Lepidus paced the mosaic-tiled floor of his villa’s atrium, the rhythmic clatter of his sandals echoing against the marble walls. Outside, the midday sun beat down on the surrounding gardens, but inside, the air felt heavy with anticipation. Pollio sat nearby, his arms crossed and his expression thunderous with restrained anger. A goblet of untouched wine rested on the low table between them, its surface rippling faintly from Lepidus’s restless movements.
“For weeks,” Lepidus muttered, running a hand through his graying hair, “we’ve parleyed with senators, bishops, and landowners—everyone with a coin to spare or a grievance to exploit. We charmed, cajoled, and bled our reputations dry, and now—now we have the sum.”
Pollio snorted, his lips curling in disdain. “One hundred thousand solidi,” he said bitterly, his voice low. “A king’s ransom, scraped together by the skin of our teeth. And for what? To line the pockets of a barbarian and enable an emperor to field his own troops as well?”
Lepidus stopped pacing and shot Pollio a sharp look. “A necessary barbarian and a necessary precaution,” he snapped. “Without Odoacer, this boy-emperor and his father will drag us all into ruin. Better to endure this treason and claim Rome for ourselves than let it rot under their ineptitude.”
Pollio’s scowl deepened, but he said nothing, his gaze fixed on the goblet of wine. Lepidus resumed his pacing, his thoughts racing. The last three weeks had been a whirlwind of charm and desperate maneuvering. They had visited villas, attended feasts, and written countless letters, each dripping with carefully crafted appeals. Old alliances were rekindled, favors were called in, and egos were stroked until the final tally had been reached.
One hundred thousand solidi. An astonishing sum.
The sound of hooves crunching on gravel snapped Lepidus from his thoughts. He turned sharply toward the entrance as the heavy oak doors swung open, admitting Crassus. The man strode in with the confidence of someone who knew his importance, his tunic pristine and his expression calm yet unreadable. Lepidus couldn’t help but feel a flash of irritation at the man’s composed demeanor.
“Lepidus. Pollio,” Crassus greeted smoothly, inclining his head. “I trust all is in order?”
Lepidus forced a tight smile, stepping forward. “We’ve secured the funds, as promised,” he said, his voice steady. “One hundred thousand solidi. No small feat, despite the boy-emperor’s recent policies.”
Crassus’s lips twitched in what might have been approval. “Impressive,” he said simply. “With this, Odoacer can solidify his hold on the foederati, and we can raise our own troops as well. Now, we can proceed.”
Lepidus’s smile thinned, his eyes narrowing as he stepped closer to Crassus. “We can proceed,” he said, his voice sharp, “but only with half the funds.”
Crassus’s expression froze, his faint smirk evaporating as his gaze hardened. “Half?” he echoed, his tone dangerously soft. “What game are you playing, Lepidus?”
“No game,” Lepidus shot back, his voice steady but laced with defiance. He gestured toward the chests. “Fifty thousand now. The rest when I see results—when I receive the governorship of southern Italy, as promised.”
The air in the atrium seemed to chill. Pollio straightened in his chair, his scowl deepening as he watched the exchange. Crassus took a measured step forward, his presence suddenly imposing.
“This is not a negotiation,” Crassus said coldly. “We need all the funds, and we need them now. With Odoacer’s forces mobilizing and mercenaries to be paid, any delay risks our entire operation. Do you truly wish to jeopardize everything over your personal ambitions?”
Lepidus didn’t flinch, meeting Crassus’s gaze with a fiery resolve. “Personal ambitions?” he hissed. “You think this is about me? That chest is filled with more than just gold, Crassus. It’s filled with obligations—promises made to senators, bishops, and landowners who now hold the knife at my throat. Every ‘donation’ came with a price, every coin tied to a favor I’m bound to repay. And all of it—every promise—is documented, locked in those chests.”
He jabbed a finger toward the ornate containers, his voice rising with frustration. “Do you think I’ll simply hand over the entirety and hope you remember your promises? I’ve done what you asked. I’ve bled for this money. Now it’s your turn to deliver.”
Crassus’s jaw tightened, his carefully constructed composure beginning to crack. “If you withhold the funds, you risk undoing everything we’ve built. We cannot be delayed. Odoacer … the moment he senses hesitation, his loyalty will waver. And then, Lepidus, it won’t be his forces you’ll have to fear—it will be Rome itself turning on you.”
