Romulus sat astride a sturdy horse on the outskirts of Ravenna, the late afternoon sun throwing long shadows across the dusty field. A warm breeze ruffled the edges of his tunic and tugged at the reins he held too tightly, betraying his nervousness. His gaze wandered ceaselessly over the horizon, searching for any sign of movement. Around him, a group of comitatenses formed a loose half-circle, their weapons at the ready, while a small contingent of Palatini hung back, expressionless but watchful. It had been barely a day since Flavianus had led a strike force out against Crassus’s approaching army, and now every passing minute felt like an eternity.

  He shifted in the saddle, feeling the unfamiliar press of the stirrups against his boots. The idea of adopting stirrups like he did with his cavalry—something gleaned from his strangely prescient ideas—had sparked both curiosity and skepticism among the troops. But none could deny they made riding more stable, at least once one grew used to them. Romulus found he appreciated the extra balance now, especially with his nerves on edge.

  He exhaled, running his gloved hand over the horse’s neck, trying to focus on the steady rhythm of the animal’s breathing. It had been Flavianus who’d insisted on an immediate strike. With Odoacer driving down from the north after taking Pavia, the moral blow had been crushing. Flavianus’s logic was ironclad: the city could not afford another day of uncertainty. Attacking Crassus’s ragtag force of mostly conscripted levies and militias while they were still on the move might grant a swift victory—something to stiffen the spine of Ravenna’s defenders and wrest the initiative from their enemies.

  Romulus had hesitated at first, fear creeping into his gut. Another defeat, so soon after Pavia, might shatter what little cohesion the city still had. But he’d seen the fire in Flavianus’s eyes, the raw need to show Crassus that he would not simply cower behind its walls. In the end, Romulus had relented, giving his blessing for Flavianus to lead a rapid strike force out into the field. Now all he could do was wait—and waiting, as it turned out, was worse than any confrontation.

  His horse snorted, impatient from standing so long in one spot. Romulus patted its flank, forcing a tight smile at the soldier next to him, who politely pretended not to notice the emperor’s unease. Yet the tension crackled in the air. Every so often, a trooper would glance toward Romulus for reassurance, only to turn away at the sight of his taut expression.

  When the sun dipped low enough that the sky shimmered a dusty gold, Romulus caught the first glimpse of movement far down the road. His heart lurched. At once, he heightened in the saddle, gripping the reins so hard his knuckles went white. A small cloud of dust billowed in the distance, and he could just make out the shape of a lone rider pushing his mount hard.

  The assembled soldiers shifted, a ripple of anticipation passing through the group. Romulus felt his pulse hammer in his ears. He urged his horse a few paces forward, ignoring the uneasy sense that, with so many eyes upon him, any show of fear could be disastrous.

  Closer and closer the rider came. It was a messenger—no large contingent behind him, no triumphant standard-bearers. Romulus swallowed, the dryness in his throat almost painful. He waited, the stirrups pressing against his feet as he leaned over his horse’s neck, trying to discern the man’s expression.

  Finally, the messenger reined in, panting and coated in dust. His horse stumbled a step, nostrils flaring.

  “Sire,” the messenger managed between heaving breaths. “Dux Flavianus...he sends word...”

  A hush fell over the soldiers. Romulus forced himself to keep his voice steady. “Speak,” he commanded, though it emerged as little more than a strained whisper.

  The messenger gulped another breath, hands trembling on the reins. “We struck at night,” he said, voice cracking with a mixture of fatigue and excitement. “The Dux led a small detachment right into Crassus’s camp, took them by surprise while they slept. The sentries never saw them coming. Our men set fire to the supply wagons first—oil and torches tossed into the heart of their stores. Within moments, the whole camp was in chaos.” He paused, swallowing hard, as if reliving the scene. “Crassus’s levies panicked, trampling each other trying to flee. Some even attacked their own, thinking they were under a full-scale assault. The confusion did half our work for us.”

  Romulus felt a wave of relief surge through him, so intense it almost made him dizzy. He flicked a glance toward the soldiers around him, seeing their expressions shift from tense apprehension to a kind of hushed exhilaration. “Losses?” he asked quietly, forcing himself to keep his tone calm.

