From the moment they broke camp under the moon’s uncertain glow, Magnus had felt a subtle tension thrumming beneath every step of his horse’s hooves. Now, at dawn’s first hints of light, he sat astride the same dark-brown stallion, guiding the small entourage that surrounded Romulus Augustus. They were the Palatini—Magnus’s handpicked men—tasked with shielding the boy emperor in the heart of Dux Flavianus’s force. Dust clung to their cloaks, and fatigue lined their faces from a night spent marching in the wake of thousands of boots and hooves.
Yet there was no time to rest. Ahead, in a shallow clearing ringed by sparse trees, Flavianus’s command tent beckoned. It had been hastily erected, a swirl of soldiers bustling around it—pikemen checking their long shafts, crossbowmen unloading quivers, militiamen adjusting fresh gear. Magnus and his guards escorted Romulus through the throng, stepping aside for officers barking orders and carrying dispatches. The emperor’s eyes darted about, bright with curiosity and perhaps a trace of lingering nervousness.
Magnus pulled his horse to a halt as they reached the tent entrance. Two sentries snapped to attention, letting them pass without a word. Inside, the air smelled of canvas, damp earth, and the stale burn of torches in metal brackets. Flavianus stood around a low wooden table marked with a rough map of the region. Tribune Sylvanus loomed beside him, along with half a dozen other unit leaders—men in high quality, standardised armor made in the state owned workshop that Romulus himself established.
Magnus dismounted and offered a hand to Romulus, who slid to the ground, blinking away fatigue. The boy emperor squared his shoulders, stepping forward to join the gathering. Magnus stayed at his side, watchful. Ever since their arrival, he’d felt Flavianus’s eyes on them with a barely concealed annoyance—though whether the Dux’s anger stemmed more from the burdens of war or from having the emperor underfoot, Magnus couldn’t be sure.
Flavianus cleared his throat. “Good, you’re here.” The brief greeting to Romulus was more out of duty than warmth. “Gather in,” he said, glancing at each officer. “We have limited time. We received crucial intel two days ago from a pair of deserters from Crassus’s ranks.”
He tapped the map with a gauntleted finger. “They claim Crassus is sending out a larger foraging party—much bigger than the small groups we’ve been dealing with. Maybe close to a thousand men, mostly levy and militia. Their aim is here.” His finger moved to a mark near the coast. “A veteran settlement, one our Emperor Romulus who is present with us, was founded for retired soldiers. The foragers have orders to seize anything edible—grain, livestock—and burn what they can’t carry.”
Romulus shifted slightly, hands knotting behind his back. At that moment, Magnus glanced over, catching the flicker of alarm in the emperor’s eyes. But the boy’s expression quickly hardened into a resolve beyond his years.
“Our job is to intercept them before they reach the village,” Flavianus continued, glancing at Tribune Sylvanus. “We’ll utilize the same approach we’ve refined against Crassus’s smaller detachments, but on a larger scale. We have roughly six hundred pikemen, four hundred crossbowmen, three hundred cavalry and roughly seven hundred militiamen who joined us after Crassus started harassing every farm in sight. Many are veterans from the last campaigns; we’ve managed to arm them decently. They’ll fight hard to defend their homes.”
One of the captains spoke up, voice edged with tension. “These deserters—can they be trusted?”
Flavianus shrugged. “As much as any deserter can be. Still, I questioned them both separately, and their stories matched. They’re half-starved themselves, terrified of Crassus’s discipline. They’d no reason to lie. In any case, we’ve had scouts confirm increased movement near the roads west of us.”
Tribune Sylvanus nodded. “They’re pressing north along that old Imperial road, near the Etruscan pass. We should intercept them in the low country before they crest the hill leading to the veteran settlement.”
Flavianus ran a hand over his cropped beard. “A clean fight if we time it right. The foraging party’s mostly levies—poorly trained, undersupplied. They’re probably desperate for a quick raid and a quicker escape. If we pin them against the ravine, the crossbowmen can thin their ranks, and the pikemen form a wall of iron. The cavalry strikes from the flank.” He looked up, sweeping his gaze around the gathered officers. “Just like the smaller ambushes, only on a grander scale. We push them hard, break them, and send them fleeing back to Crassus’s main body. With a few more victories like this, we might shatter Crassus’s resolve entirely.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the tent. Magnus stole a sidelong glance at Romulus, who stood wide-eyed, absorbing every syllable. Despite the lines of exhaustion etched into the boy’s face, his attention never wavered from Flavianus’s words. When the Dux paused, Romulus ventured a small step forward, lips parted as though he might speak—but Flavianus quickly pressed on, not exactly inviting comment.
