing in front of them. "Titus will charge ahead, thinking it's a sprinting contest. This will result in a stampede, followed by an unnecessary fight. Likely with a dog. Perhaps a goat. Hard to say, but the odds are in favor of something being trampled."
Titus, unphased, grinned. "I'm ready for the challenge!"
"Number two," Gaius continued, "Lucius will attempt to befriend the local gang, mistaking them for a group of completely friendly merchants. I give it twenty minutes before he starts a riot."
Lucius, ever optimistic, nodded eagerly. "I can charm anyone! I'll have them eating out of the palm of my hand!"
"And number three," Gaius smirked, "Severus will try to negotiate with the criminals, and before we know it, he'll have them laughing at his sarcasm and offering him a seat at the table. The only thing he'll walk away with is a broken nose."
Severus looked mildly offended but didn't deny it. "I'm more likely to get stabbed than not."
"Number four," Gaius continued, "Marcus, in a moment of unfortunate inspiration, will give a speech that will be so lacking in charisma, so devoid of fire, that it will leave everyone in the room asking themselves why they bothered showing up." He paused and shot a glance at Marcus, who stared back, dismayed but not entirely surprised. "Perhaps the greatest tragedy will be that no one notices when he finishes."
Marcus let out a defeated sigh. "I thought I had a good plan..."
Gaius raised a hand. "Just wait."
"Number five," Gaius went on, "Titus will attempt to lead us with enthusiasm alone, which, in fairness, might work in some circumstances, but here? No. It will cause a scene, most likely involving a smashed barrel of wine. This will end with the entire town turning on us."
"Alright, alright," Titus grumbled, "I get it. Maybe I don't charge in every time."
Gaius gave a mock bow. "I'm glad you understand. Moving on."
The squad stepped out into the filthy streets of Subura, the mission ahead now thoroughly forecasted to go wrong in the most spectacular fashion. As Gaius had predicted, things began to unravel immediately.
Titus, grinning ear to ear, started ahead at a brisk pace, all but jogging. "I'll go ahead and scout out the area! No need to wait for orders!" he declared, causing several street vendors to glance up in confusion.
Before Marcus could respond, Gaius muttered, "It's started."
The squad trailed after Titus, trying to maintain some semblance of order, but soon, as predicted, the chaos began. Titus turned a corner, and a few moments later, they heard shouting, followed by a crash.
"I'm fine!" Titus yelled, emerging from an overturned cart, his tunic covered in spilled apples.
"Of course you are," muttered Severus, who had been the first to run to the scene. "That's exactly how it starts."
The local merchant, furious and red-faced, began to shout at them. "Your idiot friend broke my cart!"
Lucius, as predicted, stepped forward, his wide grin as bright as ever. "Look, good sir, let's not fight over a few apples. I'm sure we can sort this out—peacefully!"
The merchant, eyes narrowing, took one look at Lucius and snapped, "Peacefully? I'd rather have your head."
Aemilia sighed and stepped forward, smoothing the situation with a few well-chosen words and a couple of coins. "I'll pay for the cart," she said. "Let's just avoid more of this, yes?"
The merchant grudgingly accepted the payment, but the damage was done. They were already attracting attention. The mission, as Gaius had predicted, was quickly descending into farce.
Just as the squad began to feel the weight of their failed start, a figure emerged from the shadows—a gang member, clearly eyeing them with suspicion. This was the real reason they were here: to track down this criminal syndicate that had been causing havoc in Subura.
As Marcus approached, attempting to regain some control, Titus, in his usual reckless fashion, leaped forward and grabbed the man by the collar. "Alright! We've come for answers!"
Before Marcus could stop him, the rest of the gang emerged from the alley, surrounding them. Lucius, ever the optimist, greeted them with a friendly wave, only to be met with confused and angry stares.
Severus, standing behind the group, sighed, pulled his sword from its sheath, and muttered, "Guess it's time to get this over with."
The ensuing fight was a blur of fists, blades, and shouting, the squad doing their best to hold their own. Titus's wild swings knocked over a few crates, while Lucius, somehow, was trying to talk his way through the chaos, offering peace while simultaneously dodging a rather large thug's punch.