  The messenger’s lips curled into a wan smile. “We lost a few men—maybe a dozen dead, a handful more wounded. But most of us got out with barely a scratch. Crassus’s men did more damage to themselves than we did, stumbling over their own barricades, fighting shadows in the dark. By the time the fires spread, our force was already slipping away.”

  A ragged cheer erupted from the ranks. Some men clapped their neighbors on the back, others let out triumphant shouts toward the darkening sky. The Palatini, long simmering with anger and shame after the betrayal, erupted with a fierce pride that sent a shiver down Romulus’s spine. He gripped the reins, breath coming fast, as every nerve in his body seemed to sing with gratitude.

  Magnus’s stern face softened by a fraction, and Romulus caught the guard captain’s eye. In that brief look, he sensed the same profound release, the same quietly swelling hope that maybe, just maybe, they could turn the tide. He cleared his throat, reining in his own burst of elation. “The Dux—is he well?”

  “Unharmed, Caesar.” The messenger ran a hand over his dusty beard, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “He said to tell you… ‘We’re only getting started.’”

  Three days later at night, Romulus sat alone in his dimly lit chamber, the soft glow of oil lamps casting wavering shadows on the scrolls and parchments spread across the table before him. A faint scent of wax and parchment filled the air. Each scroll bore the faint smell of dust and the faintest tang of sweat, as though they had traveled miles of rugged roads just to land in his hands.

  He read quickly, absorbing each terse line of news:

  "Dux Flavianus continues to shadow Crassus’s army… Poisoned wells and water sources along their route… Attacks on foraging parties…"

  Romulus exhaled, the tension in his chest mingling with a dark thrill he dared not show. It was a grim strategy—one he knew others might balk at—but in times like these, such methods saved countless lives on their own side.

  He set aside the first dispatch and unrolled another, reading it by the wavering lamplight:

  They dropped carcasses into a cistern near Cesenna at dusk. Crassus’s scouts, discovering the taint in the early morning, had to reroute his entire column to find clean water. Dozens of horses fell ill from drinking untested streams. Morale among Crassus’s levies has deteriorated sharply.

  Romulus ran his thumb over the parchment’s edge. The methods described—spoiling wells with dead animals or rotting debris, staging ambushes whenever Crassus’s foraging parties strayed from the main force—were brutal. A pang of unease tugged at him; poisoning water sources was a tactic that skirted the boundaries of honorable warfare. But in these desperate times, with enemies pressing on every border and conspiracies brewing within the empire, the niceties of old codes had grown thin.

  Still, he could not deny the results. Another line from a second report:

  A cavalry patrol under Tribune Sylvanus seized an enemy wagon train when it strayed too close to the Adriatic. The wagons contained grain and salted fish meant for Crassus’s troops. Our men inflicted minimal losses on the escort—most fled after the first volley of arrows.

  Romulus permitted himself a small, grim smile. That resupply would surely bolster Ravenna’s stores, and more importantly, deny Crassus’s men the same. He could almost see Flavianus, riding hard through the night, directing troops with a curt nod or gesture, relentlessly whittling down Crassus’s numbers and spirit.

  He reached for another parchment:

  A small detachment of local militia harried the rear guard at dawn. Arrows cut down several officers before they could mount a defense. Enemy morale is reported as dangerously low, with desertions on the rise. Scouts claim Crassus has ordered harsher discipline, but it only fans resentment.

  Romulus paused, imagining the chaos in Crassus’s camp: ragged conscripts shivering from thirst, forced to march longer distances to find clean water, or stumbling through dawn ambushes by swift bowmen. The emperor felt a pang of pity for the lowly foot soldiers pressed into service by Crassus’s ambition. But he also felt an undercurrent of relief. Every day that Crassus’s army struggled meant one more day for Ravenna to prepare, to hold its own.

