Andronikos hurried through the palace corridors, his sandals striking the marble with measured precision. Though his steps were quick, his demeanor remained calm, almost scholarly, as if he were lost in thought. He had watched Gaius and Romulus leave for the city with an expression of quiet curiosity, but now his mind burned with a singular focus.
As he reached his quarters, Andronikos paused only briefly to catch his breath before pushing the wooden door open. The room was as he had left it—cluttered yet organized, an intellectual chaos of scrolls, codices, and tomes stacked on every available surface. Shelves bowed under the weight of knowledge, and the faint scent of aged parchment hung in the air like incense.
With practiced efficiency, Andronikos began rifling through his collection. His fingers brushed against volumes of philosophy by Aristotle and Epictetus, mathematical treatises by Archimedes, and scrolls containing translations of Persian astronomy. But these were not what he sought. His search grew more frenetic, and he muttered under his breath in Greek, a mixture of frustration and excitement driving him.
Finally, he found it.
From beneath a stack of dusty scrolls, Andronikos pulled out a modestly bound codex. The cover was unassuming, its leather cracked with age, but the faint inscription in Greek was unmistakable. "Περί της Αυτοματοποιίας"—"On Automata." It was a fragmentary copy of a work attributed to Heron of Alexandria, the famed mathematician and engineer of centuries past. The original text had been lost to time, but this incomplete copy, painstakingly transcribed by a Greek monk during the reign of Emperor Theodosius, had somehow made its way to Ravenna.
Andronikos carried the codex to his desk, his hands trembling slightly as he set it down. With the reverence of a priest handling sacred relics, he opened the tome. The brittle pages crackled faintly as they turned, revealing intricate diagrams and densely packed Greek script. Here were Heron's designs for automata—self-moving devices powered by mechanisms of astonishing ingenuity. Among these wonders, one stood out.
Andronikos’s eyes widened as they fell upon a particular illustration: a hemispherical vessel perched above a brazier, with two bent tubes extending from its sides. The accompanying text described the "aeolipile"—a device that harnessed the power of steam to create rotational motion. Heron’s description was precise, detailing how water boiled within the sealed vessel, producing steam that escaped through the tubes, causing the vessel to spin.
Andronikos sat at his desk, the codex open before him, its brittle pages illuminated by the flickering glow of an oil lamp. The aeolipile’s diagram stared back at him, its simplicity belied by the profound implications it carried. But something nagged at the edges of his mind—a sense of familiarity he could not immediately place.
He reached to his side, where a small pile of parchment rested, one of which he had deliberately borrowed from Romulus's growing collection of sketches. The young emperor had been guarded about his drawings, often hiding them beneath other papers or rolling them up before anyone could see. But Andronikos, ever curious, had managed to retrieve one in a moment of quiet observation.
Carefully, he unfolded the parchment and spread it across his desk next to Heron’s codex. The crude lines and scribbled notes on the page struck him like a lightning bolt. At first glance, it was unmistakably the work of a child: uneven lines, imprecise proportions, and hastily scrawled annotations that were more a stream of consciousness than coherent explanation. But the essence of the design—its principles—were shockingly familiar.
His eyes darted between Romulus’s drawing and Heron’s aeolipile. The resemblance was undeniable.
The young emperor’s sketch showed a similar vessel, though its shape was more angular and less refined. Steam was depicted escaping from small apertures, pushing the vessel in a way that suggested motion. The brazier beneath it was crudely drawn, and the annotations beside it—phrases like "heat makes force" and "spin like a wheel"—were fragmented and incomplete, yet they conveyed an understanding of the fundamental mechanics.
Andronikos’s breath caught in his throat. “How?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. His hands moved instinctively, tracing the lines of Heron’s diagram and then Romulus’s. The similarities were too great to be coincidence.
He read through Romulus’s notes, struggling to decipher the chaotic scrawl. Words were scattered across the page, some misspelled or written in the shorthand of a child’s mind racing faster than his hand. But the concepts they hinted at were astonishing.
"Steam push power."
"More heat = more spin."
"Wheel? Use for pulling?"
Andronikos leaned back in his chair, his mind reeling. The principles Romulus had sketched mirrored those of Heron’s aeolipile. But the young emperor’s notes hinted at applications beyond mere rotation—uses that even Heron, in his brilliance, had not explored. Romulus’s raw vision, though crude, reached for something greater. The idea of employing steam to drive not just a spinning sphere, but something functional—something transformative.
He leaned forward again, running his fingers over the edges of the parchment. How could a boy, no older than ten, have conceived such an idea? It was one thing to read about the ancients’ mechanical marvels, another entirely to imagine new possibilities.