The tension in the room was thick enough to cut. Pollio rose from his seat, stepping beside Lepidus. “He’s right,” Pollio said, his voice grim but resolute. “We’ve done our part. We’ve risked everything. Now it’s time for you to prove this scheme isn’t built on air.”
Before Crassus could respond, the doors to the atrium burst open. A breathless messenger stumbled inside, his tunic damp with sweat from the road. He clutched a scroll tightly in one hand, his face pale and stricken.
“Dominus,” the messenger gasped, bowing deeply as he extended the scroll. “Urgent news.”
Lepidus’s hands trembled as he held the scroll, his eyes darting over the hastily scrawled words. His jaw clenched, and he swallowed hard, his face pale as though the life had been drained from him. He looked up sharply, his gaze burning into Pollio and then Crassus.
“There’s a letter from the East,” Lepidus said, his voice hoarse but resolute. “we have to move—now.”
Pollio stepped forward, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean? What’s happened?”
Ignoring him, Lepidus thrust the scroll toward Crassus. “Read it,” he demanded.
Crassus took the scroll, his expression growing darker as he read its contents. His fingers tightened around the parchment as he lowered it, his lips pressing into a thin line. “This accelerates our timeline,” Crassus muttered, folding the scroll carefully before slipping it into his tunic. “I’ll write to Odoacer immediately. He’ll make his move in four weeks.”
“Four weeks?” Lepidus asked, his voice rising with alarm. “Are we certain that’s soon enough? Romulus is—”
“It’s the perfect timing,” Crassus interrupted sharply, stepping closer. “Four weeks gives Odoacer the time he needs to prepare his troops and coordinate the foederati. It also ensures the boy-emperor and Orestes remain unsure of when or where the strike will fall.”
Lepidus opened his mouth to protest, but Crassus’s cold, commanding tone stopped him. “From this moment on, I take full control. Odoacer will march in four weeks. His troops will be ready. And tomorrow,” Crassus added, his gaze hardening, “We leave for Rome with the Comes and his trusted Palatini. Their loyalty was not cheap, and it’s time we made use of it.”
Pollio, standing nearby, frowned. “The Comes,” he echoed. “How much did his loyalty cost us?”
Crassus turned his sharp gaze to Pollio. “Enough to ensure he brings a core of Rome’s best soldiers with him. His Palatini will march under my command. Now prepare, we march out in the morning.”
As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, the cobbled streets of Ravenna stirred with the sound of hooves and clinking armor. A column of riders and carriages assembled near the city’s gates, their banners fluttering in the cool morning breeze. At the center of the procession was a gilded carriage, its wheels creaking under the weight of chests filled with gold and obligations. The chests, locked and heavily guarded.
Lepidus sat astride a sturdy horse near the carriage, his face set in a mask of determination. Behind him rode Pollio, along with a group of senators and wealthy landowners, their expressions a mix of anxiety and resolve. The procession was flanked by a heavy escort of armed guards, their eyes scanning the streets for any sign of trouble.
At the head of the column, Crassus rode with his head held high, his expression one of quiet confidence. His ornate armor gleamed in the early light, and his posture exuded authority. Beside him rode Comes Lucius Varius, his weathered face betraying little emotion, though his eyes remained sharp and watchful. Behind them, 400 Palatini formed an orderly column, their polished shields catching the morning sun.
Lepidus spurred his horse forward, catching up with Crassus and Comes Varius. The two men were deep in conversation, their voices low but urgent. As Lepidus approached, Crassus turned to him with a faint smirk.
“You’ve kept us waiting, Lepidus,” Crassus said, his tone carrying a hint of amusement. “Though I see you’ve brought all the wealth of Rome with you.”
Lepidus ignored the jab, his gaze shifting to Comes Varius. “You’re riding with fewer Palatini than I expected,” Lepidus said, his tone sharp. “Where are the rest?”
Lucius Varius met Lepidus’s gaze evenly. “These 400 are the ones I trust implicitly,” he replied. “The rest… their loyalties were uncertain. I would not risk bringing them. Additionally, 500 of my men are escorting tax collectors throughout Italy. There wasn’t time to recall them.”
Crassus shrugged, his expression indifferent. “It doesn’t matter. Odoacer’s forces and our levies will be more than sufficient. When Orestes and the boy see what we’re bringing, they’ll flee to the East like Nepos before them.”
Lepidus frowned, his jaw tightening. “You assume they’ll run. But what if they don’t? What if they stand and fight?”
Crassus chuckled softly, his confidence unshaken. “Then they’ll be crushed. Odoacer’s foederati will break them in the field, and our forces will secure Rome. This is no longer a gamble, Lepidus. It’s a certainty.”
