Romulus stood before a polished bronze mirror, its surface worn and imperfect, distorting his reflection slightly. He adjusted the simple civilian tunic he wore—a coarse garment of undyed wool, belted at the waist with a plain leather strap. His fingers traced the rough fabric, so unlike the silks and embroidery he was accustomed to.
He leaned closer, inspecting himself. Without the imperial purple or golden adornments, he could have been any boy on the streets of Ravenna. His young face looked strangely unfamiliar without the trappings of power. For the first time, he saw himself not as an emperor but as a boy—a boy who, for one fleeting moment, could blend into the crowd.
Behind him, Andronikos stood with arms crossed, his expression thoughtful. The Greek scholar, dressed in his usual subdued robes, exuded an air of quiet contemplation. “It is remarkable,” Andronikos said, his voice soft but steady, “how much a man changes when stripped of his titles and finery. And yet, perhaps it is precisely what you need, Dominus.”
Romulus glanced at him through the mirror, his brow furrowed. “You mean to say that I’ve been hiding behind the purple?”
Andronikos allowed a faint smile. “Not hiding, Dominus. Shielded, perhaps. It is no fault of yours—it is the nature of the mantle you bear. But today… today you will see Rome as it truly is. Its pain, its resilience, its struggles. It may discomfort you, but it will also teach you. Knowledge cannot be sought from gilded halls alone. Sometimes, one must walk among the ruins to truly understand.”
Gaius Severus, standing by the chamber door, let out a low grunt. “And sometimes, you just need to see the faces of the people you’re trying to save,” he said. His scarred face was stoic, but there was a warmth in his tone. “The last emperor to step outside the palace walls to meet the common folk? I can’t even name him. Maybe Augustus himself. If you can pull this off, Dominus, it will mean something—not just for you, but for them.”
Romulus turned away from the mirror and looked at the two men. Andronikos, ever the idealist, saw this journey as an opportunity to broaden his young emperor’s mind. Gaius, practical to his core, saw it as a chance to build bridges with the people. Both were right in their own ways, and their conflicting perspectives filled the air with an unspoken tension. Yet, both of them had agreed to support him.
“Thank you,” Romulus said quietly. “I know this is not… traditional. But I need this. For myself. For Rome.”
Andronikos placed a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder. “It is the unconventional paths that often lead to wisdom, Dominus.”
Gaius gave a small nod, though his sharp eyes scanned the room and beyond, ever watchful. “Just remember, this is still Ravenna. Even in plain clothes, you’ll stand out if you’re not careful. Stick to me, and don’t do anything too... emperor-like.”
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Gaius Severus scratched at the coarse tunic he now wore, his expression a mixture of irritation and begrudging acceptance. The simple brown fabric hung loosely on his tall, broad frame, the plainness of the garment a sharp contrast to the polished armor and flowing cloaks he usually donned as a Palatine Guard. He tugged at the collar and muttered under his breath, “I don’t know how the common folk put up with this.”
Romulus stifled a grin. Seeing the grizzled centurion, who normally looked every inch the hardened warrior, fidget in civilian clothes was oddly endearing. “You look fine, Gaius. Like any other tradesman or merchant.”
Gaius snorted. “That’s the point, isn’t it? Blend in. Still, feels strange not having a sword strapped to my hip.” He adjusted the belt of his tunic and glanced toward Romulus. “You ready for this, Dominus? It’s a different world out there.”
Romulus hesitated but nodded. “I think so. But you’ll tell me if I’m doing something foolish, won’t you?”
Gaius’s lips quirked in a faint smile. “Don’t worry, Dominus. You’ll hear from me loud and clear if you do.”
There was a knock at the door, and when it opened, four men stepped inside. Each was dressed in civilian tunics and cloaks, their appearances unremarkable—plain laborers, maybe merchants at a glance. But their posture told a different story. Upright, alert, and disciplined, these were no ordinary men.
“These are the ones I picked,” Gaius said, gesturing toward the group. “Each one’s a veteran of the Palatine Guard. They know how to protect someone without drawing attention.”
He pointed to the first man, a wiry figure with sharp eyes and a thin scar down his jaw. “This is Marcus. Quick thinker, good instincts. He’ll spot trouble before it finds us.”
Marcus inclined his head. “Dominus,” he said quietly, his voice steady.