“All right,” the Dux said. “Tribune Sylvanus will lead the cavalry. We keep them concealed until the last possible moment. The pikes and crossbows form the main line. Militiamen to the rear, ready to reinforce or guard the baggage, depending on how the engagement unfolds. We march within the hour to get into position by midday, then lie in wait until these fools march straight into our arms.”
He turned toward Romulus at last, his mouth twisting in a semblance of respect. “Caesar, I’ll ask you again to remain behind the lines. Our success depends on swift movement and surprise. I won’t endanger you or waste time. Understood?”
Romulus nodded, his voice even. “I understand, Dux Flavianus.”
Flavianus gave a curt nod, relief warring with irritation on his features. “Good. Let’s be about it, then.”
With that, the gathering dispersed. Officers hurried out, their voices rising as they relayed orders to waiting soldiers. The crackle of torches and the clank of armor filled the early morning air. Magnus lingered by Romulus’s side, noticing the flicker of exhilaration in the emperor’s gaze—an odd mixture of dread and determination.
He let out a small breath, resting a reassuring hand on Romulus’s shoulder. “We’ll keep you safe, Caesar,” he said quietly. “But do follow the Dux’s orders. He’s not one to suffer any defiance out here.”
Romulus managed a faint smile, though lines of tension marred his young brow. “I gave him my word,” he said simply, then glanced at the thinning crowd of officers hurrying off to their units. “Let’s mount up, Magnus. If we’re to watch history unfold, I’d rather not be left behind.”
They waited in tense silence as the morning sun crept higher, burning off the last of the dawn haze and revealing the wide valley road below. Magnus, helmet balanced under one arm, guided Romulus to a rocky outcropping with sparse bushes for concealment. Around them, the Palatini guards kept low, forming a discreet cordon around the boy emperor. Farther down the slope, Dux Flavianus and his officers lay flat in the grass near a shallow ridge, scanning for their target.
Some distance away, the old Imperial road stretched west toward the veteran settlement. The foraging party—supposedly around a thousand strong—had not yet appeared. Every man in Flavianus’s force clutched a weapon in readiness.
Time crawled. An undercurrent of strain ran through the lines—a tautness that made every stray sound feel magnified. Men breathed through their mouths to keep quiet, crossbow strings taut in the hush, pikemen flattened against the earth. Even Romulus seemed to fight the urge to fidget, his eyes darting across the concealed ranks. Magnus watched him from the corner of his eye, relieved that despite the tension, the emperor seemed steady.
At last, shapes emerged on the road. Magnus felt Romulus stiffen beside him as the first ragged figures came into view: a strung-out column of disheveled men. Most wore mismatched tunics or partial armor, many lacking even basic gear. Mules and rickety wagons trailed behind them, some men rummaging half-heartedly for water skins. It was exactly what one might expect from a half-starved levy forced into service—fearful, disorganized, and plainly exhausted.
Yet there was a subtle disquiet in the air. Magnus caught a glimpse of one crossbow captain shifting uneasily, as if uncertain. Flavianus himself, crouched near the front, didn’t move. His posture was rigid, watchful, as though searching for the first crack in the formation. Tribune Sylvanus was nowhere to be seen—likely in position with the cavalry, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
The foraging party drew closer, trudging with no apparent discipline. Every so often, a man in the group glanced around, unnerved by the eerie stillness. A handful seemed on the verge of deserting outright, eyes darting left and right as though they might bolt at the first sign of trouble. It was a sight that should have emboldened Flavianus’s men: a demoralized, ragged bunch, teetering on panic. And yet…
Magnus couldn’t ignore an itch of unease. Perhaps it was the suspicious emptiness of a couple of wagons up front or the way a small clutch of men marched in slightly tighter formation. Easy to overlook in the swirl of so many half-armed peasants, but it caught his soldier’s eye. He wondered if Flavianus had noticed the same. Even the Dux, resolute though he was, must have felt the odd tension creeping beneath the surface.