It wasn't until Aemilia stepped forward, issuing a sharp command to retreat, that the fight began to slow. Severus, ever pragmatic, knew when to leave.
Later, after escaping to a quieter part of Subura, the squad leaned against a crumbling wall, catching their breath.
"I told you so," Gaius muttered, sipping from his flask. "And I'm only on number seven. I have seven more to go, and I haven't been wrong yet."
Marcus, bruised and exhausted, rubbed his temples. "This is... harder than I thought."
Aemilia, who had kept them organized through the chaos, offered a quieter, more thoughtful perspective. "It's not easy leading a squad like this, Marcus. You're learning, but you can't force control over everything. Sometimes, you need to guide them—gently."
Lucius, still smiling despite the chaos, clapped Marcus on the back. "Don't worry! We made it out, didn't we? That's the important thing!"
Titus, ever enthusiastic, grinned, his wild energy still intact. "Next time, we really make an impact, right? Maybe with a little less fighting!"
Marcus nodded, his frustration tempered with the understanding that they were learning, even if it was the hard way. He had a long road ahead of him, but at least they had survived this fiasco together.
Chapter 8: The Sewer Map is, in Fact, Just a Wine Stain
The dim light of the lanterns flickered unsteadily as the squad gathered around a haphazardly arranged table inside their barracks. The map laid before them was old, the edges curling and yellowing like the forgotten pages of a history no one cared to read anymore. Yet, there was something about this map that had promised answers—or so the informant claimed.
Marcus Domitius Crispus furrowed his brow as he scanned the crude ink lines on the map, tracing them with his finger. "This is supposed to lead us to the criminal syndicate operating under Subura?" he asked, skepticism dripping from every syllable.
Aemilia Cornificia, who had been observing the map with narrowed eyes, was the first to speak. "It looks... incomplete. There's something off about it. These markings aren't clear enough to be reliable. If this was meant to guide us to a criminal base, it's more likely a blind alley than anything useful."
Titus Flavius Rufus peered over Marcus's shoulder, his face lighting up with that ever-present enthusiasm. "Ah, come on, Marcus! I'm sure if we just follow it, we'll figure it out. I mean, maps are supposed to be a little fuzzy, right? The real adventure is in the unknown!"
"Right," Gaius Aemilius Severus interjected dryly, raising an eyebrow. "A map so fuzzy you can't even make out the streets or the landmarks. A true adventure, indeed."
Marcus ignored the snide remark, still trying to make sense of the scribbles before him. "It's a map," he said, trying to convince himself more than anyone else. "There's got to be something to it."
Lucius Junius Faustus, ever the optimist, chimed in. "Maybe the 'missing pieces' are just part of the mystery! Who needs clear markings when you've got enthusiasm and charm?" He flashed a smile that could have melted steel. "I'll bet we'll find whatever we're looking for, no problem!"
"Or," Gaius said with a knowing glance, "this is nothing more than a wine stain with some poorly drawn lines. But sure, let's follow it anyway."
Aemilia stepped in before the banter could continue, tapping the map with a finger. "Marcus, there are too many inconsistencies in this. If it's a map to a criminal hideout, it's the worst one I've ever seen. We're better off trusting our instincts than this scrap of parchment."
Marcus looked at the map again, his frustration building. It was clear to him now—his initial optimism was unwarranted. The map was a joke, a waste of time. But... they were here. They had to follow through, didn't they?
The room fell silent as Marcus sighed. "Alright, let's move out. We'll follow the map. If it leads to nothing, we'll turn back. But for now, this is our only lead."
Gaius, who had been silent until now, rolled his eyes. "Oh, it'll lead somewhere all right. Somewhere ridiculous."
The squad made their way to the entrance of Subura's sewers, the only route to whatever lay beneath the city's grimy streets. The smell hit them first—an unholy blend of refuse, rotting food, and something that could only be described as decay. The air was thick and damp, the narrow passageways winding deeper into the earth.
Titus, always eager, practically bounced in place. "A little smell never stopped me from being a hero!" he declared loudly, much to the dismay of everyone around him.
Aemilia, adjusting the straps on her gear, shot him a sidelong glance. "A little tact, Titus," she said under her breath. "Perhaps if we could avoid actually attracting the attention of the sewer's denizens, we might make it through without incident."