Gaius gestured to a younger man with a friendly face and a sturdy build. “Lucan. Strong enough to take on two men and keep standing. He’ll keep an eye on the crowd.”
Lucan smiled and gave a small nod. “Dominus.”
The other two, a burly man with a grizzled beard and a lean, hawk-eyed figure, stepped forward. “Crassus and Titus,” Gaius introduced. “They fought with me in Gaul. They’re quiet, sharp, and know how to blend in.”
Crassus spoke first, his voice gruff but respectful. “We’ll keep you safe, Dominus. No one will know who you are unless you want them to.”
Titus followed with a simple, “We’re ready.”
Romulus studied the men, their steady gazes and quiet confidence reassuring. “Thank you for coming. I know this isn’t a usual assignment for you.”
Crassus shook his head. “It’s an honor, Dominus. You want to walk among the people—it’s a step no emperor’s taken in a long time. We’ll make sure you can do it.”
Gaius clapped his hands, drawing everyone’s attention. “Right, you all know your roles. Stay close but not too close. Blend in. If anything feels off, signal me, and we leave immediately. Clear?”
The men nodded in unison, their movements disciplined and efficient.
Gaius turned to Romulus, his expression serious. “This isn’t the palace, Dominus. Things can get unpredictable out there. Stick with me, follow my lead, and we’ll make it through just fine.”
Romulus took a deep breath, feeling a mix of nerves and resolve. For years, he had been shielded from the outside world, the people of Rome distant figures glimpsed only from carriages or balconies. Today, he would change that. Today, he would step into their world.
“I’m ready,” he said finally, his voice steady.
“Good,” Gaius replied. “Let’s go.”
With that, they moved as one, heading toward a discreet exit from the palace.
The streets were paved with smooth stones, their neat arrangement speaking to years of careful maintenance. Houses of pale stone and sturdy wood lined the roads, their tiled roofs gleaming in the sunlight. Many bore signs of wealth—ornate balconies, painted frescoes, and manicured gardens visible through wrought-iron gates. Romulus noted the cleanliness of the streets, swept free of debris, and the subdued hum of activity as merchants set up their stalls or servants hurried about their errands.
A patrol of armed guards passed by, their helmets polished to a shine and their movements crisp. Gaius observed them silently, his sharp eyes assessing their discipline. Romulus tried not to look at the guards too closely, worried they might recognize him despite his simple attire. But they moved on without pause, their focus on maintaining order.
The streets were dotted with crosses or small Christian icons, affixed to walls or resting in alcoves. These symbols of the empire’s dominant faith were modest but omnipresent, reminding all who walked the streets of the Church’s pervasive influence. Occasionally, a passerby would stop to cross themselves or leave a small offering of bread or coins at the base of an icon. Romulus observed quietly, noting the shift from the days of his forefathers when temples and statues to the old gods would have stood in their place.
The grandeur of the Christian faith was nowhere more evident than when they turned a corner and the cathedral of Ravenna loomed into view. Its towering façade dominated the skyline, a masterpiece of marble and mosaic that seemed to glow in the sunlight. The intricate detailing of the structure—the soaring arches, the carefully laid tiles that formed vibrant religious scenes—left Romulus momentarily awestruck.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Gaius said, his tone neutral but his gaze steady. “Built to inspire awe. And to remind everyone who holds the true power in the city.”
Romulus glanced at Gaius, unsure whether the comment was meant as admiration or critique. He decided not to press and instead studied the steady stream of people entering and leaving the cathedral. Wealthy citizens in fine garments mingled with humbler worshippers, all filing through the grand doors under the watchful eyes of priests and attendants.
Moving on, they passed a row of grand houses, each one a testament to the opulence of Ravenna’s elite. High walls surrounded these estates, their gates bearing elaborate family crests. The gardens inside were lush with vibrant flowers, fountains, and statues, the soft trickle of water occasionally audible as they walked by.
“These belong to the senators and the city’s wealthiest families,” Gaius said quietly. “Some of them inherited their fortunes. Others… less so.”
Romulus took note of the subtle distinctions between the estates. Some displayed signs of age, their facades weathered but still proud. Others were newer, their extravagance bordering on ostentation. He felt a flicker of unease, wondering how much of the empire’s dwindling resources had gone into building and maintaining such displays of power.