Lepidus spurred his horse slightly closer to Crassus and Comes Lucius Varius, his tone shifting to one of feigned lightness, though his eyes betrayed the weight of his thoughts. “But please, humor me, my dear friends,” he began, his words measured but edged with curiosity. “I know the comitatenses are being retrained and reequipped. The walls of Ravenna have been repaired and strengthened. And then, of course, there are the Palatini still stationed there. So, tell me—if they were to decide to stay and fight, would there be a problem?”
His question hung in the cool morning air, drawing a raised brow from Varius and a derisive snort from Crassus. Before the Comes could reply, Crassus cut in with a sneer.
“Nonsense! Utter nonsense!” Crassus exclaimed, his voice dripping with disdain. “What that child has done defies logic. Retraining battle-hardened troops—men who have fought as Romans—into phalanxes? He speaks of progress, but he’s dragging them backwards into antiquity! A step forward? No, it’s a stumble into irrelevance. If they stay to fight, they’ll crumble before us.”
Lepidus tilted his head slightly, his expression neutral, though his eyes flicked toward Lucius Varius. The Comes cleared his throat and spoke, his tone a hint of condescension as he began. “Let me address your concerns, Lepidus. The comitatenses—these ‘new phalanxes’—are not what some would have you believe. Training men to wield pikes in tightly packed formations might work on paper, but in practice, it’s a cumbersome and antiquated tactic. They’ve sacrificed flexibility for supposed cohesion. Against a mobile and experienced force like Odoacer’s foederati, they’ll be picked apart before they can even form a proper line.”
He gestured dismissively. “As for the stirrups, I’ve seen their cavalry use them, hardly the game-changer they imagine.”
Lepidus nodded slightly, watching the Comes carefully as he continued. “And then there are the crossbows. Crude devices, really. Their fire rate is slow, and while they might cause some disruption, they lack the sustained pressure of traditional archery or javelins. Precision isn’t enough to win a battle—it’s sustained volleys that matter.”
Varius hesitated, his voice faltering for the briefest moment before continuing. “The walls, though… they’re another matter. Strengthened and repaired, they will make Ravenna a formidable position if Orestes chooses to defend it. A siege would be costly, and it would buy them time. But even walls cannot hold forever. We’ll breach them if it comes to that.”
Lepidus caught the flicker of uncertainty in the Comes’ voice as he mentioned the walls and crossbows. “You don’t sound entirely convinced, Varius,” he said with a faint sarcastic smile.
Varius stiffened, his expression hardening. “I am convinced. Their so-called innovations are worthless, and their leadership… well, that is the real weakness.”
The Comes’s tone shifted, his voice carrying a sharper edge as his frustration grew. “Dux Marcus Flavianus. A commoner elevated to a position far beyond his worth. A man with no remarkable merit, no grand victories to his name, and yet he commands the emperor’s forces? It’s laughable. Rome was built on the backs of men of pedigree, men of experience. And now? We see power handed to those with no understanding of what it means to lead.”
His fists tightened around the reins, his face darkening as he continued. “Flavianus—what has he done to earn such trust? Nothing. He’s a placeholder, a puppet for Romulus’s experiments. I can hardly fathom the arrogance of it. To place the future of an army in the hands of a man like that is just foolishness.”
Crassus chuckled, his tone mocking. “Perhaps that’s why they’ve resorted to walls and phalanxes, Varius. If Flavianus is their answer to us, then the boy-emperor’s grand vision is as doomed as his defenses.”
Varius nodded curtly, his anger barely concealed. “Let them cling to their walls and their crude machines. Let them think their reforms will save them. And if they do not escape Ravenna then, Odoacer and our forces will show them what real leadership and strength look like.”
Lepidus said nothing, his gaze lingering on the Comes. He could see the anger simmering beneath Varius’s composed exterior—a mix of disdain and disbelief that a man like Flavianus could stand in his equal. Yet there was something more, something unspoken in Varius’s earlier hesitation. Lepidus couldn’t decide if it was caution or merely the weight of unacknowledged doubt.
As the conversation continued, Crassus’s expression changed subtly. A dangerous glint flickered in his eyes, and he turned his head slightly, fixing Comes Lucius Varius with a pointed stare. “Varius,” he began, his tone laced with barely contained amusement, “have you done what I tasked you with?”
Varius met Crassus’s gaze and immediately caught the underlying excitement in his question. A knowing smirk spread across the Comes’s face, and he inclined his head. “Of course I did,” he replied, his voice calm but tinged with amusement.