Lucius, ever the optimist, chimed in. "I'm sure we'll be fine! Who would even think to look for us down here?"
Severus snorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Rats. Bandits. The local criminal syndicate. They all live here, Lucius. Just keep your wits about you."
The group descended further, the path growing narrower and wetter as the sound of distant dripping echoed around them. The tunnel was dank, the walls slick with moisture. The only light came from the flickering torches they carried, casting long shadows that seemed to move of their own accord.
Gaius kept to the back, arms crossed, muttering about how this was going to end in disaster. "A wine-stained map and a sewer full of criminals. Brilliant. If I ever make it out of here, I'll write a book about it. 'How to fail at being a peacekeeper in Subura.'"
The deeper they ventured into the tunnels, the more they began to realize something wasn't right. The layout was far more complex than a simple sewer system—it had been transformed. Discarded crates, stacks of rotting barrels, and half-burned lanterns littered the paths, signs that the space had been adapted for something far more nefarious.
"Look at this," Aemilia said, crouching by one of the makeshift tunnels. "These aren't just sewer workers. This is a full-blown operation. Look at the crates—these are supplies, not trash. Someone's been living down here."
Severus, ever the realist, narrowed his eyes. "A criminal syndicate," he muttered, "and this isn't just a hideout. This is their base. This is where they've been hiding."
Marcus turned to face the group, his frustration palpable. "But the map—how could we have missed this? We've been running in circles, and now we've stumbled onto the heart of it all."
Lucius, still looking wide-eyed with a mixture of awe and terror, gestured to the surrounding clutter. "Well, whatever it is, it's certainly not a wine stain. And I think I've learned that real maps don't just show you the way... sometimes, you need to make your own path."
Gaius, who had been peering over their shoulders, muttered, "Yes, and sometimes you make a path straight into a trap. But let's go. Let's finish what we started."
They pressed on, the maze of tunnels stretching on before them, more confusing than ever.
Just as they neared what seemed to be a central chamber, a loud, ominous sound echoed through the tunnel. The squad paused, instinctively drawing their weapons. Moments later, the dim light flickered as shadows moved rapidly through the tunnel. It wasn't just the rats now—there were people in the tunnels.
Severus, ever the pragmatist, was the first to react. "Get out. Now."
Titus, never one to retreat, instinctively stepped forward. "We fight! Let's show them who's boss!"
"No!" Aemilia snapped. "We're not getting into a fight down here. We need to retreat—now."
But as they attempted to retreat, they were met with resistance—figures cloaked in shadow appeared in the doorway, armed with crude weapons. The squad was surrounded.
In that moment, they had no choice but to flee. As they turned, Titus and Marcus took up the rear, clearing the path as best as they could. The air was thick with the stench of desperation as the squad bolted down the winding tunnels, their breath ragged.
By some miracle—and a lot of luck—they managed to escape through a narrow back exit, stumbling into the darkened streets of Subura once again.
Gasping for breath, Marcus looked at his squad, bruised, dirty, and somehow more united than before. "We survived," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Aemilia shot him a sideways glance. "Barely."
"But we're still standing," Titus said, brushing off his dirt-streaked tunic. "That's what matters!"
Chapter 9: Their First Arrest... of Themselves (Long Story)
The air in the barracks was thick with tension, the walls whispering the echoes of failed missions and unfulfilled ambitions. The squad was gathered around a ragged wooden table, its surface marked by deep scratches and coffee stains that told stories of long hours and little progress. Today, however, they had a new lead, and Marcus Domitius Crispus was determined that this mission would be different.
"We're not leaving until we get answers," Marcus announced, his voice steady but tinged with the frustration that had been steadily growing within him. His fingers, stiff from holding a quill too long, drummed lightly on the map spread out before him. The ink had begun to blur in places, and the edges were fraying, much like his patience.
Titus, standing a little too close to the table, leaned in with wide-eyed enthusiasm. "Right! Let's just storm the place and let everyone know we mean business!" His voice boomed with the kind of reckless confidence only Titus could muster.