Andronikos’s thoughts spiraled. Could this be a reflection of the emperor’s supposed visions of the future, the whispers Romulus occasionally let slip in moments of unguarded honesty? If so, this sketch was more than a child’s curiosity—it was a glimpse into a world of boundless potential. A world where steam could drive more than idle toys, where machines might carry burdens, plow fields, or power workshops.
He glanced again at Heron’s text, noting the meticulous detail in the description of the aeolipile’s construction. Heron had seen his invention as a marvel of ingenuity, a demonstration of natural principles, but not a tool to reshape the empire. Andronikos’s gaze shifted to Romulus’s drawing. The boy saw beyond Heron’s limitations.
Andronikos sat back in his chair, his hands resting lightly on the edge of the desk as he allowed himself to think. The flickering lamp cast long shadows across the room, and the faint scent of parchment seemed to deepen the weight of his thoughts. His gaze shifted from the codex to Romulus's crude sketch, and then to the chaos of scrolls and tomes surrounding him.
For a moment, his thoughts drifted back to Alexandria, to the city of his birth. He could almost hear the murmur of the great Library's scholars and the rustle of papyrus as they debated philosophy, astronomy, and mechanics. He had been a boy then, not much older than Romulus was now, but his circumstances could not have been more different.
Andronikos had been born into slavery, his life shaped by the whims of masters who saw value only in his ability to learn. In the austere halls of Alexandria, where knowledge was both a weapon and a currency, he had been taught to read, to calculate, to memorize. Each test of his ability was a gamble; failure meant being sent away—"elsewhere," as his overseers euphemistically called it. None who left returned.
His survival had depended on knowledge. At first, he had absorbed it out of fear, driven by the need to prove his worth. But over time, it became more than a means to live. He had grown to love it: the precision of mathematics, the elegance of rhetoric, the boundless curiosity that great minds had poured into their works. Knowledge had become his sanctuary, his rebellion, his identity.
He had thrived, eventually surpassing even his masters’ expectations. After thirty years of relentless study and teaching, he was granted freedom—a reward for his service and skill. Yet freedom had not brought peace. By then, the great Library itself was crumbling, its scrolls scattered and its influence waning. The barbarians had begun their relentless march across the provinces, tearing apart the fabric of the empire piece by piece. Civilization, once so secure, seemed to be slipping into chaos.
Now, decades later, the shadow of that chaos loomed even larger. The Western Empire was a shell of its former glory, its borders shrinking under the pressure of invaders. The East, once a beacon of stability, was fracturing under the weight of civil war. And here he was, in Ravenna, trying to preserve what little remained.
Andronikos let out a slow breath, his fingers brushing against the edge of Heron’s codex. As a Greek, he had always felt a duty to uphold civilization, to fight against the encroaching darkness with the light of knowledge. Yet even he could not deny how precarious their position had become. The great cities of learning—Rome, Alexandria, Constantinople—were now fortresses, their treasures of knowledge secondary to their walls and armies.
His gaze returned to Romulus's drawing. The boy’s potential was undeniable, and his strange insights—his supposed "visions"—hinted at possibilities Andronikos could scarcely imagine. Could this child, this last emperor of the West, be a key to reversing the decline? Could his youthful imagination, paired with the wisdom of the ancients, offer a path forward?
Andronikos's hand drifted to the margin of Heron’s codex, where he began to sketch absently, his quill tracing the faint outlines of a more practical application for the aeolipile. His mind raced with questions. Could steam engines power mills, lifting the burden of labor from weary hands? Could they pull carts, transport goods, or defend cities?
Andronikos placed his quill down and leaned back in his chair, the weight of his thoughts bearing down on him. The flickering light of the oil lamp illuminated the faint sheen of sweat on his brow as he stared at the chaotic desk before him. The questions swirling in his mind were too vast to answer in solitude, and yet the urge to find answers consumed him.
He had always prided himself on being a teacher, a custodian of knowledge, and a guide for those who sought understanding. But with Romulus, it was different. The boy’s mind operated in a realm beyond Andronikos’s grasp, a place where imagination and fragmented glimpses of the future collided. How could he, a man of the past and present, hope to teach someone who seemed to see glimpses of what lay centuries ahead?
He drummed his fingers on the desk, his gaze drifting back to Romulus’s drawing. The emperor’s crude sketches might one day be remembered as the foundation of a new era, yet Andronikos could not shake the feeling that his role in this story was limited. He could advise, suggest, and preserve the boy’s ideas, but he was no builder, no craftsman. His knowledge was vast, but his practical skill in realizing such inventions was minimal.