  He set the scroll aside, leaning back in his chair. His chamber was quiet, the heavy drapes and thick walls muffling the distant bustle of the palace. He imagined those men out there—Flavianus and his strike forces—sleeping in muddy fields, rising before dawn to plan the next sabotage or skirmish. The knowledge that they carried out his will, even if through harsh means, weighed on him. But with Odoacer menacing from the north and Crassus prowling closer each day, there seemed little room for gentler tactics.

  In the corner of the room, a lone candle sputtered. Romulus rose, pacing slowly, the day’s stirrup-induced ache in his legs a dull reminder of his own attempts at innovation. If the cavalry could adapt to new equipment, so too could the rest of the army adapt to new, more ruthless strategies. Victory, he knew, often belonged to those willing to do what their enemies would not.

  He returned to the table and carefully picked up the final dispatch:

  Crassus pushes on, though his men have lost much of their fighting spirit. They suspect local villagers of hiding or spoiling resources. Incidents of looting have increased, breeding further local hostility. Flavianus continues to track them at a safe distance, awaiting your orders.

  Romulus let out a slow breath, folding the parchment. He imagined the faces of Crassus’s hungry, demoralized soldiers. It was a victory of sorts—one fought without major pitched battles, but by turning the land itself into a weapon. Harsh, unglamorous, yet effective. He glanced at the window, where the moon cast its faint glow across the courtyard.

  His decision lay clear: continue the harassment, force Crassus to exhaust himself or turn back, but remain watchful for any change in the enemy’s strategy. If Crassus found a way around the poisoned wells the advantage could vanish as quickly as it had come.

  Setting the dispatches aside, Romulus extinguished one of the oil lamps, letting darkness edge closer. He would draft a reply before dawn, commending Flavianus and preparing him that he will join him soon.

  Romulus rose early from a restless night, dispatches and strategy running circles in his mind. Before the first glimmer of dawn lit the palace windows, he had already penned missives instructing Flavianus to hold firm and await additional orders—though those orders would soon arrive in person. After sealing them with a measured hand, he stepped into the corridor, lamp in hand, and made for the small side chamber where Magnus and Andronikos often conferred at this hour.

  They were already there, speaking in hushed tones—Magnus in his simple but well-kept tunic and Andronikos with the faint hollows beneath his eyes that suggested another late night of reading reports. Both looked up in surprise as Romulus entered.

  “Caesar,” Andronikos said, bowing slightly. Magnus inclined his head in respect, though the firm set of his jaw betrayed an undercurrent of concern.

  Romulus swept his gaze over them. “I will ride out to join Flavianus,” he said without preamble, voice steady. “I have read his dispatches. He remains in the field, pressing Crassus back. But I—” He paused, drawing a breath. “I cannot remain here, huddled behind these walls, while others risk their lives. My troops must see me leading from the front. It is past time I earn experience as a commander.”

  A taut silence descended. Magnus was the first to speak. “Caesar,” he began, in that firm, soldierly tone, “your place is here—guarding Ravenna’s stability. If you leave, rumors will fly. The city might think you abandon them in a moment of crisis. And the risk—” He frowned, his broad shoulders tensing. “If something were to happen to you… Crassus could claim your throne unopposed.”

  Andronikos nodded, stepping closer. “Magnus is correct. You must consider the strategic cost, Caesar. A single arrow or a stroke of misfortune on the battlefield, and Ravenna’s morale—indeed, the morale of the entire empire—could collapse. Emperors of the past did not lightly place themselves at the fore.”

  Romulus recognized the genuine concern flickering behind their words. He offered a faint, reassuring smile. “I appreciate your caution,” he said quietly. “But if I do not show myself willing to face danger as they do, how can I ever hope to command their loyalty? My father would tell you the same. Soldiers follow a leader who dares share in the grit and peril.”

  “You would do more good here,” Magnus pressed. “Oversee supplies, ensure reinforcements. The city—”

  “Andronicus can handle that,” Romulus cut in gently, turning to the Greek. “He has proven more than capable. Besides,” he added with a wry twist of his lips, “my father will arrive tomorrow. With him here in Ravenna—well, you know my father: cunning as a fox, and he holds sway over many. He can see to the political concerns while Andronikos continues the tasks we started.”