Lepidus, riding just behind them, caught the exchange and frowned. “What are you two talking about?” he demanded, his tone edged with irritation.
Crassus and Varius exchanged glances before breaking into laughter. Crassus’s deep chuckle rolled over the group, while Varius’s quieter amusement followed.
“Oh, Lepidus,” Crassus said, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye, “we might have found a better use for some of the funds that were meant to bolster Orestes’s forces.”
Lepidus’s frown deepened, his suspicion growing. “Explain yourself, Crassus.”
Crassus turned in his saddle, his voice dripping with mock innocence. “You see, the soldiers’ wages—those that were supposed to go to Orestes’s troops? Well, they never arrived. And, of course, the funds meant for Odoacer’s foederati from Ravenna also seem to have… vanished.”
Lepidus’s eyes widened slightly, and he shot a sharp glare at Varius. “And you?” he asked pointedly.
Varius’s grin widened. “Ah, yes. I was given 5,000 solidi for new recruitments. But, as it turns out, the recruits didn’t materialize. And neither did the funds. A mystery, truly.”
The two men burst into laughter again, the sound rich with shared mirth and triumph. Lepidus stared at them for a moment, incredulous. Then, slowly, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he joined in their laughter.
The three men laughed together as the procession continued down the road, their shared scheming a bond as strong as the gold in the carriage behind them. To Lepidus, the maneuvering and deception were not just acts of survival—they were proof of their superiority over Rome’s boy-emperor and his father. For Crassus and Varius, it was a game, and they had every intention of winning.
The chamber was bright with midday sunlight, its golden glow spilling over the table scattered with dice, carved figures, and an assortment of other trinkets. Romulus Augustus leaned casually on his elbow, a sly grin spreading across his face as he pointed at Lucan Severus, the elder of the two brothers.
“So, Lucan,” Romulus began, his voice carrying an exaggerated air of nonchalance, “who was that girl I saw you talking to near the fountain yesterday?”
Lucan immediately stiffened, his cheeks flushing a deep red. “What? No one! I was just—she asked for directions!”
“Directions to what? Your heart?” Marcus chimed in, barely containing his laughter as he leaned closer to his brother, clearly delighted to join in the teasing.
Romulus let out a hearty laugh, shaking his head. “She seemed very interested for someone just asking directions. Are you sure you didn’t promise to meet her later? Perhaps you’re planning to take her on a tour of Ravenna?”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Lucan groaned, burying his face in his hands. “You two are impossible. She was lost—nothing more!”
Marcus smirked, leaning back with his arms crossed. “Lost in your dreamy eyes, maybe.”
Romulus nearly doubled over in laughter, his grin widening as he added, “Poor girl didn’t stand a chance. Lucan Severus, the dashing hero of Ravenna, sweeping maidens off their feet.”
“You’re both insufferable,” Lucan muttered, though his lips twitched with the hint of a smile. “Shouldn’t the emperor of Rome and my pest of a brother have more important things to discuss?”
“More important than your secret admirer?” Marcus gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “I don’t think so!”
Romulus wiped a tear from his eye, the teasing laughter subsiding just enough for him to speak. “Come now, Lucan. You can’t fault us for being curious. You’ll be fighting off suitors next.”
“I’d rather fight barbarians,” Lucan shot back, rolling his eyes. “At least they’re quieter.”
The three of them burst into laughter again.
Before the moment could stretch further, the heavy doors to the chamber burst open. Magnus, captain of the guard, stormed in with two armed men flanking him. His expression was grim, his posture tense.
The sudden intrusion startled Romulus. His hand instinctively moved to the dagger at his belt, fingers fumbling for the hilt. He gripped it tightly, though he knew it was a futile gesture against Magnus and his guards.
“Magnus?” Romulus said, his voice steady despite the tightness in his chest. “What’s the meaning of this?”
Magnus raised a hand, signaling the guards to remain by the door. His piercing gaze softened slightly as he spoke, though urgency underpinned his words. “Caesar, I bring troubling news.”
The laughter in the room evaporated instantly, the lighthearted atmosphere replaced with a tension that hung heavy in the air. Romulus’s grip on the dagger slackened, but his nerves remained taut.
“Speak,” he said, his tone commanding, though his heart raced.
Magnus stepped forward, his voice low but firm. “This morning, the Comes, with a significant portion of the Palatini, departed Ravenna. They were accompanied by a large escort of senators, wealthy landowners, and even a bishop. Among them were Lepidus and Crassus, who appeared to lead the group.”