Andronikos stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the stone floor. The room was darkening now, the oil lamp’s glow barely enough to push back the encroaching shadows. Hours had passed unnoticed, the flow of time swept away in the tide of his thoughts. He could not sit idle any longer.
If he could not directly teach Romulus, he could still be useful. His mind turned to the vast network of scholars, engineers, and thinkers scattered across the empire and beyond. There were still those who carried the torch of knowledge, who might see what Romulus saw and help bring it to fruition. Letters could be written, contacts revived. But first, he needed to understand the boy better—to know what Romulus truly needed.
Andronikos grabbed a worn cloak from a hook by the door and draped it over his shoulders. The palace corridors were quieter now, the evening calm settling over the imperial residence. The rhythmic sound of his sandals against the marble accompanied him as he made his way toward Romulus’s chambers.
He paused outside the door, steadying his breath. A faint light flickered from within, and the soft scratch of quill on parchment told him the boy was awake and working. Andronikos hesitated for a moment, gathering his thoughts. This was not just a discussion about knowledge—it was about purpose, about finding a way to serve an empire teetering on the brink.
Knocking gently, he pushed the door open. Romulus looked up from his desk, his face illuminated by the golden glow of a single lamp. The boy’s expression shifted from surprise to curiosity as Andronikos stepped inside.
“Dominus,” Andronikos said with a slight bow, his tone warm yet formal. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
Romulus shook his head, setting his quill down. “No, Andronikos. Please, come in. What brings you here so late?”
The Greek stepped closer, his gaze flicking briefly to the scattered sketches on the desk—drawings that bore the same raw brilliance and chaotic energy as the one he had examined earlier. “I have been thinking,” he began carefully, “about my place in your service. About how I might better help you achieve what you envision for Rome.”
Romulus blinked, his young face a mix of surprise and confusion. “Your place in my service? Andronikos, I don’t understand. You’ve already done so much. I don’t think I could have taken even the first steps without your advice.”
Andronikos smiled faintly, though there was a shadow of doubt in his eyes. “And yet, Dominus, I feel there is more I could do—more I must do. The ideas you have, the world you seem to glimpse beyond the horizon… they are unlike anything I’ve ever encountered. I worry that I lack the tools to help you fully realize them. I am but a keeper of knowledge, not a builder or an inventor.”
Romulus stared at him for a long moment, trying to process the vulnerability in Andronikos’s words. The man who had always seemed so composed, so certain, now admitted to feeling inadequate. It was a jarring thought for the young emperor. But as he considered the Greek’s words, another thought began to form in his mind—an idea sparked by the sights he had seen earlier that day in the city.
“Andronikos,” Romulus began hesitantly, “I went into the city today with Gaius. I saw the markets, the homes, the people. And I saw… children. Boys my age, some younger. Most of them were wandering the streets or doing small jobs—carrying goods, fetching water. They looked… lost. Like there was nothing for them beyond what they could scrape together that day.”
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Andronikos listened intently, his expression growing thoughtful. Romulus leaned forward, his voice gaining strength. “It made me think. What future do they have? They can’t all join the army or become merchants. Most of them will grow up like their parents—poor, desperate, fighting for scraps. Unless… unless we give them something better.”
“What are you suggesting, Dominus?” Andronikos asked softly, though a flicker of curiosity had already begun to spark in his eyes.
“A school,” Romulus said, the words spilling out with sudden conviction. “A place where boys from all backgrounds—not just the wealthy—can learn. A place where they could study reading, mathematics, engineering, and other skills to shape their future and the empire’s.”
Andronikos’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he said nothing. The idea seemed to hang in the air between them, fragile yet powerful. Finally, he spoke, his voice low but filled with awe. “A school… to educate the poor as well as the rich?”
Romulus nodded eagerly. “Yes! You always talk about knowledge being the light that pushes back the darkness. Isn’t this how we fight it? By giving that light to everyone, not just the privileged few?”
Andronikos’s heart swelled at the boy’s earnestness. The idea was audacious, even revolutionary. In his years of tutoring, he had taught only the privileged—the children of senators, landowners, and now an emperor. But the thought of helping establish a place where knowledge could be freely shared… it was both humbling and invigorating.
“Dominus,” Andronikos said after a long pause, “do you realize what you’re proposing? To create a school open to the common people is not just an act of generosity. It is an act of rebellion against centuries of tradition. The elite will see it as a threat to their power.”
Romulus’s expression grew serious. “I know. But what kind of emperor am I if I only serve the wealthy? The empire is dying, Andronikos. We need new ideas, new people who can think and build and dream. If we don’t start now, when will we?”