But there was no time to dwell. Flavianus raised his arm, two sharp waves to the crossbowmen on the ridge. The hidden archers shifted in unison, nocking bolts. The levies and militias below remained blissfully unaware, plodding forward with hollow stares. A few whispered complaints, a horse’s snort. Nothing to suggest they suspected an ambush.
Then Flavianus dropped his arm.
A volley of bolts tore through the still air, arcing down on the unsuspecting column. Screams rang out, men stumbling in shock, some collapsing on the spot. Panic spread like wildfire, especially among those who had started in a state of nervous exhaustion. Some tried to run forward, others hurled themselves sideways off the road, tripping over each other in a mad dash for cover. Shouts erupted: “Ambush! Ambush!” But even that cry struggled to find unity—no one seemed to know where to flee or who was in command.
That was the moment the pikemen rose. Shielded by brush and a slight slope, they advanced at a steady pace, spear points forming a bristling wall. The foraging column, already fracturing, reeled at the sight. Many of these levies were mere farmers pressed into service, and their morale shattered under the sudden assault. Men dropped their weapons to clutch wounded limbs, or froze in place, eyes wide.
From his vantage point, Magnus could see Romulus exhale sharply, as if steeling himself. The emperor watched the chaos below with grim fascination, knuckles white as he gripped the rocky ledge. At first glance, it looked like the perfect ambush: the disorganized foe pinned between crossbow fire and a pike wall, with no chance to form a cohesive defense. Already, pockets of militiamen in the enemy ranks were shrieking in raw terror, bunched together with no direction.
Yet, as the second wave of bolts rained down, the subtle itch in Magnus’s mind refused to fade. He noted how a few scattered men actually advanced, not fleeing. But their presence was easy to miss in the general stampede of panic; they looked like any other cluster of terrified troops—just, perhaps, less frantic. Could it be a coincidence? Or something darker, unseen?
Another volley. More shrieks, men staggering about. Some tried to scramble behind wagons that rattled in confusion, as mules brayed and reared. A large portion of the foragers seemed on the verge of outright collapse, too demoralized to fight back. It was everything Flavianus had banked on—fear turning quickly to route.
But no order yet for the cavalry. Tribune Sylvanus still held his horses, likely waiting for the final unraveling. If these truly were frightened conscripts, the next minute would see them scattering like leaves in a windstorm.
Magnus swallowed. He glanced at Romulus, whose gaze remained glued to the field. The boy emperor’s expression was one of mingled relief and pity, as though uncertain whether to rejoice in victory or feel sorrow for these miserable levies. “They’re breaking,” he murmured, half to himself. “It’s almost—too easy.”
Magnus nodded, though a hollow sense of foreboding gnawed at him. He couldn’t see any organized enemy leadership rallying the foragers. No sign of a cunning reserve force about to strike. But the memory of those half-empty wagons flickered in his mind. Why haul wagons with so little reason if not to gather loot? Then again, maybe they’d used up supplies in previous raids. The simplest explanation sometimes was correct.
Below, the pikemen advanced another few paces, pressing the advantage. Their shouts rose over the dying moans of wounded men. Hints of blood glistened in the morning light. With each beat, the ambush seemed to tighten. From every outward sign, the plan was working perfectly: a terrified, underfed levy locked in confusion, pinned by a pike charge and crossbow bolts from the ridge.
Yet just as Magnus was about to exhale his tension, he spotted a movement at the periphery—a group of foragers not so panicked, edging to one side as though deliberately seeking higher ground. He blinked, uncertain if he truly saw something significant or just the swirl of retreat. Perhaps it was nothing.
He tore his gaze away, focusing on his immediate duty: to keep Romulus safe. If this truly was all that Crassus had left to throw at them, it would be over soon. Flavianus would score another clear win, bolstering the men’s morale, chipping away at the enemy’s resolve.
And yet, that subtle disquiet lingered in the back of Magnus’s thoughts, like the hush before a thunderstorm. He prayed it was simply his soldier’s paranoia. Because if there was more hidden behind this wave of hapless, terrified militiamen—if there was a deeper plan in motion—then this apparently straightforward rout could be the first act in a far deadlier drama. For now, though, no one else seemed to notice. Flavianus pressed forward, the crossbows reloading, the pikes bracing.