The words hung heavy in the air. Romulus sat frozen, his mind racing to piece together the implications. “They… left?” he asked, his voice quieter now. “Did they give no explanation?”
“None,” Magnus replied. “They left swiftly, with a large escort.”
Romulus’s brow furrowed, his thoughts spiraling. “Perhaps,” he began, his voice tentative, “perhaps they are leaving to then escorting tax revenues. Or carrying out some administrative duty. The Comes would not abandon his post without reason.”
Magnus’s expression hardened, and his voice sharpened. “Caesar, it was not a mere escort. The scale of their departure, and the figures involved—it does not suggest loyalty.”
Lucan and Marcus exchanged uneasy glances, the gravity of the situation settling over them. Romulus’s hand drifted to the table, fingers tracing the edge of a scroll as he tried to steady his thoughts.
“Do we know their destination?” Romulus asked finally, his voice tinged with an edge of desperation.
Magnus hesitated. “Rome seems the most likely, but their intentions remain unclear.”
Romulus rose from his chair, pacing the room as his mind raced. “If they are conspiring…” he muttered, the words trailing off. He shook his head, trying to dispel the fear creeping in. “No. There must be another explanation.”
Magnus stepped closer, his tone quieter but no less firm. “Caesar, their actions are not those of loyal subjects. We must prepare for the possibility that this is treason.”
Romulus nodded slowly, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on his young shoulders. “Summon the council,” he said. “And send riders to my father. If this is treason, we must act before it’s too late.”
Magnus saluted, his expression unyielding. “It will be done, Caesar.”
As the guards departed, Romulus turned back to the table, his gaze lingering on the scattered maps. Lucan and Marcus watched him silently, their earlier excitement replaced by worry.
The council chamber was a flurry of motion and hushed whispers, its occupants visibly shaken as they gathered at Romulus’s summons. Advisors filed in one by one, their faces pale with unease. The atmosphere was tense, the weight of uncertainty palpable as each man took his place. Scrolls and wax tablets were clutched tightly, more out of nervous habit than necessity.
Romulus stood at the head of the table, his youthful frame betraying none of the growing anxiety gnawing at him. His hands were clasped behind his back, his expression set in a mask of composed authority. But his gaze darted around the room, landing on each councilor in turn before finally locking on Senator Quintus Marcellus.
“Quintus,” Romulus began, his voice steady but sharp. “What do you know of this? Did you or your allies have a hand in it?”
Quintus Marcellus, a senator and a veteran of political intrigue, froze. His lips parted as though to speak, but no words came. He looked at the emperor, then at the others in the room, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. For a moment, it seemed he might crumble under the weight of the accusation, but then his gaze hardened, a flicker of anger sparking in his eyes.
“I know nothing of this, Caesar,” he said finally, his voice measured but tinged with indignation. “I was not included in this… departure. Nor were my allies. If treachery is at play, it is not with my knowledge or involvement.”
Romulus studied him for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as though trying to pierce the senator’s carefully constructed fa?ade. The silence stretched, the tension in the room tightening with each passing second.
Finally, Romulus nodded slowly. “Very well,” he said, though his tone carried a hint of doubt. “For now, I will accept your word.”
Quintus straightened slightly, as if relieved by the reprieve. But before Romulus could address the rest of the council, Quintus’s face shifted, his brow furrowing as a thought struck him.
“If treason is in motion,” Quintus said, his voice now tinged with urgency, “then we must act quickly. The treasury—Caesar, I must inspect it immediately. They may have access to it before departing!”
Romulus’s jaw tightened, and he weighed the senator’s suggestion carefully. Quintus had always been meticulous about financial matters, but the timing of his request raised an edge of suspicion. Still, the logic of it was undeniable.
“Go,” Romulus said after a moment. “Take two of the guards with you. Report back to me at once.”
Quintus bowed deeply, his movements stiff but resolute. “As you command, Caesar.”
The senator turned and exited the chamber, the sound of his boots echoing against the stone floor as he left. Romulus watched him go, a sense of unease settling over him. He turned back to the remaining councilors, his gaze sweeping over their faces.
Marcus Verus bowed deeply, his face pale but resolute. Romulus could see the weight of the situation etched on the man’s features, yet he carried himself with the quiet dignity of someone ready to act.
“Caesar,” Verus began, his voice steady despite the tension in the room. “I will ensure the granaries are filled to capacity. The countryside will be warned, and I’ll send trusted men to coordinate with the farmers and landowners. If we’re cautious, we can secure enough provisions to endure any threat.”
