Under the full moon, a boy wrestled with a restless night. The palace, a fortress of marble and wealth, stood silent under the stars. Its tall columns and ornate frescoes cast long, ghostly shadows in the dim light. But within his own chamber, sleep eluded the boy meant to rule.
Romulus stirred beneath his silken covers, the weight of his dreams pressing down on him like a physical force. He saw visions of fire and ruin: his father’s lifeless form crumpled on a battlefield, the imperial eagle torn asunder, and legions marching into oblivion. His mind conjured impossible creations—mechanical beasts of iron, their wheels and claws grinding the earth to dust; cities that reached for the heavens; and men conquering the stars themselves.
The images burned into his mind, so vivid they felt like memories rather than dreams. Yet these were no memories—only whispers of what might come. They promised triumphs and tragedies far beyond his reach, a future he would never live to see. His chest tightened, and he fought for air as if drowning.
The pressure grew unbearable. His heart raced, his small fists clutching at the covers until, finally, a low cry escaped his lips. It was not loud, but it was enough.
The door to his chamber flew open, and two Palatini guards stormed in, swords drawn. Their armor glinted in the moonlight streaming through the tall windows, and their eyes darted around the room, seeking threats.
“Dominus?” one ventured, his voice cautious. The boy sat upright in his bed, his thin frame trembling, his face wet with tears.
The other looked around before lowering his blade. The two guards exchanged meaningful glances, their words unspoken.
“I’ll send for the Greek,” the first interrupted, his tone clipped. “Stay here.”
The second guard nodded and stepped back, his posture stiff but protective as he stood watch. The first hurried out, his heavy sandals echoing down the hall.
Romulus shivered, pulling his knees to his chest. He stared at the intricate patterns woven into the curtains—scenes of Roman victories and divine blessings. Tonight, they offered no comfort, only a cruel contrast to the chaos within him.
Minutes passed. Then came the soft sound of familiar footsteps. Andronikos entered the room, carrying an oil lamp. The old tutor moved with care, his stooped frame outlined in the faint light. He placed the lamp on a low table, its warm glow revealing his lined face and the wisps of gray that framed his thoughtful eyes.
He dismissed the remaining guard with a nod. “Wait outside,” he said gently, though his tone brooked no argument. The soldier hesitated but obeyed, pulling the door shut behind him.
Romulus looked up at Andronikos, his breathing uneven. The old man crossed the room and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. For a long moment, he said nothing, his gaze searching the boy’s face.
“Nightmares again, Domine?” Andronikos’s voice was soft, measured.
Romulus nodded, biting his lip. His small hands trembled as they twisted the edge of the blanket. “But it wasn’t… it wasn’t like before,” he whispered. “It felt real. Too real.”
Andronikos sighed, his hand brushing the bedpost as if steadying himself. “Dreams can be cruel, child. But they are just dreams. Shadows in the mind.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “Tell me. What did you see?”
Romulus hesitated, his young face pale and drawn. “I saw…” He faltered, his throat tightening. “I saw Father dead. I saw the empire falling. The eagle torn apart. And… other things. Things I can’t explain.” His voice cracked, and tears welled in his eyes again. “It was as if I knew everything—everything that will happen. The rise and fall of cities, of nations, of the whole world. And I couldn’t stop it.”
Andronikos’s expression grew somber. He placed a hand on the bedpost, his grip firm, though his voice remained kind. “You carry too much for one so young, Domine. Your heart is heavy with burdens that even emperors would struggle to bear.”
Romulus’s gaze dropped to his hands. “I don’t want to be emperor,” he whispered. “I don’t want any of it.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with the innocence of a boy thrust into a man’s world. Andronikos closed his eyes briefly, a pang of sorrow crossing his features. “The gods—or God, as the bishop would say—have chosen you for this path. But you are not alone. Remember that. Tomorrow, when you stand before the empire, know that I believe in you.”
Romulus looked up at his tutor, the flicker of a question in his eyes. “Will you be there?”
Andronikos smiled faintly, though his heart ached. “Of course. Though I may not climb the steps with you, I will be there in spirit.”
The boy nodded, comforted for a moment. The silence that followed was filled with the soft crackle of the lamp’s flame and the faint hum of the night beyond the palace walls.
“Andronikos?” Romulus asked after a time. “Do you think dreams can be true?”