Romulus, perched tensely beside Magnus, let out a shaky breath. “They’ve almost broken,” he muttered, relief flickering in his voice. Magnus forced a nod, one hand resting firmly on the emperor’s shoulder. Perhaps it was time to trust in Flavianus’s instincts. Perhaps the Dux truly had things under control.
He only wished he could banish the gnawing suspicion that something—somewhere—had gone far too smoothly for comfort.
Magnus couldn’t ignore an itch of unease. The wagons up front—half-empty, creaking suspiciously—nagged at him. The tighter formation of certain foragers stood out like a blemish in the chaotic column. His mind raced with possibilities, each one darker than the last. He glanced at Flavianus, crouched near the ridge, his posture rigid. The Dux was staring intently, his eyes darting over the enemy ranks as though he, too, sensed something amiss.
Then it happened.
A ripple coursed through the enemy line—barely perceptible, but undeniable. A handful of men shifted subtly, their movements too coordinated for a panicked levy. Magnus’s eyes snapped to a figure near the center of the column, who leaned toward a companion and muttered something. Whatever the words, they carried weight; nearby soldiers adjusted their stance, their haphazard retreat suddenly purposeful.
Before Magnus could fully process what he was seeing, the sound came.
A horn blast.
Sharp, piercing, and utterly out of place.
It sliced through the tense air like a dagger, freezing every Roman soldier in place. Magnus felt his blood run cold. Below, the small clusters of levies stumbled to a halt, their chaotic retreat now an eerie standstill. Their panicked cries of "Ambush!" faded, replaced by an unsettling silence.
Flavianus moved first. His arm shot up, signaling the crossbowmen to prepare another volley. But before the first bolt was loosed, the enemy sprang their trap.
From the slopes opposite Flavianus’s ridge, shadows poured into the light. The disciplined ranks of fresh gothic troops—men with spears, shields, and polished armor—appeared at a dead run. They charged downhill with terrifying speed, their battle cries rolling like thunder across the valley. The ground seemed to tremble under their advance.
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“It’s a trap!” Magnus hissed through gritted teeth, his worst fears confirmed. Below, some of the once-fleeing levies turned sharply, thrusting into Flavianus’s disoriented flank. Crossbowmen scrambled to adjust their aim, their ranks fraying in the chaos. The bristling pike line, poised for a clean victory moments ago, now buckled under pressure from two sides.
Magnus’s gaze darted to Romulus, who clutched the rocky ledge, his face pale but resolute. The boy’s voice was a hoarse whisper, barely audible over the cacophony. “They’re coming from everywhere…”
A second horn blast echoed, this one closer. It heralded a new threat: cavalry bursting from behind the enemy line. The riders were swift and savage, their formation driving straight for the Roman rear.
“We’re tricked!” Magnus growled, turning to Romulus. “We have to get you out of here, Caesar—now!” Already, he’d motioned for the Palatini to gather tighter around the emperor, heads pivoting in every direction for threats. Down below, a horn blew a broken refrain. Flavianus’s voice was lost in the bedlam. Even from this distance, Magnus could see the Dux frantically gesturing, trying to rally his battered lines.
Romulus’s eyes flared with alarm, but he shook his head, refusing to budge. “No—no, I won’t abandon them!” he said, voice taut with emotion. “If they see me run, the men… they’ll think all is lost.” He tugged away from Magnus’s grasp, eyes locked on the fray. “They’re giving their lives to protect the empire. I can’t just ride off.”
Magnus snarled, grabbing Romulus’s arm more forcefully. “With respect, Caesar,” he ground out, “my duty is to keep you alive. You can’t lead anyone if you’re dead.”
“I gave Flavianus my word,” Romulus insisted, voice raw with desperation. “He said he’d protect me—but that I mustn’t shatter morale. If I flee, it’s over. We must hold, Magnus, at least until… until we can rally.”
Before Magnus could retort, the thunder of hooves came from somewhere behind the ridge: Tribune Sylvanus’s cavalry, at last rushing in to salvage the ambush. Their charge ripped into the flank of the newly arrived enemy detachment with a powerful crash. Smoke and dust clogged the air, and from the vantage on the hillside, it was impossible to see who had the upper hand. Screams, metal on metal, the roar of frightened horses. It was utter chaos.
Magnus spun Romulus around to face him. The boy’s face was pale, but resolute. “If you stay, you may die,” Magnus warned, low and fierce.