  Andronikos tensed. “Caesar… I understand your resolve, but the empire is fragile. A direct threat on your person—”

  “I do not intend to ride into Crassus’s camp alone,” Romulus said calmly. “A small escort, perhaps two dozen cavalry. Enough to deter casual threats, but not so large that we drain the city’s defenses. I will meet Flavianus in the field. Not to lead every raid, but to learn. To let the men see that their emperor is more than a distant figure. Yes—some emperors remained behind. Others, like Theodosius for example, took to the field and won loyalty by their presence. If the empire is to endure, we must risk.”

  A stirring of deep-seated anxiety flickered across Andronikos’s face. “Risk,” he echoed softly. “Always risk.”

  Magnus clenched a fist, looking as though he might argue further. But at last, he exhaled, shoulders slumping in reluctant acceptance. “Very well,” he said. “I will arrange for an escort of picked men from the Palatini. They are loyal beyond question and handpicked by me. They can move quickly, especially with these”—he shifted uncomfortably, referencing the stirrups Romulus had championed—“new contraptions.”

  Romulus inclined his head. “Thank you, Magnus.” Then, turning to Andronikos, he managed a faint smile. “My father arrives on the morrow. Show him the academy’s progress. Ensure the Palatini keep watch for any suspicious activity—Crassus may yet try something underhanded even here in Ravenna.”

  The Greek hesitated, a hundred counter-arguments dancing behind his eyes. But in the end, he simply bowed. “I will keep everything in hand, Caesar.”

  “Good.” Romulus’s voice was gentler. “We must not let the city falter. Between my father’s presence and your guidance, Ravenna will stand strong.” He drew a breath, squared his shoulders. “Have messengers ride ahead to Flavianus—tell him to expect me soon, so he may plan accordingly. I leave at noon.”

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  Magnus’s jaw tightened, but he saluted, fist to breast in a crisp motion. “I will see that the escort is prepared.”

  Andronikos placed a hand on Romulus’s arm, his tone subdued. “Take care, Caesar. Return victorious—and soon.”

  Romulus nodded, the corners of his mouth quirking in a determined smile. “Count on it.”

  Shortly before midday, as the sun climbed high, Romulus reined in his horse at Ravenna’s eastern gate. The small escort Magnus had selected—two dozen cavalry, each man outfitted with a sturdy mount and armed with spear, shield, and the short spatha—assembled in disciplined ranks. A hush lingered among the onlookers, a mixture of curiosity and anxiety flickering in their eyes. Romulus felt a flutter of nerves but forced his features to remain calm, resolute.

  Magnus stood beside him and performed a last inspection of tack and supplies. Andronikos lingered off to the side, arms folded over his chest, a silent figure wearing a faintly troubled expression.

  In the mild warmth of the noon sun, Romulus offered them each a silent nod of gratitude. Then, mustering every shred of confidence he possessed, he tapped his heels to the horse’s flanks. The gate creaked open, revealing the open road stretching toward the horizon—the same road Flavianus and his men had taken days before.

  “Forward,” he ordered softly to his escort. The horses clattered onto the paved surface, hooves echoing against stone. As he guided his mount into a steady canter, Romulus could not help but glance back just once—seeing Andronikos standing by the gate, watching him depart.

  Then the city fell behind, and he turned his gaze forward, heart pounding. Soon enough, he would join Flavianus, share in the risks of battle, and prove to his men that their emperor did not shrink from the trials they faced.

  The road stretched on for most of the day, a winding route through gently rolling fields and sparse woods, punctuated by the occasional farmstead. Romulus felt each mile in the ache of his legs, still adjusting to the stirrups’ subtle pressure. Magnus rode beside him in grim silence, ever vigilant for signs of trouble, while the Palatini escort fanned out in a disciplined formation, scanning the horizon. As the sun began its slow descent, they spotted the distant smudge of smoke and tents that marked Flavianus’s forward camp.

  Upon arrival, they found the encampment at the edge of a small grove, well-positioned by a shallow stream. The watchmen at the perimeter snapped to attention at the emperor’s approach, though Romulus did not miss their bewildered glances. Word of his presence rippled through the lines, and soldiers paused in their tasks—cleaning weapons, cooking meager rations—to stare at their emperor. He sat as tall as he could in the saddle, hoping he looked more composed than he felt.