Romulus nodded, his voice firm. “Good. Make haste, Verus. Every moment counts. And if you encounter resistance or doubt, remind them that Rome’s strength lies in unity.”
Verus bowed again, swiftly exiting the chamber with a sense of purpose. Romulus’s gaze shifted to Marcellus Claudius, who stood near the edge of the room, his arms crossed and his expression conflicted.
“Marcellus,” Romulus said, his tone softening slightly. “I know we’ve had our differences, but now is not the time for pride. Ravenna’s defenses are paramount. I need every effort from you, no matter the cost. The walls must be made impregnable.”
Marcellus straightened, his jaw tightening. For a moment, the silence between them stretched thin, the weight of their past disagreements hanging heavy in the air. Then, with a nod, he stepped forward.
“You have my word, Caesar,” Marcellus said, his voice steady. “I’ll expedite the repairs and enhancements. The walls will hold, and I’ll see to it personally.”
Romulus extended a hand, placing it briefly on Marcellus’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said simply. “We cannot afford to fail.”
Before Romulus could issue further orders, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. The doors swung open, and Dux Marcus Flavianus entered, nearly out of breath. His tunic was dusted with the dirt of the training grounds, and his eyes were sharp with urgency.
“Caesar,” Flavianus began, bowing quickly. “I heard the news.”
Romulus gestured for him to approach, his expression a mix of relief and determination. “Good. I need your counsel.”
Flavianus stepped forward, his tone brisk and direct. “First, we must separate the remaining Palatini immediately. They cannot be trusted—not entirely. Divide them into smaller groups and integrate them into other formations. Any dissent can be rooted out more easily that way.”
Romulus nodded, the logic of the suggestion evident. “It will be done. What else?”
“Conscript additional watchmen for the city gates,” Flavianus continued. “And ensure the armories are sealed. We cannot risk losing weapons to saboteurs. Have patrols increased around the granaries and critical infrastructure.”
He paused, his gaze meeting Romulus’s directly. “And, Caesar, we need to secure intelligence. Send riders to monitor the roads to Rome. If this is treason, we must know the enemy’s movements before they reach us.”
Romulus leaned forward, absorbing the advice. “You’re right. I task you to assign trusted riders at once. Anything else?”
Flavianus hesitated for a moment, then spoke with a note of urgency. “We should prepare the comitatenses for urban combat. If the enemy reaches Ravenna, they’ll try to breach the walls. Tight formations and close-quarters drills will be essential. I’ll oversee the training personally.”
Romulus allowed himself a brief smile, appreciating the Dux’s composure and practicality. “Your efforts are invaluable, Flavianus. Proceed as you see fit.”
The chamber buzzed with renewed energy as other advisors began voicing their suggestions. Bishop Felix stepped forward, his voice calm but commanding. “Caesar, allow me to take charge of morale among the people. Fear will spread quickly if left unchecked. I’ll organize sermons and distribute alms to ensure their faith in you remains steadfast.”
Romulus nodded. “Do it, Felix. The people must not lose heart.”
Caius, the industrial advisor, chimed in next. “The workshops can double their output if we extend shifts and focus solely on essential supplies—bolts, pikes, and shields. I’ll ensure the craftsmen are motivated and well-fed during this critical time.”
“Thank you Caius,” Romulus said solemnly. “And keep me updated on their progress.”
Before the flurry of orders could settle into motion, the heavy doors of the council chamber creaked open once again. Quintus Marcellus returned, his face grave, his hands tightly clutching a scroll. The councilors turned toward him, their expressions mirroring the dread that Quintus carried into the room.
“Caesar,” Quintus began, his voice strained but controlled, “I have completed the inspection of the treasury.”
Romulus’s gaze sharpened. “And?”
Quintus exhaled, stepping forward as the council leaned in to hear his report. “Two weeks ago, the Comes requested 5,000 solidi for recruitments. He claimed it was urgent, that new men were needed to bolster our forces.”
Romulus’s brow furrowed as he glanced at Dux Marcus Flavianus, who had stiffened, his fists clenched at his sides.
Flavianus’s voice cut through the tension, low and laced with barely contained anger. “I never received any recruits. Not a single man. Where are they, Quintus?”
Quintus shook his head. “I do not know, Dux. The funds were released under the assumption the Comes would ensure their deployment.”
A murmur of unease rippled through the room, but Quintus raised his hand, signaling that he was not finished. “That is not the worst of it.”