Romulus’s gaze flicked to the swirl of bloodshed below, then back to Magnus. “So be it. An emperor who flees now loses everything. I must not break them, Magnus. Let me stand.”
Caught between protective instinct and the emperor’s unyielding demand, Magnus felt a helpless surge of anger. But Romulus’s final words echoed with a calm, almost fatalistic clarity. Unwilling to disobey, Magnus released him, turning to the cluster of Palatini ringed around them. “You heard him!” he barked, voice tight. “We hold this position. Shield the emperor with your lives if need be.”
A chorus of murmured assent met his command, each man gripping sword or spear with new resolve. Romulus’s eyes shone with both fear and grim pride. Below, the battlefield churned: crossbow bolts whizzed overhead, men grappled in vicious melee, and Sylvanus’s cavalry made repeated thrusts, trying to pry open a gap in Crassus’s hidden force.
Magnus swallowed hard, adrenaline firing through his veins. If this truly was a trap on all sides, they might all die here—Flavianus, Sylvanus, and even Caesar. But the resolve in Romulus’s face gave him pause. If this is to be a slaughter, he thought, at least we stand with honor. Aloud, he gritted, “Palatini, form a defensive arc! Watch the slopes—if the enemy tries to flank us, we’ll hold them off as long as we can.”
The morning sun climbed higher, and the fierce cacophony of clashing steel and pounding hooves filled the valley. Magnus, heart hammering, stood firm beside Romulus and the tight ring of Palatini guards. Dust and smoke eddied in the broken air, the battle swirling below them in a tapestry of half-seen chaos. For a few agonizing moments, it seemed as though Crassus’s sudden ambush might engulf Flavianus’s force entirely.
But then a rallying cry cut through the din—Flavianus’s voice, as sharp as a blade. All around, groups of pikemen began to pull back from the brink, forming disciplined ranks that locked shields and leveled spears with renewed purpose. One crossbow captain, his face smeared with grime, ran along the lines, barking for volley discipline. The crossbowmen—blood pounding in their ears—reloaded in disciplined waves, stepping forward to pepper the enemy with bolts that whistled overhead.
Magnus watched from the ridge, breath held tight in his chest. The battered lines of Flavianus’s men slowly, stubbornly re-formed. Pike squares pivoted to face whichever direction the fresh attackers charged from.
On the eastern flank, Tribune Sylvanus and his cavalry, with the newly adopted stirrups Romulus had championed, thundered forward. Their horses galloped in steady formation, riders leaning with confidence in the saddle. Lances couched, they slammed into the organised ranks of the enemy reinforcements with a concussion that echoed up the slopes. Enemy lines fractured beneath the impact.
A moment later, however, a group of Crassus’s hidden Hunic and Alan cavalry burst from behind a low ridge, attempting to outflank Sylvanus. Magnus’s heart lurched—an entire wing of horsemen, streaming across the battlefield with deadly purpose. Yet the reorganized pike formations swung ’round with uncanny discipline, brandishing spears in dense hedges. The hidden cavalry, expecting to find scattered ranks, instead collided with a bristling fortress of iron tips. Their initial momentum stalled, men and beasts shrieking.
Meanwhile, the militia—some in battered armor, many veterans who had rejoined the fight after Crassus’s looting and pillaging—surged to plug gaps. They fought fiercely, side by side with the regular troops, refusing to yield an inch. Through the dust, Magnus glimpsed ragged men in old legionary helmets, roaring defiance. The synergy of pikes, crossbows, fresh militia, and cavalry was now turning the tide. If at first Crassus’s trap had threatened to swallow Flavianus’s ambush, it was now clear the cunning of these new tactics and the veterans’ iron spirit were more formidable than the enemy had counted on.
Magnus let out a trembling breath. Relief mingled with awe. This new Roman warfare—stirrups, crossbows in massed ranks, disciplined pike squares—was proving lethal to any force expecting the old ways.
He glanced at Romulus. The emperor stood there, chest heaving with unspent adrenaline, eyes fixed on the swirling victory that was slowly, inexorably forming. A savage grin threatened to pull at the corner of Romulus’s mouth, as though he dared not hope for success but felt its nearness all the same.