  Flavianus himself strode out to greet them—or rather, to greet Magnus, ignoring Romulus for one tense moment before offering the briefest of bows. The lines of tension on the Dux’s face were unmistakable: fatigue, worry, and, beneath it all, a spark of anger. Still mounted, Romulus forced a polite smile, only to have Flavianus bark orders for a tent to be cleared. Within minutes, they found themselves behind canvas walls, attendants shooed away so only the emperor, Magnus, and Flavianus remained.

  The moment the tent flap fell shut, Flavianus let loose in a low, furious voice. “Are you out of your mind, Magnus?” he hissed, eyes blazing at Magnus. “You allowed the boy to ride into a war camp—my war camp—? Raids, sabotage...and now I must watch over an eleven-year-old emperor, in addition to fending off Crassus?”

  Magnus’s spine stiffened. “He is Caesar,” he replied tersely. “I advised against it, but he gave the order.”

  Flavianus jabbed a finger in the air, jaw clenched. “Caesar or not, he’s a child! One stray arrow, one lucky raider, and the empire loses its figurehead. We lose any leverage we have. And I will not be the one to bury him, do you hear me?”

  Romulus stood by the tent’s center pole, swallowing hard. He could sense Magnus’s discomfort, feel the waves of tension rolling off Flavianus. Carefully, he found his voice. “Dux Flavianus, I came to stand with my men. To—”

  “To what?” Flavianus interrupted, voice taut with suppressed rage. “To learn soldiering in the middle of a real battle? To wave from behind the lines? Listen, Caesar—” he spat the word with frustration—“I’ve enough on my plate. My men forage at night, risk their lives harassing Crassus’s columns. We slip from farm to farm, poisoning wells and driving cattle away. If I’m forced to babysit an emperor while dodging mercenary spears, the entire plan collapses.”

  Romulus forced himself not to shrink under the Dux’s glare. “I won’t be a burden,” he insisted, careful to keep his tone even. “I’ve come to observe and learn, nothing more.”

  A brief scoff escaped Flavianus’s lips. “Observe and learn, is it? If your father hears you were killed under my watch, all the observing in the world won’t save me. Worse still, the men—” He shook his head. “It’ll break them. They’d see it as a curse from the gods themselves.”

  Magnus cleared his throat, trying to calm the situation. “Dux, we can keep Caesar in the rear—where it’s safer. He’ll not be on the front lines.”

  But Flavianus wheeled around, eyes blazing. “Safer? Ha! With the constant raids, nowhere is truly safe. Understand this, Emperor—” He turned to Romulus, voice lowered but still trembling with fury. “If you stay, you follow my every command. If I tell you to run, you run. If I tell you to do something as humiliating as shitting in front of everyone” He gestured angrily. “Then you’ll do it. No complaints, no second-guessing. I’ll not have you playing hero in front of my men. This is war.”

  Romulus opened his mouth to protest, but Flavianus cut him off, jabbing a finger at him. “Don’t try to overrule me out here. One hint of disobedience, and I’ll tie you to a horse, send you trotting back to Ravenna myself. You understand?”

  The tent seemed to close in on them, the tension so thick Romulus could hardly breathe. He drew himself up, glancing at Magnus, whose grim expression offered little comfort. “I understand,” the boy emperor said quietly, though his heart pounded. “I submit to your authority in the field, Dux Flavianus.”

  Flavianus exhaled sharply, turning away for a moment as though to collect himself. “Good. Then maybe we’ll survive this madness.” Slowly, he faced Romulus again, his tone a fraction less hostile. “There’s a spare command tent at the rear. You’ll stay there with your escort. You move only with my permission or that of Tribune Sylvanus, my second-in-command. Clear?”

  Romulus gave a firm nod, not trusting his voice to stay steady if he spoke. He saw the flicker of relief in Flavianus’s eyes, mixed with a lingering resentment.