The tutor stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Dreams are strange things, Domine. Some say they are messages from the gods, others mere tricks of the mind. What matters is not whether they are true, but what you do with them.”
Romulus frowned, unsatisfied. “But what if I know they’re true? What if I’ve seen it all, every major stroke of what’s to come? Does that mean I can change it?”
Andronikos’s gaze lingered on the boy, his old eyes filled with quiet wisdom. “Perhaps, Domine. But even if you would, could you? That is the question.” Romulus fell silent, his thoughts a tumult of fear and doubt. The words of Andronikos lingered in his mind, a faint echo of reassurance that felt increasingly distant. He looked down at the gilded patterns on the blanket, his small hands tracing them absentmindedly, as if searching for answers within the intricate designs. Despite the tutor's comforting presence, the boy emperor-to-be, burdened with visions of a world far beyond his understanding, still grappled with the enormity of what lay ahead. The boy emperor-to-be, burdened with visions of a world far beyond his understanding, did not know how to answer.
Morning arrived like an unwelcome guest, its pale light creeping through the curtains like a hesitant intruder. The boy’s sleep had been fitful at best, haunted by fragments of fire and ruin that lingered at the edges of his waking mind. Even as the first rays of dawn filtered through, the weight of the night refused to lift, clinging to him with an almost tangible grip. Romulus lay beneath the heavy covers, his mind still tethered to the fragments of the night’s haunting visions. The weight of the dreams clung to him like damp fog, leaving his body weary despite the hours spent in restless slumber. For a moment, he stared at the embroidered canopy above, the intricate patterns of Roman victories and divine triumphs now mocking the chaos within him. The muffled sounds of the palace waking reached his ears: the faint clatter of servants in the kitchens, the echo of guards exchanging shifts, and the distant murmur of preparations for the day’s grand ceremony.
A knock at the door brought him fully awake. He sat up, blinking at the pale light filtering through the embroidered curtains.
“Dominus,” came a voice from outside, low and deferential. “It is time.”
Romulus swallowed hard, his chest tightening as the weight of the morning settled upon him. The memories of the night’s haunting visions lingered, pulling at the edges of his thoughts. He sat upright, his fingers gripping the edge of the covers as he braced himself for what was to come. The knock came again, sharp yet measured, breaking his reverie. For a brief moment, he hesitated, wondering if the day could be delayed by a few more stolen moments of solitude. But duty called, and before he could voice an answer, the door opened, and a group of servants entered in silence. They moved with practiced efficiency, setting a tray of food on the table and spreading the contents of a polished chest across the room.
The boy climbed out of bed slowly, his bare feet sinking into the plush rug. The servant who had spoken—a young man barely older than a legionary recruit—gestured toward the small table. “A modest breakfast has been prepared, Dominus. You will need your strength for the day ahead.”
Romulus nodded absently, taking a seat. The food was simple: a plate of figs, boiled eggs, and slices of freshly baked bread. Normally, he would have devoured it eagerly, but today the sight of it turned his stomach. Still, he forced himself to eat a few bites, knowing he would be chastised if he didn’t.
As he ate, the other servants began their work. They moved with quiet precision, selecting each piece of the ceremonial attire that had been laid out: the pristine white tunic, the gilded sandals, and finally, the imperial toga dyed in the deepest shade of purple.
When the time came to dress him, Romulus stood still, his arms outstretched as the servants worked. The tunic slid over his shoulders like water, impossibly soft and cool against his skin. The toga followed, its heavy folds draped with the utmost care. Every movement felt deliberate, each layer a reminder of the role he was about to assume.
At last, the servants stepped back. One brought forth a polished bronze mirror, holding it steady before him.
Romulus stared at his reflection, struggling to recognize the boy who gazed back. His pale face looked smaller beneath the weight of the purple toga. The gold trim shimmered like sunlight on water, but it only seemed to emphasize his youth.
“It suits you perfectly, Dominus,” one of the servants murmured, his tone both deferential and practiced. “The fabric rests upon you as it would upon the shoulders of Caesar himself, a symbol of the authority and strength that Rome demands of its emperor.”
