The Gallus Legion

by Hymond Blake   

After a brutal war, Emperor Incretius has taken control of the Halatuan Empire, thanks to his army of giants and a unique and powerful ability to transform people. Tylus is a servant to the Emperor and is a potential threat to Incretius’s new rule. He must navigate the political trappings of a wartorn empire whilst surviving the unforgiving world inside the Emperor’s palace.

“Thirsty.”

It was not in the new empire. Long ago, in the equator’s sweltering heat, Emperor Incretius sat upon his new throne. His palace was the size of a mountain, with walls high and adorned with golden refinery that took generations to craft. Hanging braziers silently swung unlit in the summer breeze. Banners made from fine purple-dyed fabric hung metres-tall along the atrium, ending just short of the steps to the throne. A mural depicting a war of the gods was carved into the marble floor and shined under the morning sun.

All of it, all of this glorious decadence, was defaced. Along the banners, the golden refinery, the mural, was splattered red paint in the sigil of a closed fist. The paint strokes were wide and clumsy. It stuck to the surfaces, dry and radiating a bloody hue. It was Incretius’s family sigil.

The Emperor sat in baggy robes, shrouding his thin frame. The throne was trying to swallow him as he hunched to one side, picking at the golden lining of the armrests. The floor by his sandals chipped away as he kicked it. He would often scan the atrium and regard it with disdain. He barely laid eyes upon the two beefy guards that stood on either side of him, or the gaggle of advisors huddling in the atrium’s far corner, or the staff ferrying wine and food to him. He sighed a sigh of sweeping boredom.

A crying farmer who stood at the foot of the throne’s steps stopped talking, and stared at the ground. The Emperor rolled his eyes.

“Continue,” he said, realising his thirst wouldn’t be quenched.

“Thank you, Imperator,” said the farmer with a shaking voice and sweaty forehead.

He had his hat in his hands and was scrunching it nervously. His farmer’s attire was worn, with holes across the knees and elbows. Much like the Emperor, he too carried very little weight or muscle, except his skin was browned with dirt and mud.

“Imperator, I begged for an audience with you so that I may save my farm,” he said, avoiding the Emperor’s gaze, “I have become slow in my age and my bones have grown weaker. The fields are becoming harder to sow, and my flock are becoming harder to shepherd. I ask if you Imperator, please, could spare a few men from your great Gallus Legion to help me on my farm so that I can make it through this winter.”

The Emperor stared intensely at the farmer for a few moments, and then smiled.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Freyus, Imperator,” said the farmer.

“Tell me, Freyus, do you have a wife?”

The farmer was taken aback by the question. “No, Imperator,” he answered.

“And why not?”

The farmer didn’t respond. His eyes darted along the floor quickly and his breathing became quick.

“Answer your Emperor, peasant,” said Incretius. “Surely a man of your age would have a wife, and many strapping young sons to tend to the crops for you, no?”

The farmer stumbled on his words, trying to fill the silence as quickly as possible.

“I have no wife, Imperator, because I’m—or rather my age has led me to live a solitary life and—with your help I can have men at—”

“You want to have men?” asked the Emperor, starting to understand. “Big, strong men, living with you? Ah, I see now. You’re like me.”

The farmer looked directly at the Emperor for the first time. And their gazes met. The Emperor’s smile widened as he stared deep into the farmer’s eyes. The farmer was frozen in fear; not daring to move even as a trail of sweat trickled down his temple.

“I have no wife, nor children, for the very same reason; because men are too much fun.”

The Emperor broke the gaze, and the farmer sighed with relief.

“Very well Freyus. You shall have what you want, and more.” He stood up and held a hand out towards the farmer. “As your crops and your flocks need tending to, you shall have a fine, strapping young man to do your duties.”

Suddenly, a swirling ray of light crept out of the Emperor’s fingers. It gathered like a floating pool of energy, growing brighter as the Emperor gently waved his hand around it.

The farmer took a step back. “Who…who is this man?” he asked.

The Emperor’s smile widened. “You of course.”

Suddenly, the Emperor pointed directly at the farmer and the light shot straight out from his hand like an arrow, piercing the farmer directly in the chest. The man fell backwards from the impact.

“As you have no sons, and as I refuse to waste a Gallus Legionnaire on your farmwork, then you shall fill the role quite nicely,” said Incretius.

The farmer clutched his stomach. He could feel the light spread across his nerves, all the way to the tips of fingers. “Please, Imperator,” he pleaded, “there’s really no need. I can leave, really I should be fine.”

“You shall gain the hands of a young man, inheriting his strength,” said the Emperor.

The farmer sat up on the floor, looking at his hands. He watched in astonishment as the wrinkles and creases that ran along his palms and fingers slowly begin to smooth out. The skin tightened and glowed with youth. His thin arms then began to inflate, filling the sleeves of his clothes so much they ripped in several places, revealing bulging biceps and forearms.

“Imperator! Please stop this! I—”

“You shall gain his body, inheriting his endurance.”