Aemilia Cornificia, who had been standing at the window, arms crossed, shot him a withering look. "Titus, for the last time, no storming. We need to be... subtle."
Severus, leaning against the wall with a flask in hand, muttered, "Subtlety and Titus? That's a bit like asking a bull to take a ballet class."
Lucius Junius Faustus, oblivious to the undercurrents of tension in the room, chirped up cheerfully, "I'm sure we'll all be fine! We'll just—"
"We'll just what?" Gaius Aemilius Severus interrupted, eyes narrowing. "Not get caught for the fifth time today?"
Lucius blinked, undeterred. "Well, technically it was just the fourth—"
Marcus raised a hand, cutting off the banter. "Enough. We have a lead. And we need to follow it carefully, as planned. Subura's criminal underworld is not a place where we can afford to be reckless." His words fell flat against the room's tension, but he pressed on, hoping to regain control.
As Marcus laid out the plan—vague as it was, given the lack of reliable information—the squad gathered their equipment, more out of habit than true preparation. The mission was simple enough: find a criminal gang operating near the docks, gather intel, and get out before things escalated. What could possibly go wrong?
The sun had begun to set as the squad wandered into the grimy streets of Subura. The stench of the place hit them first—damp wood, sewage, and the unmistakable odor of desperation. They had been here before, many times, but each return made it no less overwhelming.
They met with their informant in a narrow alleyway, where the shadows seemed to curl around every corner like thieves eager for a chance to strike. The informant, a scruffy man with a twitchy eye and nervous hands, whispered hurriedly about a gang holed up in an old warehouse near the docks.
"They'll be there tonight," the informant muttered, glancing nervously behind him. "Big plans. Big money. You'll find them if you head west along the docks."
Marcus nodded, but his instincts were prickling. Something didn't sit right. "What's the catch?"
The informant's eyes flickered to the left, then back to Marcus. "You didn't hear this from me, but they've got a big shipment coming in tonight. Be careful. If you aren't careful, the guards might mistake you for one of them."
That was enough to set off alarm bells in Marcus's mind. They had walked right into the heart of Subura's criminal activity, and he knew that their success would depend on keeping a low profile.
The squad made their way to the warehouse, sticking to the shadows as much as possible. The building loomed ahead, dark and foreboding, a perfect hideout for the criminal syndicate they were supposed to infiltrate.
Titus, as always, was first to step forward. "Alright, here's what we'll do. We charge in, yell a lot, and make them regret ever crossing us."
Marcus shot him a look, his eyes narrowing. "No charging in."
"We knock on the door," Aemilia suggested, her tone flat. "We see who answers. We don't make a scene."
"Where's the fun in that?" Titus complained, looking disappointed.
The squad approached the door, which creaked open with an eerie groan. As they stepped inside, the place was quiet—too quiet. It seemed deserted, with only the faint rustling of rats and the occasional drip of water echoing through the rafters.
"This is… odd," Severus remarked, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. "I expected more action."
Marcus held up his hand, signaling for quiet. But before he could speak, the door slammed shut behind them with a deafening bang.
"What the—?" Marcus began, but before he could finish, they were surrounded by a group of guards, their weapons drawn and eyes narrowed.
"Who are you?" one of the guards demanded, stepping forward.
Marcus opened his mouth to explain, but before he could, the guards grabbed him. "You're under arrest," the leader of the guards spat. "For interfering with criminal activity. You're coming with us."
The next thing Marcus knew, he and the rest of the squad were shoved into a dank, overcrowded holding cell. The walls were damp, the air thick with the smell of old sweat, urine, and what might have been mildew.
"Well," Gaius said, breaking the silence with his usual deadpan delivery. "This is exactly how I envisioned spending my evening."
"I thought we were here to arrest criminals, not become them," Aemilia muttered, slumped against the wall.
"Subura," Severus grumbled, "where even the guards can't tell the difference between the law and chaos."
Titus, ever the optimist, tried to brush it off with a grin. "Well, we've got a roof over our heads, don't we? This could be worse."
Lucius, not realizing the gravity of the situation, flashed a smile. "It's all part of the adventure, right? I mean, the real criminals will get their comeuppance. Eventually."