Romulus did not reply. His hands brushed the folds of the toga, the fabric smoother than anything he had ever worn. He felt its weight, not just on his shoulders but in his chest, pressing down like an invisible force. Each fold and seam seemed to carry the echoes of past emperors, their triumphs, and failures stitched into the fabric’s history. This was no mere garment; it was a mantle of power, an emblem of authority and expectation that transcended him. He felt the enormity of its symbolism, the hopes and fears of an empire resting on such delicate threads. It fit him as poorly as he feared it would, the heavy fabric hanging awkwardly, as if mocking his unpreparedness. Still, as his fingers traced the golden trim, he couldn’t help but wonder if he could ever grow into it, if time and trials would transform the awkward boy into a ruler worthy of the purple.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. A grizzled voice called from the hallway, sharp and commanding. “Dominus, we are ready to escort you.”
The boy turned, and the lead servant stepped aside to reveal a centurion standing in the doorway. The man was older than most soldiers Romulus had seen, his face weathered by decades of campaigns. A jagged scar ran from his temple to his jaw, lending him an air of grim authority.
Romulus straightened instinctively, his posture stiffening as the centurion stepped forward and inclined his head. “It is time, Imperator.”
The word felt foreign, too large for him to carry. Still, Romulus nodded, swallowing hard as the centurion turned on his heel. The boy’s gaze lingered on the polished shields of the guards flanking him, their gleaming surfaces reflecting fragments of his anxious face. Two guards walked beside him, their measured steps a steady drumbeat of discipline, while six more formed a protective line behind. The faint clink of armor and the rhythmic thud of sandals on the marble floor echoed softly, each sound amplifying the weight pressing down on Romulus’s chest.
The palace corridors stretched on endlessly, their vastness dwarfing the small boy at their center. The towering walls, adorned with intricate frescoes depicting Rome’s glorious past, seemed to close in with every step. Romulus’s sandals struck the marble floor with soft, deliberate taps, a sound too fragile for the grandeur around him. The procession wound through the grand halls, past servants who stopped mid-task to bow deeply. Some whispered hurried prayers as he passed, their eyes a mix of awe and pity. He caught fragments of their murmurs, words like “strength” and “savior,” though their tones betrayed their doubts.
The boy emperor kept his head high, as Andronikos had taught him, though his heart raced with every step. His posture, though practiced, betrayed a slight stiffness, the strain of trying to embody a role far too large for his slight frame. With every corner turned and every shadow crossed, Romulus felt the weight of expectation grow heavier, the whispers of the past and the demands of the present intertwining in his mind.
The servants they passed stopped and bowed deeply, their faces a mix of awe and pity. He caught snippets of murmured prayers, some for his success, others, he suspected, for the empire’s salvation.
Eventually, they reached the grand staircase that led to the palace gardens. Beyond the towering bronze doors, Romulus could hear the distant hum of the gathered crowd. Hundreds—perhaps thousands—waited to witness his coronation.
At the base of the stairs, a familiar figure stood waiting. His father, Orestes, was a commanding presence even among the armed guards. Clad in a crimson cloak, his broad shoulders seemed carved from stone, and his sharp eyes missed nothing.
“Imperator,” Orestes said, his voice commanding.
Orestes’s piercing gaze swept over him, lingering on the boy’s attire. Finally, he nodded. “You look the part,” he said gruffly.
Romulus’s chest swelled at the faint note of approval. “Thank you, Magister Militarum,” he replied carefully, remembering Andronikos’s warning about public protocol.
“Good,” Orestes said, though his tone remained clipped. “You will do as you’ve been taught. Walk tall. Speak clearly. Show strength.”
Romulus hesitated, then took a step forward. “Father…” he began, his voice quiet.
Orestes’s frown deepened, and the boy froze.
“In public, I am not your father,” Orestes said coldly. “You will address me as my title.”
The words stung, though Romulus forced himself to nod. “Yes, Magister Militarum.”
For a moment, Orestes’s hard expression softened, though the weight of expectation never left his gaze. He placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, his grip firm, carrying both the authority of a commander and the quiet pride of a father. "Today you become emperor," Orestes began, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of command. "You are my son, and I trust that you can bear this burden with dignity. You will not falter because you carry the strength of our family. I am proud of you, my son." He paused, his hand tightening on Romulus's shoulder, grounding the boy in the weight of the moment.
Then, his voice sharpened, the warmth receding like a shadow chased by the sun. "But remember this, Romulus: the world will not treat you kindly. Most of those out there are wolves, their fangs bared, waiting for you to stumble. They will not hesitate to tear into you at the first sign of weakness." His gaze bored into the boy, as if willing him to steel himself. "I have built this path for you, but it is yours to walk now. Do not stumble. Do not shame me."