Romulus’s stomach tightened as Quintus continued.
“The Comes also requisitioned funds to cover the wages of the comitatenses near Mediolanum,” Quintus said, his tone darkening. “He claimed he would personally ensure the payments were delivered safely to them. Additionally, he requested funds for Odoacer’s foederati.”
The room fell silent. All eyes turned to Quintus, the weight of his revelation pressing down on them.
“How much?” Romulus asked, his voice barely above a whisper, though it carried a commanding edge.
Quintus swallowed hard. “Between the wages for the comitatenses and the payments for Odoacer’s troops… the total amounts to approximately 25,000 solidi.”
A collective intake of breath swept through the chamber. Flavianus stepped forward, his face a mask of fury. “Twenty-five thousand?” he spat. “And he left with it?”
Quintus nodded grimly. “Yes, Caesar. If treachery is indeed afoot, then the Comes has stolen a fortune that was meant to sustain Rome’s defenses.”
Romulus’s jaw tightened, his youthful face hardening into an expression of steely resolve. “This cannot stand,” he said, his voice cold but controlled. “Flavianus, take immediate action. Ensure no further funds leave Ravenna without my explicit authorization. Double the guards on the treasury. And I want trusted men watching over every asset.”
Flavianus nodded sharply, already planning his next steps. “It will be done, Caesar.”
As the council started to disband and the chamber became emptied, Romulus found himself alone for the first time since the day’s chaos had begun. The fading light of the evening seeped into the room, casting long shadows across the stone walls. The weight of command pressed heavily on him, and for a fleeting moment, the vast space of the imperial chamber felt suffocatingly small.
He paced to the large window, gazing out at the city of Ravenna below. Its streets and buildings glowed faintly under the dimming sky, the flicker of lanterns and hearthfires coming alive. Yet, to Romulus, the scene held no comfort. Every shadow seemed to hold an unseen threat, every movement below a potential betrayal.
He pressed his palms against the cool stone of the windowsill, his chest tightening. The enormity of the day’s revelations—betrayal, stolen funds, the looming specter of treason—swirled in his mind, a storm he couldn’t calm. His breathing grew shallow as he stared into the gathering darkness.
A sudden knock at the door broke the silence.
Romulus straightened, his shoulders stiffening instinctively. "Enter," he called, his voice steadier than he felt.
The door creaked open, and to his surprise, Lucan and Marcus Severus stepped in, carrying a wooden tray between them. The faint aroma of freshly baked bread, roasted meats, and honeyed figs filled the room, momentarily cutting through the oppressive air.
“We thought,” Lucan began hesitantly, his voice quieter than usual, “you might not have eaten today.”
“Our mother made this for you,” Marcus added quickly, his tone more casual, though his eyes concerned. “She thought you could use it. And, well, we did too.”
Romulus’s first instinct was to dismiss them. He wasn’t in the mood for company, and his mind buzzed too furiously to entertain even the thought of eating. But the earnestness in their faces—especially Marcus’s wide-eyed, hopeful expression—made him pause.
“Set it down,” he said finally, gesturing to a nearby table.
The brothers complied, placing the tray with careful hands. Lucan glanced at Romulus, seeming to sense his unease. “It must have been a busy day,” he said softly, his words carefully measured. “We’ll leave you to your work.”
As they turned to go, Marcus hesitated, a small object clutched in his hand. “Wait,” he said, stepping closer to Romulus. “I… I wanted you to have this.”
He held out a small wooden toy soldier, its paint worn but its carved features still sharp. “It’s one of my favorites,” Marcus said, his voice shy yet sincere. “I thought maybe it could keep you company. So you won’t feel alone.”
Romulus stared at the toy, a lump rising in his throat. He took it gently, his fingers brushing against the smooth wood. For a moment, he couldn’t bring himself to speak, his emotions tangling in his chest.
“Thank you,” he managed at last, his voice barely above a whisper.
Marcus smiled, his face lighting up. “It’s a good guard,” he said with confidence. “It won’t let anything happen to you.”
Lucan placed a reassuring hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “Come on,” he said, steering his younger brother toward the door. “Caesar needs his rest.”
The two boys left quietly, the door closing softly behind them. Romulus stood in the middle of the chamber, staring at the toy soldier in his hand. The room seemed quieter now, the oppressive weight of earlier moments eased just slightly by the boys’ gesture.
The hours slipped by as Romulus sat alone, the toy soldier resting between his fingers. The chamber grew darker, lit only by the faint glow of the brazier. His thoughts churned, his grip tightening on the wooden figure.