As they moved closer to the city gates, the atmosphere began to shift. The streets grew narrower, the houses smaller and closer together. The faint scent of incense and flowers from the inner city was replaced by the earthier smells of cooking fires and livestock. Despite the change, the roads remained well-paved, and the buildings, while modest, were sturdy and well-kept.
The gates themselves came into view, tall and imposing, their iron-bound wooden beams standing as a symbol of both protection and division. Guards stood watch, their armor less polished than those in the inner city but still well-maintained. Vendors and carts clustered near the gates, selling goods to those traveling in or out of the city. Farmers with baskets of produce, traders with exotic wares, and laborers on their way to work created a steady flow of activity.
Romulus paused for a moment, taking it all in. The city within the gates seemed vibrant and orderly, its people industrious and its infrastructure intact. Yet he knew that beyond these gates lay a different Ravenna, one he had only heard of in passing—the sprawling outskirts where the less fortunate made their lives in crowded tenements and makeshift shelters.
“Ready to see the rest?” Gaius asked, his voice low but steady.
Romulus nodded, a mix of curiosity and apprehension tightening in his chest. “Let’s go.”
The scene beyond the gates was lively, a bustling stretch of road lined with shops and workshops. The main road was well-trodden but intact, its stones uneven in places from years of use. Wooden carts creaked under the weight of goods, pulled by oxen or mules, while merchants called out their wares to passersby.
Romulus noted that the buildings here were simpler than those inside the walls. Many were made of wood and brick, their roofs tiled but less meticulously maintained. Yet they were functional, some even charming in their modesty. A baker stood outside his shop, his hands coated in flour as he shaped dough. A blacksmith hammered away at a horseshoe, sparks flying from the anvil. The smells of baking bread, hot iron, and fresh produce mingled in the air, creating an oddly comforting aroma.
Children darted between the adults, laughing and chasing each other with carefree energy. Their clothes were patched but clean, their faces smudged with dirt but smiling. A sense of community was palpable here, even amid the noise and motion.
“This part isn’t so different from the inner city,” Romulus remarked as they walked.
Gaius gave a small nod. “The closer you are to the gates, the better things look. These are the merchants, the craftsmen—people who have steady work and enough coin to live decently.”
Romulus’s gaze drifted to a shop where a cobbler was repairing a sandal. Beside him, his young apprentice diligently stitched a leather strap, his small hands moving with surprising skill. The scene felt almost idyllic, but Romulus sensed it was a veneer, a fortunate pocket within a larger, harsher reality.
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After a while, he slowed his steps, his eyes drawn to a narrow alley that branched off the main road. The cobblestones there were uneven, the shadows deeper. “Let’s go that way,” he said, pointing to the side street.
Gaius’s brow furrowed. “That’s not the best idea, Dominus. The main road is safer.”
“I want to see it,” Romulus insisted. “All of it. Not just what’s convenient or safe.”
The centurion hesitated, his hand brushing the hilt of his concealed blade. Finally, he nodded. “Stay close,” he said gruffly. “And don’t wander.”
The contrast was immediate. The alley led them away from the relative order of the main road into a network of tightly packed dwellings. The buildings leaned precariously, their timber frames sagging under years of neglect. Cracks ran through the plaster, and many windows were patched with cloth instead of glass. The smell changed too, growing sharper—smoke from cooking fires mingled with the stench of waste that lingered in the gutters.
Romulus’s steps slowed as he took in the scene. The air felt heavier here, the light dimmed by the overhanging balconies and laundry strung between buildings. People moved with purpose, but their faces were drawn, their movements hurried. A woman scrubbed clothes in a basin on her doorstep, her hands raw and red. A man sat on the ground repairing a fishing net, his tools worn to the point of uselessness. Nearby, a child no older than Romulus crouched by a puddle, playing with a stick.
“These are the laborers,” Gaius murmured, his voice low. “Dockworkers, porters, men who take what work they can find. Their wages barely cover their meals, let alone their rent.”
Romulus felt his chest tighten. He had read about poverty, heard stories in council meetings, but seeing it was different. It was not just a condition—it was a weight, visible in the slumped shoulders and hollow eyes of the people around him.
As they moved further, the sounds of the main road faded, replaced by murmured conversations and the occasional cry of a baby. A woman sat at a corner selling wilted vegetables, her meager offerings spread on a threadbare cloth. A group of boys huddled together, whispering as they eyed the coins of a passing tradesman. Romulus caught Gaius’s hand tightening on his dagger as the man walked away unscathed.