Before the boy could reply, Orestes lingered for a brief moment, his sharp gaze scanning his son once more. His hand, still resting on Romulus's shoulder, tightened slightly as if to impart a final message. "Remember what I said. This is your moment, but it is also mine. Do not forget what is expected of you."
With that, he turned sharply, his crimson cloak swirling as he strode toward the garden entrance. The bronze doors creaked open, revealing the world beyond. A wave of noise washed over them: cheers, applause, and the low rumble of anticipation, a sound that seemed to grow louder with each step Orestes took. He paused briefly at the threshold, Romulus’s legs trembled, his breath caught between fear and determination. He hesitated, casting a fleeting glance toward Orestes, whose crimson cloak billowed like a standard in the wind. The man did not look back, his broad shoulders and confident stride exuding the authority of a general who expected no faltering. The boy swallowed hard, the weight of his father’s words echoing in his mind: Do not shame me. Prove to them that you are worthy. And so, with slow, deliberate steps, Romulus steadied himself and followed his father into the blinding light of the world beyond.
The light was blinding as the bronze doors groaned open, Romulus stepped out into the open air of the imperial gardens. The morning sun hung low, casting a golden sheen over the sprawling crowd that filled the space like a restless sea.
The gardens, usually his sanctuary, were transformed. Once a place of quiet reflection—where he had read scrolls under olive trees and watched sparrows flit among the hedges—now seemed alien, overrun by spectators and ceremony. Vibrant tapestries hung from makeshift balconies, their rich reds and golds swaying gently in the breeze. Rows of soldiers lined the garden paths, their spears angled skyward, a forest of polished bronze glinting in the sunlight.
Romulus hesitated at the top of the steps, his heart hammering in his chest. The voices of the crowd—noblemen, senators, clergy, and common folk alike—rose and fell like the roar of distant waves. He saw faces turned toward him, hundreds of eyes fixed on his small figure.
His knees felt weak, but he forced himself to stand tall. Beside him, Orestes moved with practiced ease, his crimson cloak billowing as he descended the steps. The man’s presence radiated authority, a stark contrast to the boy emperor’s trembling resolve.
“Follow me and do not show weakness.” Orestes murmured over his shoulder, his tone firm but carrying an edge of expectation. The words echoed his earlier speech, a reminder that Romulus’s every step was now a reflection of both his father’s legacy and the empire’s future. Orestes’s stride was purposeful, his crimson cloak sweeping behind him like a banner of authority, as if daring his son to hesitate.
Each step brought the boy closer to the world he had been thrust into, a world of ceremony and calculation. As the crowd’s murmur softened to an anticipatory hush, Romulus caught glimpses of their faces. Hope and skepticism mixed in equal measure, the air thick with expectation that threatened to drown his fragile composure.
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At the base of the steps, the garden revealed itself in all its transformed splendor. A vast stage had been constructed, its centerpiece a platform draped in imperial purple and adorned with golden laurels that seemed almost too grand, even for this occasion. Romulus paused briefly, his gaze tracing the intricate details of the platform, his hands instinctively brushing the folds of his toga as if grounding himself in its heavy fabric.
On the stage stood the key figures of the day. The Senate delegation, their pristine white togas with a strip of purple pressed to perfection, wore expressions that betrayed pride laced with calculation. The bishops and priests clustered together, their robes shimmering with heavy gold embroidery, their eyes glinting with opportunism. Standing apart from these familiar factions were the Germanic foederati, their imposing figures dressed in a blend of Roman and native styles. Their tunics and cloaks, though practical, were of fine make, accented with subtle embroidery that hinted at their tribal heritage. They wore Roman-style belts and boots, their swords and axes polished to a gleam. They looked dignified yet distinct, a reminder of the delicate balance between their loyalty and the empire’s reliance on their strength.
Romulus’s gaze lingered on the Germans. Their leader stood at the front—a man of immense stature, his hair the color of sand, his beard neatly trimmed. His sharp eyes met Romulus’s for a brief moment. The boy shivered.
He will be my end, Romulus thought, a chill running down his spine. He didn’t know the man’s name yet, but the shadow he cast was unmistakable.