Then, in the middle of that chaos, Romulus turned to Magnus with sudden ferocity. “Magnus,” he said, voice hoarse but burning with purpose, “we can do more than hold. We can rally them—truly break the enemy’s will.”
Magnus, sweat beading on his brow, blinked. “The men are rallying fine, Caesar. The Dux—”
“Flavianus is fighting for his life down there.” Romulus pointed to the crest of a hill where a battered legionary aquila—a gilded eagle standard—stood planted in the ground. The standard-bearer knelt behind a line of pikemen, trying to keep the banner upright despite swirling dust and bodies pressing in. “We can push them into full retreat if they see me with the aquila. They must know the emperor stands with them in this final blow.”
Magnus’s stomach knotted. “Sire, that is the front lines. The risk… we’ve only just stabilized! You said yourself you wouldn’t break morale by fleeing—but if you ride straight into danger—”
Romulus cut him off, eyes aflame. “This is how we shatter Crassus’s plan. We show them we’re not merely surviving—we’re winning. Magnus, if the men see their emperor standing beside the aquila, they’ll fight as though the gods themselves stand with them.”
Magnus hesitated, glancing back at the dust-laden battlefield. The roar of conflict continued unabated: cavalry lances skewering fleeing enemy riders, crossbow bolts striking down clusters of gothic heavy infantry, pike formations pressing forward. Perhaps they could tilt the final scale with a bold gesture. But the danger…
“What if you’re struck down?” he asked quietly, voice nearly lost in the racket. “You think morale is fragile now… If Crassus’s men see you—”
Romulus’s glare was unwavering. “We can’t hide forever, Magnus. Come. We move toward the aquila. If we stand behind the lines, we show them we’re unafraid to stand, not just watch from a ridge.”
Magnus swallowed, every instinct screaming to keep the emperor away from the violent crucible below. Yet he sensed in Romulus an unyielding will, the very quality that had kept them from fleeing earlier. The boy was determined, and perhaps… perhaps he was right. A final push, a final sign of unity from their sovereign might snap the enemy’s last nerve.
He gave a reluctant nod, feeling a chill in his bones. “Palatini!” he barked, and the ring of guards snapped to attention. “We accompany Caesar to the aquila—close formation, keep him safe at all costs. Understood?”
A chorus of gruff affirmations followed. Romulus set his jaw, ready. Magnus drew in a sharp breath. “Very well,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”
They scrambled down the slope, hooves pounding as the Palatini formed a protective wedge around Romulus. Dust billowed up, stinging their eyes. The thunder of the battlefield grew deafening. All around them, men shouted and jostled, the lines in flux. But a path opened as friendly soldiers, glimpsing the Palatini standard and glimpsing the emperor among them, parted in astonishment.
Magnus clenched his jaw. If the enemy recognized Romulus, it could become a frenzy. But they galloped onward, weaving through clusters of triaging medics, bodies strewn in the trampled grass, and squads of re-formed pikemen pressing the advantage. Ahead, that shining aquila soared above the thickest press of the line, beckoning them to join the heart of the fray.
Each stride brought them deeper into danger. Magnus’s every muscle tensed, scanning for stray arrows, lurking foes. Yet he also saw the effect as they passed: soldiers glimpsed the emperor riding with them, and a ragged cheer arose in pockets. The battered legionaries seemed to stand taller, roars of “For Rome!” and “For the Emperor!” echoing in the haze.
At last, they neared the standard-bearer—an older veteran crouched by a pike cluster, his face streaked with dirt and sweat. His eyes widened as Romulus reined in, clods of earth flying. The aquila trembled in the soldier’s grasp. Romulus dismounted in one smooth motion, ignoring Magnus’s hiss of alarm. He placed a steadying hand on the aquila’s shaft, helping the bearer lift it high.
In that moment, time seemed to slow. The dust parted briefly, revealing the swirl of foes beyond. Crassus’s men, so sure they had drawn Flavianus into a trap, now faltered at the sight of discipline and valor renewed. The cavalry hammered in from the left flank, the crossbows unleashed a fresh volley from the ridge, and the pike lines advanced in unstoppable blocks.
Shouts of “Caesar is with us!” rippled through the ranks. Magnus, heart thundering, circled Romulus, Palatini forming a ring of shields. For an instant, he forgot his fear, seeing the men’s eyes shine with new determination. The sneers and savage confidence of the enemy began to wither under the onslaught. They realized their cunning plan had failed to crush morale; instead, the emperor himself stood in the thick of the fight, an eagle standard raised overhead as proof of Rome’s unbroken spirit.