“This is just the edge,” Gaius said quietly. “It gets worse the further in you go.”
Romulus glanced at him, his throat dry. “Why does it have to be this way?”
Gaius exhaled slowly, his eyes scanning the street ahead. “Because it’s always been this way, Dominus. The people behind high walls—emperors, senators, the Church—they either can’t see it or don’t want to. And even when they do, they’re often more concerned with their own survival than fixing what’s broken out here.”
Romulus frowned, his gaze falling on a group of beggars huddled near the wall of a crumbling building. They were thin, their clothes threadbare, their faces worn by years of hardship. One of them, an older man with a tattered cloak draped over his shoulders, extended a trembling hand toward passersby. His sunken cheeks and gaunt frame spoke of a life lived too close to starvation.
As they passed, the man murmured, “Spare a coin, for the love of God…” His voice was hoarse, barely audible over the din of the street.
Romulus hesitated, but Gaius stopped and reached into his pouch. He pulled out a few coins, handing them to the man with a steady hand. “Here,” Gaius said simply.
The man’s eyes widened, his fingers clutching the coins tightly. “Thank you, sir. Bless you,” he rasped, his gratitude spilling out in a jumble of words. The other beggars looked on, some nodding in thanks as Gaius continued walking.
Romulus watched the exchange in silence, his heart sinking. “Were they soldiers?” he asked quietly once they were out of earshot.
Gaius gave a short nod. “Most likely. You can tell by the way they sit—upright, even after all this. And their hands… calloused from years of gripping a sword or shield. When their service ended, the empire gave them nothing. No land, no pension. Just a pat on the back and a wish for good fortune. This is what happens when a man has nothing left to fall back on.”
Romulus felt a wave of sadness and disappointment wash over him. These were men who had fought for Rome, bled for it, and yet they had been discarded like refuse. He clenched his fists, the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “It shouldn’t be this way. They deserve better.”
Gaius’s gaze softened slightly, though his voice remained steady. “They do. But fixing it—changing any of this—takes more than a good heart, Dominus. It takes resources, time, and a kind of power that no emperor has held for centuries. The best you can do is start small. Help where you can.”
Romulus nodded slowly, the weight of Gaius’s words settling heavily on him. He resolved to remember the faces of those men, to carry their plight with him as a reminder of the empire’s failings—and of his own responsibilities.
They moved deeper into the alleyways, the streets narrowing further. The contrast between this place and the well-maintained inner city grew starker with each step. The walls of the buildings were stained and crumbling, their wood frames rotting in places. The air smelled of damp earth, decay, and the acrid smoke of makeshift fires. Voices echoed faintly from unseen corners—arguments, cries, laughter tinged with bitterness.
Romulus found himself glancing at Gaius often, reassured by the centurion’s calm demeanor and sharp eyes. He felt out of place here, his plain tunic a poor disguise for the privilege he had carried his entire life. But he was determined to see this through, to understand the lives of those he ruled—not just the wealthy merchants or senators, but the forgotten masses living in the shadows of the empire.
Ahead, the alley opened into a small square. A makeshift market was set up, with vendors selling goods from ramshackle stalls. The wares were sparse—wilted vegetables, dried fish, and crude tools—but the people haggled fiercely, their desperation palpable.
Romulus slowed his steps, taking in the scene. This was a side of Rome he had never seen before, a world away from the opulence of the palace. And yet, these were his people, too. Their struggles, their stories—they were all a part of the empire he was sworn to protect.
“Stay close,” Gaius murmured, his hand brushing the concealed blade at his side. “This isn’t the place to wander off.”
Romulus’s eyes darted around the bustling square, his senses overwhelmed by the chaos and life that surrounded him. The air was thick with the mingled scents of smoked fish, dried herbs, and the unmistakable staleness of poverty. His gaze fixed on a small food stall where a vendor was grilling strips of meat over a smoky fire. The scent made his stomach growl, a reminder that he had skipped breakfast in his excitement to explore the city.
The vendor, a wiry man with graying hair and a patchy beard, called out in a raspy voice, “Fresh meat! Grilled to perfection! One as a skewer!” His hands moved deftly as he turned the meat on wooden sticks, the fat dripping onto the coals with a hiss.