Orestes stepped onto the platform first, his stride deliberate. The crowd erupted into applause, though Romulus noted the subtle differences: polite claps from the senators, boisterous cheers from the common folk, and a restrained, almost begrudging acknowledgment from the Germanic chieftains.
Romulus followed, his steps measured. He felt the weight of his toga shift with each movement, the fabric both a blessing and a curse. It lent him an air of dignity, but it also threatened to trip him at any moment.
The boy reached the platform and turned to face the crowd. The world seemed to close in around him. The sun was too bright, the faces too many. His breath quickened.
….
But then, he remembered Andronikos’s voice.
Stand tall. Speak clearly. Show strength, even if you don’t feel it.
He straightened his back, clasped his hands in front of him, and lifted his chin. The trembling in his legs eased, though it did not vanish entirely.
Orestes began to speak, his voice booming across the gardens. “Citizens of Rome!” he called, his words carrying the practiced rhythm of a seasoned orator. “Today, we stand at the precipice of a new era. An era of strength, of unity, of renewal.”
The crowd responded with cheers, though Romulus noticed the expressions of some—boredom from the senators, thinly veiled skepticism from the bishops, and a quiet tension from the Germans.
Orestes continued, his tone growing sharper. “For too long, our empire has suffered under weak leadership. Julius Nepos, a puppet of the East, has failed us time and time again. His negligence has brought ruin to Gaul, despair to our provinces, and shame to our name.”
Murmurs spread through the crowd, some nodding in agreement, others glancing uneasily at their neighbors.
“But no more!” Orestes declared, his fist striking the air. “Today, we cast aside the failures of the past. Today, we restore Rome’s glory. And at the helm of this great ship, we place a leader who will guide us to triumph. A leader of Roman blood, of Roman spirit. My son. Your emperor.”
The applause that followed was thunderous. Romulus stood frozen, his chest tight as Orestes gestured for him to step forward.
This is it, he thought. They will see me for what I am—a boy in a man’s toga. A puppet.
But then, he remembered Andronikos again. Stand tall.
With careful steps, Romulus moved to the center of the platform. The eyes of the world bore down on him, each pair a silent judgment.
“Imperator Caesar Romulus Augustus Pius Felix Augustus!” Orestes proclaimed, his voice ringing with finality.
Romulus stopped, his small figure framed by the grandeur of the imperial stage. For a moment, the boy emperor stood in silence, his wide eyes scanning the crowd. He saw the senators, so polished and proud yet hollow with greed. He saw the bishops, their bellies heavy with indulgence, their hands hungry for gold. He saw the merchants and landowners, caught between ambition and desperation.
And then he saw the Germans, standing at the back. Their leader was watching him again, his expression unreadable.
The weight of the future bore down on him. He could feel it—a thousand futures pulling him in every direction, most ending in ruin.
Next year, they will stand here again, for another coronation. Not mine. Someone else’s. My fall is written already.
His legs trembled, but he did not falter.
Romulus lifted his gaze to the crowd and spoke, his voice quiet but steady. “I will do my duty. For Rome.”
It was only a whisper. The silence that followed was palpable, as if the world itself held its breath. Romulus’s whispered words seemed to ripple outward, a fragile sound that nonetheless carried the weight of his resolve. For an instant, the crowd was suspended in expectation, caught between the intimacy of the moment and the grandeur of the occasion.
Then, like a storm breaking, the crowd erupted into cheers. The noise cascaded across the gardens, a symphony of approval tinged with political calculation. Romulus turned his gaze toward his father. Orestes stood tall, his expression stoic at first, but then he gave the faintest nod of approval, his sharp eyes catching Romulus’s for a brief moment. Pride flickered there, tempered by expectation.
The senators clapped with measured decorum, their faces masks of practiced approval designed to reflect solidarity. The bishops smiled with faked reverence, already weighing the potential alliances and concessions this young emperor might bring to the Church. The merchants and landowners raised their voices in boisterous enthusiasm, their hopes pinned on the promise of stability and prosperity.
Even as the sound washed over him, Romulus remained still, the weight of the purple toga anchoring him to the platform. His gaze swept over the crowd, seeking understanding in their faces. Yet his attention lingered on the foederati at the periphery—their stoic demeanor an unspoken challenge. Among them, the sandy-haired chieftain watched with quiet intensity, his expression unreadable, save for the faintest hint of a smirk. Whether it was one of amusement or recognition, Romulus could not tell.