Magnus turned, scanning the chaos. His breath caught. The momentum had shifted. Crassus’s ambushers, outmaneuvered by the quick rally and hammered by the cavalry, began to peel away in pockets. Some fled outright, others tried to regroup but found themselves harried from all sides. Meanwhile, Flavianus—bloodied but unbowed—led a fresh wave of militiamen and pikemen, driving deeper into the foe’s flank.
“Magnus,” Romulus gasped, voice still trembling with adrenaline, “we have them.”
Magnus risked a glance at the emperor, dust streaking the boy’s cheeks, eyes alight with fervor. For the first time in a nightmare-laced morning, Magnus managed a grim smile. “Yes, Caesar,” he rasped. “It looks as though we do.”
Together, they stood by the aquila in that battered field, a living symbol of Roman defiance. And the tide of battle, once so precariously poised, now surged in Romulus’s favor, unstoppable as the rising sun.
A ripple of stunned realization passed through the enemy ranks. Men who had charged so confidently only moments before now found themselves hemmed in on every side by disciplined pikemen, relentless crossbow volleys, and cavalry that surged again and again to exploit any gap. One by one, Crassus’s carefully placed mercenary contingents began to falter. The fresh wave of Gothic heavy infantry, fierce and armored in studded mail, was soon pinned in place by long pikes that walled them off from any retreat. Soldiers clutched at spears jammed beneath their breastplates, and when they tried to break free, crossbow bolts whistled overhead, driving them further into disarray.
The Hunnic and Alan cavalry—who had counted on sowing terror with swift charges—discovered instead that the reorganized Roman lines were no easy prey. Their first pass had seen them impaled on dense spearpoints; their second found them flanked by Tribune Sylvanus’s re-formed horsemen. Within minutes, the savage confidence in their ranks evaporated, and they broke off, scattering into a chaotic flight.
Meanwhile, the levy who had been forced into serving as the bait began to collapse in truly pitiful fashion. Many threw down their weapons and raised trembling hands, crying out for mercy. Others sank to their knees in surrender or simply fled, pursued by disciplined Roman militiamen. Everywhere, the shape of battle shifted from desperate contest to a swirling rout. Flavianus’s bloodied but unyielding troops pressed hard, unwilling to grant the foe any chance to reorganize.
Up by the captured aquila, Magnus stood watch, adrenaline still coursing through his veins as he shielded Romulus from any stray threat. Dust clung to every surface, the air thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and churned earth. And yet, over that grime and desperation, a sense of dawning triumph spread. The emperor’s presence in the thick of combat had sparked a wildfire of courage, and it now raged across the field, unquenchable.
Romulus, having hoisted the legion’s eagle banner, spurred his horse back into motion, directing the standard-bearer to mount behind him. Magnus and the Palatini snapped into formation around them. They galloped forward amid the retreating shapes of the foe—Levy conscripts collapsing in small clusters, throwing down battered spears, desperate to live. Gothic warriors, once proud in their skill, were backing away, swords drooping, eyes darting for escape. Some found no path and grudgingly cast shields aside to kneel in surrender.
“Go! Chase them down—do not let them regroup!” Flavianus bellowed somewhere to the left, his voice carrying above the din. A ragged roar answered him as veteran militia and pike squares advanced. Tribune Sylvanus’s cavalry cut off the final line of retreat, forcing the mercenaries to either fight to the death or drop their arms. More and more chose the latter. Shouts of “I yield!” and “Spare us!” echoed in broken Latin and strange dialects.
Soon the entire enemy column disintegrated. Hunnic riders and Alan cavalry, seeing their companions fall, spurred their horses in a mad dash to escape the field. Within moments, the battered but victorious Roman lines had seized control of the ground. Clusters of confused captives huddled under guard, limbs trembling. From the surrounding hills, scattered pockets of routing men vanished into gullies or forests, chased by cavalry with drawn swords.
Romulus’s eyes shone with a fierce, awed light. He gripped the aquila tight, urging his horse onward so that all might see that the emperor was still unscathed—and that victory was theirs. Around him, soldiers paused from the chase to salute or cry out, “Ave Caesar!” He heard the hammering chant of “Romulus! Romulus!” rising in pockets of men, raw-voiced but exuberant.