The squad fell silent as the reality of their situation sank in. They had been arrested—not by the criminals they had been sent to catch, but by the very people they had sworn to serve.
"I'm an idiot," Marcus muttered under his breath, pacing the small cell. "This is my fault."
Aemilia's voice cut through the tension. "No. It's all of us. But we're getting out of here. We'll figure this out."
The following morning, they were released after a higher-ranking official cleared up the misunderstanding. They stumbled out of the jailhouse, filthy, exhausted, and bruised—but free.
As they walked away from the prison, the weight of their failure was heavy. Marcus, feeling the full burden of his leadership, knew he needed to adapt. His ideals of control were nothing but a burden in Subura's chaos.
"I'm sorry," Marcus said, his voice low. "I should have handled this better."
Aemilia, always the realist, shrugged. "We all make mistakes. But it's time we learned from them."
"Next time," Severus muttered, "maybe don't get arrested by the guards."
Lucius, ever optimistic, clapped Marcus on the back. "It's okay! We're still here, and that's what matters!"
Titus, looking up at the sky, smiled. "Another day in Subura. Who's up for a drink?"
The squad, battered but not broken, made their way back to the barracks, a reluctant unity starting to form between them. Perhaps, Marcus thought, this mess might actually help them grow. They might not be perfect, but they were surviving—together.
Chapter 10: Aemilia Fixes Everything, Again
The barracks were quiet, an eerie stillness hanging in the air. The low murmur of voices from outside Subura's chaotic streets barely filtered in through the cracks of the dilapidated walls. The squad was gathered around a worn wooden table, its surface scarred by countless previous missions that had ended in nothing but frustration.
Marcus Domitius Crispus stood at the head of the table, his fingers drumming on a map. It was a simple mission this time: retrieve a valuable artifact from a notorious gang operating along the docks. The plan seemed straightforward enough—too straightforward, perhaps. A simple drop-off. Yet, as Marcus looked over the faces of his squad, he could feel the weight of their past failures pressing down on him. His leadership had been challenged again and again, and he was starting to wonder if there would ever be an end to the chaos.
"Alright," Marcus said, clearing his throat. "We've got a job to do. This isn't some back-alley job. We're getting in and out clean. No mess, no trouble." He glanced at Titus. "Titus, no charging in."
Titus, who was already bouncing on his feet like a coiled spring, nodded eagerly. "Right! I'll be ready to—"
"No," Aemilia Cornificia interjected before he could finish, her voice smooth but firm. "We'll approach with caution. We need to make sure we have eyes on the whole operation before we do anything. No surprises this time."
Titus, despite his enthusiasm, deflated slightly but only for a moment. "Fine, fine, but I still think we should hit them hard. No point sneaking around like thieves."
"We're not thieves, Titus," Aemilia replied, her tone sharp, but her gaze softening when she looked at him. "We're professionals. We make sure the job gets done without unnecessary drama. Agreed?"
Titus hesitated, then nodded begrudgingly.
"Good." Marcus took a step forward. "We're moving out in ten. Let's stick to the plan."
The streets of Subura were alive with their usual noise—vendors shouting, the clatter of carts, and the occasional dispute between the locals that had become so commonplace no one bothered to stop. The squad moved through the streets with practiced ease, their boots tapping against the cobblestone, though their presence didn't go unnoticed. A few locals eyed them with curiosity, but there was a certain indifference to their steps.
Titus's attempt to chat with a local street performer was interrupted by a loud crash as he knocked over a barrel of fish. "Sorry!" he said quickly, flashing a smile as he jumped back. "I didn't mean to—"
Aemilia sighed heavily, rubbing her temples. "Titus," she muttered, "keep it together."
Severus, walking with his arms crossed, glanced over at Aemilia. "At least it wasn't a fire this time. Progress."
Aemilia shot him a look, then turned to Marcus. "We need to be quick. There's no time for distractions."
Marcus, still on edge, nodded. "We stick to the plan."
Lucius, always eager to keep things light, grinned brightly. "It's a nice day, don't you think? We're getting paid, we're doing good work—what could possibly go wrong?"
"Don't tempt fate," Severus muttered, casting a sidelong glance at him. "You're jinxing us."
