We Who Are About to Die

By Claire Erasmus

The thumb drive is in my coat pocket, slapping my leg with every step as I weave through the hypogeum. The Colosseum’s floodlights illuminate the broken walls from above while small lights along the ground light up the path. Blood seeps from my shoulder and trickles down my arm, dripping from my fingers and leaving a trail for my pursuer.

With teeth clenched, I slip into darkness untouched by the floodlights. The hum of distant traffic mingles with muffled music, Rome’s nightlife in full swing. But here, in the ancient monument to death, silence. No stealthy footsteps, no quiet breathing except my own.

Maybe I lost him. But if he has half a brain, he’ll find the drops of blood.

My shoulder throbs, demanding attention, and I hold my breath as I probe the wound. About a finger wide on the outside of my arm. The shot only grazed me. Strange. The agents are rumored to be crack shots, only hitting what they aim at.

The agent should want to hit me. Properly. The thumb drive contains enough data to usher in Caesar’s empire. Something those pursing me will want to prevent.

A buzz closer than traffic sounds overhead, drawing my attention past the broken remnants of the Colosseum’s underworld to the rim of the ancient theater. A drone, flying slowly, circles the highest tier of seats. The drop has arrived. I step back into the tunnel.

A muffled pfft slams the air by my ear. Stone chips explode into the night and I duck back into my shadow.

The agent had more than enough brain.

Shadows stretch farther into the hypogeum and I weave through them. The drone has moved halfway around the Colosseum’s rim. Caesar’s instructions were clear: if I don’t make contact with the drone by the time it’s gone around once, the mission is a failure.

Failures are dealt with. Permanently.

The shadows have led me back to my earlier path. Dark, shiny patches fleck the floor at intervals of three feet.

Stairs leading to the reconstructed arena floor are just ahead. There’s no sign of my assailant. The drone is three-quarters of the way around.

I slip into the lit tunnel and hurry for the stairs, tucking my arm against my side and catching the blood with my coat. A light flickers in the shadows I’d hidden in and my estimation of the agent drops. Amateur.

The stairs don’t creak and I breathe a little easier, crossing to the middle of the sand floor. The drone, its journey almost complete, pauses. I raise a fist, hoping the agent is still chasing my drops of blood in the dark.

The drone continues hovering. My heart pounds. Sweat beads in my hair. Then it moves toward me and I release a long breath.

Caesar has decided. This gladiator will live to fight another day. I drop my fist, reach into my pocket, and withdraw the thumb drive.

Tomorrow, its contents will be on every major news outlet in the world. And every free nation still standing will crumble and bow. To Caesar.

The drone stops its precipitous dive and hovers at eye level. I step toward it, thumb drive extended.

A muffled shot splits the air and a propeller shatters. The drone plunges to the sand.

I run for the nearest shadow, slipping the thumb drive back into my pocket and drawing my Glock.

Plan B. Kill the agent. Use one of the ancient tunnels to leave the Colosseum. Lie low for a few days, make contact with Caesar, get instructions for another drop.

And hope he doesn’t kill me for this mess.

Another pfft punches the night. The bullet slams into my knee. A scream rips from my chest, then I plow into the dirt and air punches from my lungs.

My world shrinks to throbbing pain and half-sobbed breaths. Someone shouts, the sound as muffled as Rome’s distant nightlife.

Then my senses erupt. I can feel every grain of sand against my skin. The thumb drive presses uncomfortably against my side. Someone hurries toward me, their footsteps pounding through the ground.

“Chiamata la un’ambulanza!” The shout slams against my eardrums and I moan.

“Sì, capo.”

Hands turn me over, pat me down, feel the thumb drive.

I try to take his wrist, stop him from reaching into the pocket and taking it. He grabs my hand. Clasps it.

“I know what happens when you fail in your missions,” he says, voice low. His grip tightens. “You don’t have to die. Say the word, and we’ll protect you.”

Chills rack my body. My knee is on fire. Somewhere, an ambulance wails. The agent hasn’t released me.

My survival instinct demands that I acknowledge his offer. That I squeeze his hand in silent acceptance. But defection comes at a greater cost than failure. My death I can accept. Welcome, even. But the deaths of my wife and son at Caesar’s merciless hands?

Never.

I clench my jaw, turn my head away.

The agent sighs. Reaches into my pocket and pulls out the thumb drive. Then he places my hand on my chest and leaves.

The ambulance screams to a halt, red lights pulsing through the Colosseum’s entrance. My gaze roves the stands, searching for the emperor’s box. Medics rush toward me as I spot it.

“We who are about to die salute you,” I whisper.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Claire Erasmus is a copyeditor, proofreader, science tutor, and violin teacher who lives in South Africa but frequently visits other worlds through books. She adores the world of fiction and loves to explore Christian themes through writing, particularly fantasy. Claire also enjoys being in nature, especially if it involves hiking in the beautiful Drakensberg.

---

More Stories | Author Website | Instagram