But the foederati remained stoic. The towering Germans watched the boy emperor with expressions ranging from mild interest to open disdain. Their leader, the sandy-haired chieftain, allowed himself the faintest smirk, though whether it was one of amusement or recognition, Romulus could not tell.
He remained at the center of the platform, the weight of the purple toga pressing down on him like an iron chain. The cheers swirled around him, hollow and distant.
Orestes stepped forward again, raising his hands for quiet.
“Today,” the Magister Militarum declared, his voice cutting through the din, “we begin the work of rebuilding this empire. And our first act under the new emperor will be one of gratitude—to you, the loyal servants of Rome.”
At his signal, servants emerged from the palace, each carrying small packages wrapped in fine cloth. They moved swiftly through the crowd, distributing the gifts to senators, bishops, and other prominent figures.
Romulus watched the scene unfold, his stomach twisting. The packages, he knew, contained gold and precious trinkets—bribes disguised as tokens of imperial favor. The larger gifts, carried on ornate trays, were delivered to the bishops and the Germanic leaders.
The boy emperor’s gaze lingered on the sandy-haired chieftain, who accepted his gift with a curt nod. The man’s eyes flicked toward Orestes, then back to Romulus. A chill crept over the boy.
Orestes continued, undeterred. “Furthermore, our emperor has decreed that the great cathedral in Ravenna shall be expanded—a testament to our faith and to the unity of Church and empire.”
The bishops beamed, their earlier skepticism melting into satisfaction, their faces alight with a carefully calculated joy that felt hollow to Romulus. He fought back a pang of resentment. The announcement of the cathedral expansion was not his decision. The words had been his father’s, the actions his father’s. Despite the weight of the toga and the diadem on his brow, he felt no more an emperor than he had the day before. He was a figurehead, nothing more—a child draped in symbols of power he did not yet command.
As the applause swelled, Romulus glanced toward Orestes. Orestes’s slight nod was all the acknowledgment he offered, and yet it spoke volumes. It reminded Romulus that his duty was not to question but to embody the image his father had crafted.
Finally, the ceremony reached its climax.
The imperial diadem, a circlet of gold encrusted with jewels, was brought forth on a crimson pillow. Orestes gestured for Romulus to kneel. The boy obeyed, sinking to his knees on the purple-draped platform.
The crowd fell silent, their collective breath held.
The diadem was lifted high, catching the sunlight as Orestes held it aloft. “With this crown,” he proclaimed, “we entrust our empire to its rightful ruler. May his reign bring strength to Rome and glory to the gods!”
Romulus clenched his fists, hidden within the folds of his toga. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. He felt the cold weight of the diadem as Orestes placed it on his brow.
“Rise, Imperator Caesar Romulus Augustus Pius Felix Augustus!” Orestes intoned.
Romulus rose slowly, his legs trembling. The cheers erupted again, but this time, they felt even more distant. The weight of the crown, the toga, the stares—it was too much, but he kept his face calm, as Andronikos had taught him.
The procession moved solemnly from the gardens to the Cathedral of Ravenna, where Romulus was to receive the Church’s blessing. The crowd followed in reverent silence, the clamor of the earlier ceremony giving way to the soft murmurs of prayer. Inside the grand cathedral, incense hung heavy in the air, and the faint glow of candlelight cast long shadows over the ornate mosaics depicting Christ and the saints.
Bishop Felix, adorned in gilded robes, stepped forward to greet the boy emperor. His face was a mix of solemnity and reverence as he raised his hands to the gathered assembly. “On this day, we witness the union of divine will and imperial duty,” he intoned, his voice echoing off the high arches. “May God grant wisdom and strength to Romulus Augustus, our emperor, as he carries the burdens of Rome.”
Romulus knelt before the altar, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on his shoulders. Bishop Felix anointed his forehead with oil, murmuring a prayer that seemed to stretch endlessly. The congregation’s response was a low, unified chant, their voices filling the cavernous space with a sense of both awe and expectation.
“Rise, Emperor,” Felix said at last, his tone both commanding and benevolent. Romulus stood, his knees unsteady but his gaze unwavering. He turned to face the assembly, their eyes filled with a mixture of devotion and scrutiny. The blessing complete, the ceremony concluded with a solemn hymn, its haunting melody lingering in the air long after the congregation began to disperse.
After the visit to the Catherdral of Ravenna, the boy sat alone in his chambers.
The afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows across the room. The festivities continued elsewhere in the palace—banquets, speeches, and endless toasts to the new emperor. But Romulus had begged to be excused, if only for an hour.
The silence was a relief, but it brought little comfort. He sat on the edge of his bed, the diadem discarded on the table beside him. He touched his temples, which ached from the pressure of the crown.
A knock at the door startled him. “Come in,” he called, his voice hoarse.
The door opened to reveal the centurion from earlier—the scarred, grizzled veteran who had escorted him that morning. The man stepped inside, his armor clinking softly, though it was now dulled by the wear of the day.
“Dominus,” the centurion said, bowing slightly. His voice was rough, but there was no mockery in it. “I came to see if you required anything.”
Romulus blinked, surprised. He had expected a servant or perhaps Andronikos. “I… no,” he said hesitantly. “Thank you.”
The centurion nodded but did not leave. His eyes, sharp and assessing, lingered on the boy for a moment.
“You carried yourself well today,” he said finally.
Romulus looked up, startled. “Did I?”
The centurion’s expression softened, just slightly. “You did. Better than many grown men would have, in your place.”
Romulus felt a flicker of warmth at the praise, though it was quickly drowned by doubt. “I don’t feel like an emperor,” he admitted quietly.
The centurion stepped closer, his movements deliberate. He knelt before the boy, his scarred face now level with Romulus’s. "You’ve got small shoes to fill, Dominus," he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth on his own joke. "Julius Nepos and the others didn’t exactly set the bar high. But don’t mistake that for ease. Expectations can weigh heavier than achievements."
Romulus’s brows furrowed, his young face clouded with a mixture of curiosity and unease. "What do you mean?" he asked hesitantly.
Gaius’s expression softened, his smirk fading. "It means that you will have a hell of a time ahead of you, but you are not alone." There was no condescension in his voice, only the calm, steady gaze of a soldier who had seen too much and survived.
“What’s your name?” Romulus asked, his voice soft.
“Gaius,” the centurion replied. “Gaius Severus.”
Romulus nodded, committing the name to memory. “Thank you, Gaius.”
The centurion rose, inclining his head. “Rest well, Dominus.”
As Gaius left the room, Romulus remained where he was, the faintest spark of resolve stirring within him. For the first time that day, he allowed himself to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, he could grow into the role he had been given.
But now … now is the time to rejoin the banquet.
The banquet hall was alive with sound. Voices rose and fell like the waves of the Tiber, a symphony of laughter, toasts, and murmured negotiations. Torchlight flickered against the marble columns, casting long shadows over the gilded frescoes that adorned the walls. Servants moved between the tables with practiced ease, their trays laden with food and wine.
Romulus Augustus sat at the head of the long table, his figure dwarfed by the grandeur around him. To his right sat Orestes, commanding attention with every gesture, every word. On his left, the seat remained conspicuously empty, a subtle reminder of his mother’s absence. The boy emperor’s hands rested on the edge of the table, his fingers tracing the intricate carvings on the wood. A goblet of watered wine sat untouched before him.
He felt invisible.
Around him, Rome’s most powerful men feasted and schemed, their voices blending into a cacophony he struggled to follow. Senators in pristine togas leaned close, their whispers sharp with calculation. Bishops, their rings glinting in the firelight, laughed too loudly at Orestes’s remarks. At the far end of the hall, the Germanic foederati clustered together, their foreign tongues cutting through the Latin like jagged blades.
Romulus glanced at his father. Orestes was in his element, his voice booming as he recounted a victory over the Rugii. The room hung on his every word, captivated by the commanding presence he exuded. Even the Germans listened, their expressions alight with genuine interest for the first time that day.
This is his world, not mine, Romulus thought. His gaze drifted to the sandy-haired chieftain seated among the foederati. The man’s beard was neatly trimmed, his blue eyes cold and calculating. Yet when Orestes glanced his way, the chieftain's expression shifted, a smile forming as though carved by obligation. He nodded along with the tale, his fingers momentarily stilling on the hilt of his dagger as if feigning rapt attention. But when Orestes turned back to the hall, the smile faded, replaced by a subtle tension in his jaw and a brief narrowing of his eyes—a fleeting shadow of his true thoughts, gone as quickly as it came.
The hairs on Romulus’s neck prickled.
“Imperator.” His father’s voice cut through his thoughts like a blade.