  “All right,” the Dux said at last. “Then let’s see to your tent, Caesar, before we break camp again tonight. Crassus may be half-starved, but he’s not beaten yet. We harass him further come dawn—or sooner, if he stirs.”

  Magnus pressed a hand to his chest, saluting. Romulus did the same, though his mind still reeled from Flavianus’s forceful words. The day’s heat seemed to weigh heavily on all of them, thicker than the canvas air. With a final brusque nod, Flavianus pushed aside the tent flap, stepping out into the sunlight.

  “Welcome to the front, Caesar,” he threw over his shoulder, voice edged with grim irony. “Let’s hope your presence doesn’t cost us more than it’s worth.”

  And with that, he was gone, leaving Romulus and Magnus alone in the stifling tent, the world outside bristling with soldiers and the uncertain hush of impending conflict. The young emperor closed his eyes, steadying himself. He would prove he could endure, obey, and learn. There was no turning back now.

  Magnus stood quietly at Romulus’s side for a long moment, the sweltering heat of the tent pressing in as if to crush them both. Outside, voices rose and fell—officers giving orders, soldiers muttering, the hiss of steel on sharpening stones. Inside, the silence was thick with unspoken tension. At last, Magnus drew a slow breath, folding his arms over his broad chest.

  “Was it wise, Caesar?” he asked in a low voice, careful that no one else could overhear. “Truly? I understand you wish to learn, to show your men courage. But to do it now—here—on a campaign as desperate as this?”

  Romulus did not move at first. His eyes fixed on the tent’s canvas wall, gaze distant and clouded with a resolve forged from anxiety and determination. He looked so young in that moment, barely more than a child, yet something in his posture spoke of an adult burden.

  With a quiet exhale, he turned his head just enough to meet Magnus’s eyes. His face was uncharacteristically hollow, as if carved by worry and resignation. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured and soft. “I have done all I could in Ravenna,” he began, each word weighed. “I set up schools, reformed the supply lines, pushed for new tactics. We built the academy, reorganized the defenses… but the next few weeks—” He lifted his chin, eyes momentarily flicking with fear and resolve. “The next few weeks will decide my fate. The empire’s fate.”

  Magnus’s expression tightened, sympathy warring with concern. “I know. But—”

  “And I will not spend those weeks in the palace,” Romulus pressed on, voice gaining a quiet edge. “I will not sit and wait, letting men die while I hide behind marble walls. I—” He swallowed, the knot in his throat audible. “If I am to ask them to sacrifice, if I’m to demand their blood and sweat… then I must show them I am willing to share in it. If they fall, I fall with them.”

  The guard captain let out a long sigh. He studied the emperor’s face, searching for some sign of uncertainty he could exploit, some last hope of persuading him to return to Ravenna’s relative safety. But Romulus’s gaze was distant, almost fatalistic—like a soldier who had already made peace with the hazards of the battlefield. Magnus felt his chest tighten.

  “You are only eleven summers, Caesar,” he said softly. “Too young to bear such burdens.”

  A ghost of a smile curved Romulus’s lips, humorless and sad. “Yet bear them I must. Being emperor isn’t a matter of years, Magnus—it’s the throne I was given. The name, the title, the duties…” His breath caught, and his voice turned almost to a whisper. “If I wait at home while Flavianus, while every soldier in the field, risks life and limb, what sort of emperor am I?”

  Magnus dropped his gaze, staring at his own hands. The flickering lamplight cast harsh shadows across the rough lines of his face. He wanted to argue more, to remind Romulus that the empire’s stability hinged on his survival—that a single error here, a stray arrow or a sudden ambush, could unravel everything. But he also saw the deep well of conviction in the boy’s eyes, a steadiness that belied his tender age.

  He nodded slowly, though his features remained grave. “Very well, Caesar. I may not agree, but I’ll stand by you.” Then he gave a small, humorless chuckle. “And I’ll pray to every god I know that Flavianus’s fury is the worst you have to endure.”

  Romulus exhaled, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “Thank you, Magnus,” he murmured. “Your prayers—mine as well—may be needed. Perhaps desperately so.”