The warehouse at the docks loomed before them, dark and foreboding. It was a silent giant, filled with creaking wood and rusting metal. As the squad approached the entrance, the overwhelming stench of saltwater mixed with mildew and decay permeated the air. The place was in complete contrast to the bustling streets of Subura—a quiet, almost oppressive atmosphere hung in the air.
Titus's enthusiasm couldn't be contained. "I say we just walk in, take what's ours, and be done with it," he muttered, eyeing the dimly lit building with unbridled excitement.
"No," Aemilia said, her voice firm but quiet. "We don't know who's inside. We need to gather intel before doing anything. We'll stick to the plan."
The door creaked open, but before anyone could step inside, a loud crack sounded from the far side of the building, followed by the unmistakable clattering of crates being overturned.
"See?" Titus grinned, "Told you something was off."
"Stay focused," Marcus warned, but even he couldn't fully suppress the growing sense of tension in the pit of his stomach. This wasn't going to be easy.
As they moved further into the warehouse, a harsh voice suddenly rang out from the shadows. "Who goes there?"
The squad froze. From the shadows emerged a group of armed men, their faces partially hidden by the dark hoods of their cloaks. The heavy, deliberate footsteps of more men followed, surrounding the group.
"We're looking for something," Marcus began, trying to sound authoritative despite the knot of nerves tightening in his gut. "We're not here to fight."
"Oh, you're not, are you?" one of the men sneered, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. "Then you'll come with us, and we'll sort out what you're really here for."
Before anyone could react, the guards lunged, grabbing Marcus. Titus reacted instinctively, rushing to the front, but the moment he stepped forward, a heavy blow struck him in the chest, sending him stumbling back.
"Not again," Aemilia muttered under her breath, her hand already on the hilt of her sword.
The warehouse erupted into chaos as the squad tried to defend themselves. Titus, still reeling from the strike, swung wildly at the nearest attacker, but only succeeded in knocking over a stack of crates. Lucius, eager but ineffective, tried to negotiate with the gang leader, offering them a coin in exchange for safe passage. It was, predictably, ineffective.
Severus, always pragmatic, muttered a curse and grabbed Titus, pulling him back toward Aemilia. "Focus, you dolt!" he barked, before glancing at Marcus, who was still locked in a struggle with the gang leader.
"We need a way out," Severus snapped, scanning the room for an escape route. Aemilia, already thinking ahead, darted to the side, using a broken wooden beam to knock one of the attackers unconscious.
Marcus, now freed from the gang leader's grip, met Aemilia's eyes. "We can't let this go sideways," he muttered, his voice filled with frustration.
Aemilia nodded, stepping forward to strike. Her actions were quick, precise, calculated—everything Marcus's leadership wasn't. The squad, though still largely disorganized, began to fall into line behind her as they worked together to outmaneuver the gang.
In the end, they succeeded in subduing the gang, but not without a few bruises and close calls. The air was thick with adrenaline as they stood over the fallen criminals, each of them breathing heavily, trying to calm the chaos that had erupted in the space.
The squad limped back to the barracks, battered but not broken. Marcus, walking at the front, felt the weight of the mission pressing down on him. Another failure. Another mistake. He had failed to keep control, and it was Aemilia who had once again stepped in to save them.
Aemilia, walking alongside him, kept her gaze forward, but her thoughts were clearly on the mission. "We need a new approach," she said quietly, almost to herself. "We can't keep doing this the same way."
Marcus looked over at her, guilt and frustration written on his face. "I know," he muttered. "I just… I don't know how to control everything."
Aemilia paused, glancing over at him. "No one does. But you have to trust the team. Trust us."
Severus, overhearing, gave a low chuckle. "Next time, let's just hope the world doesn't fall apart before we finish the job."
Lucius, ever the optimist, smiled and slapped Marcus on the back. "At least we survived! And we got the artifact, right? So, good day's work!"
Titus, shrugging off his own bruises, grinned. "Well, what else is new? Another day, another disaster survived."
As they approached the barracks, the sense of frustration from the mission lingered, but there was something else too—an understanding, a recognition that the squad, for all their flaws, were slowly learning how to work together. They weren't perfect, but they were surviving.
And, for now, that was enough.