Romulus, drawn by curiosity and hunger, stepped forward. “I’ll take one,” he said, his tone steady but polite.
The vendor glanced at him, raising an eyebrow as if assessing whether this boy in plain clothes could afford the food. He handed over a skewer, his other hand extending expectantly. “That’ll be a small coin, lad.”
Romulus hesitated, blinking in confusion. “A…follem?” he asked, realization dawning too late. Of course he was expected to pay—something he had never had to think about in the palace, where food appeared as if by magic. He fumbled at his belt but found nothing. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he stammered, “I… I don’t have…”
The vendor’s face darkened, and he reached out to grab Romulus’s wrist. “No coin, no food! You trying to rob me, boy?”
Romulus froze, utterly unprepared for the confrontation. Before he could react, Gaius Severus appeared at his side, his imposing presence silencing the vendor immediately.
“Let him go,” Gaius said, his tone calm but laced with authority.
The vendor released Romulus, eyeing Gaius warily. “Didn’t know he was with you,” he muttered, glancing at the centurion’s broad shoulders and no-nonsense expression.
Gaius reached into his pouch and produced a small coin, placing it in the vendor’s palm. “Here’s your copper. Keep the food.”
The vendor nodded quickly, his earlier hostility replaced by a servile tone. “Of course, sir. No trouble meant.”
Gaius handed the skewer to Romulus, who accepted it with a mixture of relief and embarrassment. As they walked away from the stall, Gaius gave him a sidelong glance. “First lesson of walking among the people, Dominus—nobody gets anything for free out here.”
Romulus bit into the skewer, the savory meat almost tasteless against his lingering shame. “I didn’t think about it,” he admitted quietly. “I’ve never… paid for food before. In the palace, everything is just… there.”
Gaius nodded, his expression softening slightly. “That’s how it is when you’re surrounded by wealth. Everything’s provided, and the cost doesn’t seem real. But out here, every scrap of bread, every piece of meat—it all comes with a price. These people feel that price every day.”
Romulus chewed thoughtfully, his eyes drifting over the crowded square. The people here seemed busy, focused on their own lives, but the weight of survival was visible in their every movement. “It’s not fair,” he said after a moment. “How can they live like this while the senators and merchants build mansions in the inner city?”
Gaius shrugged, his gaze scanning the alleys for potential threats. “It’s the way the world’s been for a long time, Dominus. Those with power hold on to it, and those without are left to scrape by. But don’t think these people are weak. They’re survivors. They endure more in a week than most senators do in a lifetime.”
Romulus fell silent, taking another bite of the skewer as he absorbed Gaius’s words. The flavor was simple but satisfying, the smoke from the fire lending a faint bitterness. He wondered how many of the people around him were eating their first meal of the day—or their only one.
As they finished eating, Romulus noticed a group of men lingering in the shadows of a nearby alley. They were young, their clothes ragged but their eyes sharp. One leaned casually against a wall, flipping a coin between his fingers, while the others spoke in low voices, their gazes darting toward the market stalls.
Gaius followed his line of sight, his jaw tightening slightly. “Toughs,” he said under his breath. “Probably part of a local gang. They won’t bother us if we don’t give them a reason.”
Romulus watched the men for a moment, a pang of unease in his chest. He thought about the beggars they had passed earlier, the laborers working themselves to exhaustion, the vendor who had so fiercely guarded his meager livelihood. “Are they dangerous?”
“They can be,” Gaius replied. “But they’re also just trying to survive. Gangs like that form when there’s no other way to make a living. They steal because it’s the only way to eat. Doesn’t make it right, but it’s the truth.”
Romulus nodded, his thoughts swirling with conflicting emotions as they moved away from the market square. He couldn’t shake the image of the toughs in the alley or the beggars by the crumbling walls. Their lives felt like an entirely different world—one he was only beginning to glimpse.
After a moment of silence, Romulus turned to Gaius. “Do you think we could… see where you live?”
Gaius stopped in his tracks, his brow furrowing as he regarded the boy. “Where I live?” he repeated, his tone a mix of surprise and reluctance.
“Yes,” Romulus said, his voice firm despite the hesitation he felt. “You’ve shown me the market, the streets, the people. But I want to see the kind of place you call home.”
Gaius crossed his arms, a wary look in his eyes. “Dominus, my home isn’t exactly—”
“Please,” Romulus interrupted, his earnestness cutting through Gaius’s words. “You’ve told me so much about these people, about survival. I want to understand it better. You’re my teacher in this, Gaius.”