  They lapsed into silence again, the weight of the empire’s fate pressing on them both. Outside, the muffled sounds of the camp drifted through the canvas: the ring of metal, the low murmur of voices, the shuffle of feet in the dirt. It was a sound both mundane and fraught with danger.

  After a moment, Magnus cleared his throat. He reached out and clasped Romulus’s shoulder, his grip firm but oddly gentle. “Come, Caesar. Let’s see this camp of yours. We’ll do our best to keep you in one piece.”

  Romulus’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I appreciate that,” he said quietly, the faintest hint of irony in his tone. Then, forcing the stiffness from his spine, he squared his shoulders. “Lead on, Magnus. And let us do what we must.”

  Together, they stepped out of the tent into the fading daylight, the air heavy with dust and the lingering heat of dusk. Soldiers glanced their way, some dipping their heads respectfully, others stealing furtive, curious looks at the boy-emperor who had come so far from Ravenna’s gilded halls to stand among them. Romulus felt each gaze like a weight upon him, yet he raised his chin, meeting their eyes with all the courage he could muster.

  And in that moment, he understood just how great the gulf was between noble intentions and the brutal reality of war—and that in the coming weeks, he would have no choice but to bridge it.

  Night had settled over the camp like a heavy shroud when Magnus slipped quietly into Romulus’s tent. The boy emperor, exhausted from the long day of inspections and uneasy discussions, had at last dozed off on a small cot. A single oil lamp burned low, casting the canvas walls in a flickering glow. Magnus hesitated at the threshold, reluctant to disturb the scant rest his charge had finally found. But duty demanded he act.

  He knelt by Romulus’s side and placed a firm hand on the emperor’s shoulder. “Caesar,” he whispered, leaning close. “Wake up.”

  Romulus jerked upright, eyes wide in the half-light. For an instant, confusion clouded his face. Then he remembered where he was: the forward camp, Flavianus’s domain. Outside, the muffled sounds of armor rattling and subdued voices drifted through the canvas. He swallowed, pulse quickening.

  “What’s happened?” he asked, voice still hoarse with sleep.

  Magnus kept his tone calm, though a trace of urgency bled through. “Flavianus. He’s marching out—now. By the time dawn comes, he’ll be gone.”

  Romulus threw off the thin woolen blanket and swung his legs to the ground. Immediately, his body reminded him of the day’s strains—muscles sore from unfamiliar riding, nerves wound tight from tension. But there was no time to dwell on discomfort. He stood, mind racing.

  “Help me with my armor,” he managed. In moments, two slaves stationed outside the tent bustled in at Magnus’s summons, fussing with buckles and straps. As they tightened the mail over Romulus’s tunic, the boy emperor fought a rising tide of anxiety. Would Flavianus really leave without him—disobeying the very emperor he claimed to serve?

  He recalled the Dux’s scalding anger earlier. Yes, he told himself, face grim. He would. Once the last buckle was secure, he took a breath and nodded. “Let’s go.”

  Magnus lifted the tent flap. The night air was cool compared to the stale heat inside. Torchlight danced across the camp: soldiers moving in purposeful haste, packing gear, slinging shields, shouldering spears. The churn of activity revealed that Flavianus had indeed given an order to move at once, no matter the hour.

  Romulus hurried through the maze of men and equipment, Magnus at his side, Palatini guards falling into step behind them. At the camp’s far edge, near a low-burning fire, stood Dux Flavianus—surrounded by a knot of officers deep in conversation. Even from a distance, Romulus could make out the Dux’s rigid posture.

  They approached, the ring of officers parting to reveal Flavianus, his weathered brow furrowed. For a moment, he said nothing, simply casting a sharp, disapproving glance at the emperor. Then, voice dripping with barely contained irritation, he said, “I was hoping you’d sleep soundly until morning.”

  Romulus bit back a retort. This was not the time for pride. He bowed his head, if only briefly. “I gave my word that I would follow your orders in the field, Dux. I can’t do that if you leave me behind.”