Magnus, galloping just a length behind, watched with mingled pride and relief. He had spent the morning dreading this very moment—the risk, the boy’s stubborn courage—and yet here they were, guiding the symbol of Rome’s unity across the battlefield. The Palatini guard rode in a tight knot, every man scanning for the faintest sign of threat, but it was clear the enemy’s spirit had broken. All that remained was to consolidate the triumph.
Ahead, Flavianus, dripping sweat and blood-spattered, led his officers through the wreckage of the skirmish. He caught sight of Romulus’s galloping figure and gave a sharp nod, fatigued features betraying a grudging admiration. Where once he might have scowled at the emperor’s presence, now there was no denying the effect. The army had held, then turned a near-disaster into a decisive rout—thanks, in part, to that final show of bravery.
Near the center of the field, Romulus reined in, hooves churning up clods of dusty soil. Soldiers crowded around, panting, some bearing fresh wounds, others hugging their battered shields in exhaustion. The boy emperor lifted the aquila high, and a ragged cheer ripped through the air. It started as a handful of voices, then grew into a thunderous chant.
“Romulus! Romulus! Caesar! Caesar!”
Magnus swung down from the saddle, barked an order for the Palatini to hold perimeter, and then turned to see Romulus hand the eagle back to the stunned standard-bearer. The old veteran knelt momentarily, tears bright in his eyes. Clearly, he had never dreamt he would stand shoulder to shoulder with the emperor on the battlefield. Around them, men stomped pikes or swords against the ground in raw jubilation.
Magnus inhaled unsteadily, pride swelling in his chest. He reached up to steady Romulus as the emperor swung himself down, flushed with heat and adrenaline. The boy’s shoulders shuddered, either from exertion or the emotional weight of what they had achieved. For one breathless moment, Magnus grasped Romulus by the forearm, gazing at him with something akin to awe.
“You did it,” he said, voice low enough for the emperor alone to hear. “We did it.”
Romulus’s mouth twisted into a dazed smile. “We all did,” he managed, his gaze spanning the battered but triumphant ranks. Already, Flavianus and Tribune Sylvanus were barking final orders—setting pickets, collecting prisoners, organizing the wounded. The field was theirs, strewn with a testament to the morning’s desperate clash.
In the distance, large clusters of enemy survivors filed toward Roman lines under guard, heads bowed in surrender. Others lay unconscious or severely wounded. The heavy infantry who had bragged of easy victory were either dead or kneeling to relinquish swords. The foreign cavalry that remained had long since fled. Overhead, the sun climbed higher, illuminating the painful cost in blood but also the unbroken unity of Flavianus’s force.
One by one, men peeled away from their tasks to gather closer. A hush descended, the ragged chant giving way to an awe-filled silence. All eyes rested on Romulus—dirt-streaked and so terribly young—yet holding himself with the poise of a commander. For a moment, no one spoke, and Magnus felt time slow again, as though Rome itself paused to bear witness.
“Soldiers,” Romulus breathed, voice thick with emotion. “Today, you fought not just for me, nor merely for Ravenna, but for every home and family Crassus threatened. You stood together… as Rome stands.” He lifted his chin, shoulders quivering from sheer exertion. “And you have won.”
A roar erupted—hoarse, tired, but full of fierce pride. Pikes and swords brandished overhead, crossbowmen thumping the butts of their weapons on the ground, cavalry raising dusty lances skyward.
Magnus felt his heart pound in his chest, that primal swell of triumph echoing through every fiber of his being. He joined the cacophony, thrusting a clenched fist aloft. “Ave Caesar!” he bellowed, and the cry spread like wildfire.
“AVE CAESAR! AVE ROMULUS!”
And so it was, amidst the ruin of a cunning ambush turned victorious battle, that the boy emperor galloped across the field with the legion’s aquila, forging a memory in every soldier’s mind. Though many hardships lay ahead—Crassus still loomed, and war rarely ended in a single day—this moment, this crushing defeat of Crassus’s trap, would stand as proof that Rome’s heart still beat defiantly. And Magnus, escorting Romulus with loyal Palatini at his side, could not help but feel certain that something mighty had been rekindled beneath that dusty sun.