For a moment, Gaius seemed to weigh the request, his jaw tightening as he considered the implications. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, he nodded. “All right. But it’s a bit of a walk, and you’ll need to keep your eyes open. It’s not the safest area.”
Romulus smiled faintly, grateful for Gaius’s willingness. “I’ll stay close.”
They began walking, the narrow alleys gradually giving way to broader streets lined with smaller, weathered homes. Along the way, Romulus peppered Gaius with questions.
“Why aren’t there guards here like in the inner city?” he asked, glancing around at the unpatrolled streets.
“Guards cost money,” Gaius replied bluntly. “The inner city pays taxes to keep them around. Out here? Nobody’s footing the bill. People rely on themselves—or their neighbors—for protection. That’s why you see gangs like the ones we passed earlier. They fill the gap.”
Romulus frowned. “So, it’s not just poverty. It’s also… neglect?”
Gaius nodded. “Neglect’s a polite way of putting it. The senators and the Church see this area as outside their concern. If trouble spills into the wealthier districts, they’ll act. Otherwise, they leave it to rot.”
They passed a group of children playing with sticks in a dirt yard, their laughter ringing out against the drab backdrop of cracked walls and sagging roofs. Romulus watched them curiously. “What do people do for fun here?” he asked.
“Fun?” Gaius echoed, a hint of wry amusement in his tone. “Depends on what you mean by fun. The kids play in the streets, sure. Adults? They might gather at a tavern to drink and talk, maybe gamble if they’ve got anything left to wager. The Church runs some gatherings—festivals on holy days—but for most, life is work. ‘Fun’ is a luxury.”
Romulus absorbed this quietly as they continued. The homes grew closer together, their wooden frames leaning into one another as if for support. The streets narrowed again, the cobblestones giving way to dirt paths littered with stray bits of refuse. The air smelled faintly of cooking fires and something sharper, less pleasant.
“What do people here do for work?” Romulus asked after a moment.
“Anything they can,” Gaius said. “There are craftsmen—cobblers, blacksmiths, tailors—but they struggle to compete with the larger shops in the inner city. Most are laborers. Dockhands, porters, builders. The lucky ones find steady work. The rest take what they can, day by day.”
Romulus fell silent, the weight of Gaius’s words settling over him. He had grown up surrounded by abundance, shielded from the harsh realities of life outside the palace walls. Now, those realities were stark and unavoidable.
After another turn down a quiet street, Gaius finally gestured to a modest building at the corner. “Here it is,” he said. “Home sweet home.”
Romulus looked up at the structure. It was a small, two-story building with weathered wooden beams and a tiled roof that had seen better days. A narrow balcony jutted out from the upper floor, its railing slightly askew. A faint light glowed from one of the windows, and the scent of bread baking wafted through the air.
“It’s… nice,” Romulus said, though his tone held a note of surprise.
Gaius chuckled. “It’s not the palace, but it’s sturdy. Keeps the rain out, most of the time.”
As they approached, the door creaked open, and a woman stepped out. She was petite but strong-looking, her hands dusted with flour and her dark hair tied back in a simple braid. Her sharp eyes softened as they landed on Gaius.
“Lavinia,” Gaius said, his voice warmer than Romulus had ever heard it. “We’ve got a visitor.”
Her gaze shifted to Romulus, and for a moment, her brow furrowed in confusion. Then, recognition flickered in her eyes. “Dominus,” she said, dipping into a small curtsy.
“Please,” Romulus said quickly, feeling a flush of embarrassment. “Don’t call me that. I’m just… Romulus.”
Lavinia raised an eyebrow at Gaius, who shrugged. “Your emperor’s taking a walk among the people,” he said simply. “Figured I’d show him how we live.”
Lavinia hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Well, come in, then. No use standing in the street.”
As they stepped inside, Romulus looked around, taking in the modest but tidy interior. The walls were bare except for a single cross, and the furniture was simple but well-made. A small table sat in the center of the room, with a loaf of bread cooling on a wooden board. The scent of it made his stomach growl, and Lavinia’s sharp eyes caught the sound.
“I’ll get you both something to eat,” she said, disappearing into a back room.
Gaius glanced at Romulus, his expression unreadable. “Welcome to my world, Dominus.”