  Flavianus pressed his lips into a thin line, exhaling through his nose. “So you say.” He gestured curtly to the gathered officers, turning to business. “We march immediately. Crassus has sent out a sizeable foraging party—at least a thousand men—aimed at a veteran settlement in the west. Might be as many as two thousand if they scrape together more levy.” His gaze flicked to Romulus, then away again. “We have word they plan to raid the farms for grain and livestock. Possibly it’s that old farmland near the coast—and a community of veterans. If Crassus manages to strip it bare or burn it, we lose a vital source of provisions… and we risk turning more veterans against us for failing to protect them.”

  He motioned to a rough map hastily drawn on a piece of parchment pinned to a makeshift board. “My force stands as follows: about six hundred pikemen, four hundred crossbowmen, three hundred cavalry with these new ‘stirrups’—” at that he threw Romulus a sidelong glance “—and roughly seven hundred militiamen. The foraging party is likely lighter, but they’ll have enough to do serious damage if we give them a free hand.”

  Flavianus tapped a spot on the map, halfway between their present position and the coast. “They’ll cross a small ravine near the old Imperial road at dawn. If we can intercept them there, we’ll have the advantage—particularly since our pikemen can block the path while the crossbows flank from higher ground. The cavalry will remain hidden behind a rise until I give the signal. Then they’ll thunder in, catch the foragers in a pincer.”

  One of the officers—Tribune Sylvanus—spoke up, voice hushed. “We must move now, Dux, if we’re to reach that position before them.”

  Flavianus nodded curtly. He turned a hard stare on Romulus. “You, Caesar, will stay to the rear with a guard. I will not have you galloping about in the night or stepping in front of a crossbow volley. Understood?”

  Romulus lifted his chin, swallowing the instinct to protest. “Yes, Dux Flavianus,” he said evenly.

  The Dux gave a small, humorless snort. “Good. Then let’s be off before the night grows older. I won’t waste precious hours coddling an emperor who insists on tagging along.”

  He began barking orders at his officers, who dispersed to gather their respective units. Within minutes, the camp erupted into carefully organized chaos—tents hastily struck, pack animals loaded, troops assembling in columns. Magnus lingered near Romulus, his expression unreadable.

  “You heard him,” Romulus murmured. “Let’s mount up.”

  They hurried to where their horses were tethered. The introduced stirrups were still an odd sight to many men, but the cavalry troopers were beginning to appreciate the added stability. Romulus grasped the saddle horn and swung himself atop his horse, tension coiling in his stomach as he surveyed the swirling activity around him. Everywhere he looked, men were preparing for battle—tightening straps, collecting spears and pikes, checking crossbow mechanisms.

  As the columns formed, Flavianus’s voice boomed in the darkness, calling each contingent to order. The pikemen assembled in disciplined blocks, iron tips glinting in torchlight. The crossbowmen, some older veterans wearing well maintained armor, quietly tested their bows and hefted quivers. The cavalry’s mounts snorted, restless in the night.

  Flavianus rode past, ensuring each group was ready. When he reached Romulus, he merely inclined his head in curt acknowledgment—no more words exchanged. Then he guided his horse to the head of the column. Trumpets sounded softly, and the force began to move, boots and hooves stirring up dust under the pale moon.

  Magnus fell in beside Romulus, who found himself near the middle of the procession, well-protected by the Palatini. The only sound for a while was the steady march of hundreds of feet, the occasional neigh of a horse, and the rustle of banners in the nocturnal breeze.

  They pressed on into the dark, hearts pounding at the thought of the coming confrontation. Romulus felt the weight of history upon him: these pikes and crossbows, stirruped cavalry, and anxious militiamen marching to intercept a threat that could ravage a veteran settlement—a place where men who had once served Rome now tried to eke out a peaceful life.

  He stole a glance at Magnus. The guard captain’s face was set, eyes searching the horizon. Romulus then lifted his gaze to the stars overhead. This is real war, he thought, more vividly than ever. No more waiting behind walls—this is the front line, and I’m in it now.

  The night’s chill seeped into his bones. But despite his fear, he squared his shoulders and guided his horse steadily onward. Ahead, Flavianus led them toward the ravine that would become their battlefield by dawn’s first light—where the foragers, with luck, would be caught unawares, and one more blow could be struck against Crassus.