As the shadows in the room deepened and the silence grew heavy, Romulus finally stirred. He placed the toy soldier carefully on the table, its small, defiant figure standing at attention. For a moment, he studied it, the simplicity of its form contrasting sharply with the tangled complexities of his thoughts.
With a deep breath, he turned to the small writing desk near the corner of the chamber. The oil lamp flickered faintly, casting a dim light over the parchment, ink, and quill laid out before him. He settled into the chair and reached for a blank sheet. His hand hovered above the page, the weight of his decisions pressing down as he began to write.
Father,
I hope this letter finds you in good health, though I fear the news I must share will weigh heavily on your shoulders. I have no time for flowery words or pleasantries. You must know—Lucius Varius, the Comes, has betrayed us. He has taken with him a fortune meant for our soldiers and Odoacer's troops. Worse still, he has departed Ravenna with Lepidus, Crassus, and others who I once thought allies.
The situation is dire. I know you are no stranger to treachery, but this... This feels different. It feels calculated, coordinated, and timed to strike when we are most vulnerable.
I am afraid, Father. Afraid for you, for me, for Rome. I’ve always looked to you for strength, and even now, I draw from it. But the visions, the ones I confided to you about—they linger in my mind. I see Odoacer marching. I see you standing against him. And then, I see you fall.
You’ve always told me to trust in action over fear. So this is my action: You must not confront Odoacer if he moves. Do not engage him, no matter how tempting or how just it may seem. Instead, gather every soldier, every ally, and return to Ravenna.
Our strength lies in unity, not scattered forces. These walls will hold, Father. But they need you, and I need you.
By my hand and by the authority of Rome, I issue this as an imperial order: If Odoacer gathers his troops, you are to do the same, but do not march against him. Retreat to Ravenna at once, with every soldier under your command.
Your son,
Romulus Augustus Caesar
Romulus stared at the finished letter for a long moment before sealing it. It felt deeply personal yet carried the weight of imperial command. He pressed the wax seal into place, his thumb lingering over the impression before he set the letter aside.
He paused before reaching for another sheet, his mind already turning to the next task.
Romulus took another sheet of parchment, his movements slower now, the weight of the day pressing heavily on his shoulders. He dipped his quill into the ink, hesitated for a moment, and then began to write. His expression remained tense as the quill scratched across the parchment.
The contents of the second letter were hidden from view, its words meant only for its recipient. The careful strokes of the quill carried an urgency, yet the rhythm was steady. When he finished, Romulus leaned back, studying the sealed letter in his hand for a moment before adding his imperial seal to it.
He rose from his chair, both letters in hand, and walked to the door. Opening it, he summoned a guard. “These letters must leave immediately,” he instructed, holding the sealed messages out. “One is to be delivered to my father, the Magister Militum. The other,” he hesitated for a brief moment before continuing, “is for Dux Gaius Severus. Both must reach their destinations swiftly and without delay.”
The guard saluted sharply, taking the letters with reverence. “It will be done, Caesar.”
Romulus watched the guard retreat down the corridor, his footsteps fading into the distance. When the door closed, he was alone once more, the chamber falling into an oppressive silence. The flickering light of the brazier cast long shadows across the walls, and the toy soldier on the table stood still, its carved wooden figure facing him like a silent sentinel.
He moved back to the table, his steps unsteady, and sat down heavily. His gaze fell on the toy soldier, and he reached out to pick it up, turning it over in his hands. The weight of the carved wood was negligible, but it felt heavy in his grip. It reminded him of Marcus’s words, of the boy’s innocent belief that the figure could keep him safe.
Romulus thought of his reforms—the land grants, the military training, the workshops. It all seemed so monumental when first enacted, a vision of a brighter future. But now, in the shadow of betrayal and treason, it felt like a feeble attempt to hold together something far too vast and broken. His vision, once so clear, now felt distant, almost unattainable. He had done everything he could, but it still didn’t feel like enough.
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he quickly brushed them away. But the weight in his chest grew heavier, pressing down until he could no longer resist. He placed the toy soldier back on the table and leaned forward, his head resting in his hands as the tears came freely.
The emperor of Rome sat alone in his chamber, his sobs quiet yet unrelenting. He allowed himself to feel the overwhelming despair and fear that had been building.
He cried until exhaustion overtook him, his tears slowing and his breathing evening out. When he finally lay down on his bed, he clutched the toy soldier close to his chest, its presence a small comfort in the vast emptiness.