The boy blinked, realizing the room had fallen silent. All eyes were on him.
“Let me toast you.” Orestes commanded rather than asked, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Romulus obeyed, his legs stiff as he rose. The senators and bishops stared expectantly, their expressions a mix of curiosity and skepticism. The Germans watched with disinterest.
“To the emperor,” Orestes said, raising his goblet high.
“To the emperor!” the hall echoed.
Romulus lifted his own goblet, the metal cool and heavy in his trembling hand. “To Rome,” he said softly, the words barely audible over the roar of the crowd.
Later that night the banquet had ended, the hall emptied save for a few servants clearing the remnants of the feast. Romulus walked alongside Orestes as they made their way through the dimly lit corridors of the palace. His father’s stride was long and confident, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.
“You did well today,” Orestes said while walking with Romulus in the palace.
“Thank you, father,” said Romulus, a bit taken aback by his father’s words.
Orestes noticed his son’s uncertainty and sighed.
“Your mother would be angry with me,” he said, his gaze distant and nostalgic. “She would be furious because I pushed you to the throne. I know she would not have wanted this for you, and I know you do not want it either.” His face hardened as he continued, his tone resolute. “But there is no other choice. We have to do what we must. Yet, know this, my son: I am proud of you, and your mother would be proud as well.”
Romulus’s steps faltered slightly, his head lowering as he absorbed his father’s words. For the first time in years, he saw Orestes not just as the unyielding architect of his destiny, but as a man burdened by impossible decisions. It was a fleeting moment of connection, though the weight of expectations lingered.
After a brief silence, Orestes spoke again, his voice measured but firm. “It is time to start your military education. You must understand, Romulus, that emperors are not just rulers by title—they must command respect on the battlefield as well as in the Senate. Marcus Aurelius once led his armies personally, writing his Meditations while camped on the Danube frontier. And even Augustus, who shied away from direct combat, ensured that he understood the strategy and discipline required to keep Rome’s legions loyal.”
Orestes glanced at his son, gauging his reaction. “If you are to hold this throne, you cannot rely on others to shield you. You will need to command, not just administratively but in the field if necessary. That starts with learning the discipline of a soldier.”
Romulus almost stumbled at the abruptness of the statement. “But I have Andronikos…” he started to protest, but his father cut him short.Romulus almost stumbled at the abruptness of the statement. “But I have Andronikos…” he started to protest, but his father cut him short.
“The greek.” - he said, disdain in his voice but than he looked at his son again. “He can still guide you in rhetoric and logic, but not in warfare. You will need more than a greek for this. And I know the person who can help you with it.”
As Orestes finished his sentence they arrived at the back of the palace where a private training ground took place. There was the centurion earlier. His face grim as always but his eyes have a glint in them.
“I own him my life.” - stated Orestes matter of factly. “And I trust him with my life.”
“You grace my Dominus.” - said the centurion with a little bow.
""He saved you...?" Romulus asked, his mouth wide open in awe. Orestes smirked, a rare flash of humor crossing his face, while Gaius's eyes gleamed with amusement.
"Dominus got himself into a bit of trouble at Arles," Gaius began, his voice light with mockery, "when a rather large, hairy Goth decided to show him the sharp side of his axe—"
"Enough!" Orestes cut him off sharply, his tone authoritative. Gaius’s amusement vanished in an instant, his posture straightening out of respect. "All you need to know is that I trust him," Orestes said, nodding toward the centurion. "He is loyal, though he occasionally struggles with the finer points of protocol."
Despite the rebuke, Orestes's tone shifted to something almost playful, more like an old comrade jesting than a commander reprimanding. It was a rare glimpse of the camaraderie forged in fire, one that even Romulus, young as he was, could sense.
“From tomorrow onwards you will learn from Gaius as well. Learn what you can.” - Orestes looked back at the guesthouses where the delegations were housed and continued. “I feel we will need it soon.” - with this Orestes turned back and left.
Gaius smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Tomorrow we’ll start with something simple. Can you stand?”
The boy blinked, confused. “Stand?”
“Yes,” Gaius said, planting his feet firmly. His voice carried the weight of years spent in the field, edged with a dry humor. “To be an emperor, you must first learn to stand—and I don’t mean like a statue for ceremonies. I mean stand your ground when the world tries to knock you flat. Feet firm, head high, ready for whatever comes. That’s where it starts.”