The farmer got to his feet and watched as his body grew longer, stretching his clothes out even further. His trousers rode above his ankles, his sleeves rode above his forearms. His stomach was exposed as his shirt struggled to fit his elongated torso. Eventually, he stood almost as tall as the Emperor’s guards, and then he swelled with muscle. From his broad shoulders to his curved calves, he was getting stronger all over. His shirt now barely covered his pecs and his stomach shifted and tightened into a perfectly-symmetrical set of abs. He rested his hands behind him on what was now a perfectly round set of buttocks and gasped. His legs followed suit, packing on more meat until they were considerably thicker. The Emperor’s smile widened again.

“You shall gain his face, inheriting his youth.”

The farmer felt a tingle along his sparsely-haired head. He pressed his palm against his bald patch and gasped aloud as a dense clump of hair emerged from his skull, enveloping his fingers. It grew long enough to hand over his eyes as it shifted from a charcoal black into a golden blonde. He could feel the bones of his face shift, sliding perfectly into place like the last piece of a puzzle. Before he could move his hands down his face to feel his transformation it had already grown a strong, boxy jawline and heightened cheekbones.

He saw his reflection in the marble floor. It wasn’t him anymore, but someone in his early 20s, with blonde hair, bright brown eyes, and perfectly-sculpted features. In disbelief, he pinched his now full lips to make sure what he was seeing was really him.

“My face…I’m…my voice!” he said with a smoother, deeper tone. “Is that me?”

“I’m not finished,” said Incretius. “You shall gain his urges, inheriting his virility.”

The farmer looked down. His trousers that had split along his muscular thighs now bulged with what was a growing manhood, thicker and longer than he has ever seen it before. He could feel it rub against the fabric as it snaked down his leg and he moaned.

“Ohhhh by the gods!” he said as he cupped his balls as they inflated.

“You shall take many lovers, and every moment without one will feel like an agony.”

The farmer felt this rush of emotions: lust, desperation, aggression. He couldn’t bare it any longer, and tore his trousers off, and his cock flung out. Without even giving it a second thought, he wrapped his fingers around his manhood and pumped it with great desire, moaning.

“You shall forget the body you once inhabited, and the age you once were. You are and always have been, this.”

Incretius leaned back in his chair, enjoying the show. The farmer moaned so loud with his new voice that it reverberated, bouncing off the defaced walls and meeting the ears of everyone in that atrium. He lost all sense of where he was, his weakened mind scattered to a million different places, a million different urges. He squeezed his cock so hard it had turned red; it was ready to explode. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not reach the end. Something was stopping him, and being so close only sent his hormones raging even harder.

He fell to his knees.

That was when Tylus approached the throne.

“Your drink, Imperator.”

Incretius looked up at the young man that stood to his right. He was no older than what the farmer’s age now was, but had much less muscle. His swimmer’s build was encased in an ivory-white robes with sandals that were dirtied with mud. He held a tray with a basic cup that was full of water.

The Emperor scowled.

“I said I was thirsty five minutes ago. And this is water. I want wine!”

The Emperor smacked the tray out of Tylus’ hands and it crashed to the floor. The servants and advisors jumped at the sound of it smashing against the marble. Tylus didn’t react, however, and instead stared at Incretius directly in the eye. His breathing was calm and his smile was slight. The Emperor looked at him for a second before waving his hand dismissively.

“Bring me wine, boy,” the Emperor sneered. “Now! Or I’ll change you too!”

“Yes Imperator, right away.”

Tylus turned and made his way across the atrium. The Emperor was watching him; his walk was slow and his steps were silent. He moved like a shadow, and showed no hint of fear towards Incretius. Tylus looked back and smiled at the Emperor before leaving the atrium through one of the servants’ side doors.

The farmer had gathered enough sense to speak. Sweat had covered his muscular body and he panted, his breath so hot it formed tiny, invisible waves as it left his mouth.

“Please! Imperator!” he cried out, “I cannot bear this any longer! I need—”

“Shut up!” yelled the Emperor. “The moment has passed! This isn’t fun anymore!”

He pointed a finger at the farmer.

“You shall sleep now!”

And, in an instant, the farmer collapsed to the floor, his eyes closing as he slipped unconscious. His cock gradually shrunk before hanging limply off his waist. The Emperor angrily pulled on his robe.

“Where is Caebus!?”

An old, tall man shifted out from the gaggle of advisors. He shuffled over to the throne, kneeling and holding his head down so that his tiny spectacles and smooth, white beard were lower than Incretius’s gaze.

“Imperator,” said Caebus, “marvellous work on the peasant.”

“Caebus, who was that boy?” asked the Emperor softly. His cadence seemed to change the moment the advisor was beside him. The two spoke like trusted friends.

“The cupbearer?” said the advisor, “that’s Tylus; heir to the Tyloniclosian province. It’s a good job you didn’t change him. His father is our closest ally, lord of the southern region, and head of the financial—”

“Yes, yes, thank you Caebus,” interrupted the Emperor. “He seems far too calm, and looked me in the eye. I cannot have that kind of defiance so close to my throne.”

“What do you suggest, Imperator?”

The Emperor thought for a moment, before smiling back at Caebus. “The Gallus Legion,” he said. “Let this Tylus see my might first-hand.”

“An excellent idea.”

Incretius watched as the guards beside him effortlessly pick up the farmer, and carry him out of the throne room. He barely regarded the farmer’s transformation, nor did he think much of what he had created.

He had a new plaything.

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