The Clockwork Sentinel of Ctesiphon

Fiction Historical Rome Steampunk fiction, historical, Rome, short story, steampunk iNthacity Network January 3, 2025 0 Comments

In the Depths of Memory

As the Sentinel rose to its full, terrifying height, Ardashir blinked away the crowd, the arena, the oppressive sun. His mind, unbidden, unlatched the door to memory.

It was a moonless night, years earlier, when this conflict began. Ardashir, the once-loyal commander of Ctesiphon’s armies, had discovered the Satrap’s treachery—his deal with the "Scholars of the Ecliptic," foreign alchemists wielding forbidden technologies. Their machines enslaved whole provinces, their uncanny precision stripping thousands of their humanity. They were tasked with one purpose: to ensure the Satrap’s eternal dominion.

On that dark night, Ardashir had confronted the Satrap in his gilded halls, only to find himself betrayed by kin and comrades alike. Sentenced to the arena for his “treachery,” he became a pawn, pitted against monstrous challengers to amuse the masses—and to erase his legend from memory.

The Calculating Beast

The Sentinel’s claws flashed forward, ripping Ardashir back to the present. Instinct took over. He dove to the left, his crimson tunic streaking through the dusty air. The collision of claws with sand sent up a deafening crack, followed by the hiss of steam as the machine recalibrated. The crowd roared, demanding blood.

Years of punishment had forged Ardashir into a man as unyielding as iron. He darted closer, dodging each deadly strike, searching for vulnerabilities in the Sentinel’s armor. Each clang of steel on bronze sent jolts reverberating through his limbs. He noticed something curious: the mighty contraption, for all its power, responded a fraction slower to sudden movements than a human opponent would.

“It sees me,” Ardashir muttered under his breath. “But it doesn’t think like a man.”

He circled, his eyes locking on the glowing sapphire core encased within the Sentinel’s transparent chestplate. Whatever pulsed there was fragile; something birthed by scholars but not immune to destruction. He needed an opening.

The Gamble of a Warrior

Ardashir’s callused fingers grasped the hilt of his takouba—a straight, keen-edged blade from his homeland. With each dodge, he tested the Sentinel’s movements, pushing it toward the amphitheater’s stone walls. The machine’s claw swiped within an inch of his ribs, and the crowd gasped as blood trickled from the shallow graze.

It was time.

As the Sentinel lunged once more, Ardashir planted his foot and pivoted, spinning low beneath its reaching arm. His blade flashed in the sun, an arc of tempered steel, as it struck the machine’s knee joint. The Sentinel staggered with a wrenching whine, its balance compromised. Steam spewed from its wounded limb, clouding the arena in white mist.

The crowd erupted in pandemonium as Ardashir ascended the behemoth’s frame. His hand gripped the rim of the chestplate, his scarred arm bulging with effort. The Sentinel roared, its automaton’s voice a terrible screech of grinding gears. But before it could throw him off, Ardashir drove his blade into the sapphire core with a savage cry. The brilliant gem shattered, splintering into shards as light and energy burst outward.

The Sentinel collapsed, its colossal weight slamming into the arena floor. Silence hung thick in the amphitheater until it was broken by a single voice, rising steadily in defiance—a roar of triumph. Soon, the crowd joined, their feral cheers cascading as Ardashir stood atop the fallen machine, bloodied but victorious.

Beyond the Arena

Above in the Satrap’s pavilion, fury and fear contorted the ruler’s face. He had underestimated his greatest adversary, and now every eye in Ctesiphon bore witness to Ardashir’s power. Somewhere in the pit of his gilded world, the Satrap understood his days were numbered.