Romulus’s voice grew steadier, more resolute, as the idea took shape in his mind. “Andronikos, this school doesn’t have to be the end. It could be the beginning. Imagine this—not just a single school in Ravenna, but many schools, in every major city of the empire. Places where children, whether rich or poor, can learn the same things. A system where anyone who has the will to study can rise, no matter their birth.”
Andronikos’s breath caught. His mind raced, trying to grasp the enormity of what the boy was proposing. “Dominus, such a system… it would upend the very structure of society.”
“Maybe that’s what the empire needs,” Romulus replied, his youthful determination cutting through any doubt. “If we keep clinging to the old ways, we’ll lose everything. The senators squabble over titles, the Church hoards wealth, and the people outside these walls starve or fight over scraps. If knowledge can make them stronger, give them purpose… isn’t that worth any risk?”
The Greek could barely speak. He had spent decades preserving fragments of the past, watching the slow decay of what he once believed to be the pinnacle of human civilization. And now, here was a boy, barely ten years old, daring to envision something greater.
“Andronikos,” Romulus continued, his voice softening but no less intense, “I’ve been thinking about the Library of Alexandria. You’ve told me so many stories about it—how it held the wisdom of the world, how scholars came from everywhere to study there. If we could build schools, why not libraries too? Places where all knowledge is gathered and shared. Imagine a library here, in Ravenna, with books from all over the empire. From the East, from Africa, even beyond.”
Andronikos sank into the chair beside the emperor’s desk, his legs no longer able to hold him. The sheer ambition of Romulus’s vision was overwhelming, yet it stirred something deep within him—a hope he hadn’t felt in years.
“You speak of a university,” Andronikos murmured, his voice trembling with emotion. “A center of learning that could rival Alexandria in its prime. A place where philosophy, mathematics, medicine, and mechanics could be studied side by side. Where the barriers between nations, classes, and creeds might be broken by the pursuit of knowledge.”
Romulus’s eyes brightened at the word. “Yes, a university! And why stop there? We could build one in every major city. Constantinople, Carthage, Mediolanum. Even in Gaul and Britannia, if we can hold them. A network of schools, libraries, and universities, all connected. A system that educates everyone—soldiers, farmers, senators. Isn’t that what Rome is supposed to be? A light for the world?”
Andronikos leaned forward, his hands trembling as he grasped the edge of the desk. “Dominus, such a vision… it is beyond anything I could have imagined. But to achieve it, you will face unimaginable resistance. The wealthy will see it as a threat to their power. The Church may brand it as heresy. Even your own father might oppose such bold changes.”
Romulus’s expression darkened for a moment, but then he nodded, his resolve hardening. “Then I’ll fight for it. Not with swords, but with words, with ideas. If I fail, at least I’ll know I tried to make Rome something more than a crumbling empire. But if I succeed… we could save it. We could save everything.”
Andronikos sat back in his chair, a long, heavy silence filling the room. The flickering light of the lamp cast shadows across his face, highlighting the deep furrows of thought etched into his brow. He finally let out a sigh, his voice low and almost reverent as he spoke. “You really did see the future, didn’t you?”
Romulus met his gaze steadily, his young features framed by a conviction far beyond his years. “I told you, Andronikos. I don’t know everything, but I saw enough. The great moments. The rise and fall of empires, discoveries that changed the world, inventions that reshaped how people lived. I don’t know the small details or every name, but I know what is possible.”
Andronikos sat motionless, absorbing the weight of those words. For years, he had dismissed Romulus’s claims as the idle dreams of a boy who read too much or as the wild fantasies of someone burdened by the enormity of his position. Now, as he looked at the young emperor’s unwavering expression, he felt something shift within him. Belief.
“What else did you see, Dominus?” Andronikos asked quietly, his tone filled with awe and curiosity. “What kind of future awaits us?”
Romulus leaned forward, his eyes bright with the fire of memory. “A future of wonders and terrors, Andronikos. I saw cities larger than any we’ve ever imagined, their streets alive with light even at night. Ships that could cross entire oceans in weeks, not months. Machines that could plow fields, forge steel, and build towers. But I also saw destruction. Wars so devastating they wiped out entire cities in days. Hunger and sickness that spread faster than we could contain.”
Andronikos’s breath hitched, his mind racing to comprehend the scale of what Romulus described. “Machines… light… these things—are they possible in our time? Or are they centuries away?”
“Some are possible now, if we try,” Romulus said. “The knowledge exists, but it’s scattered, fragmented. We need to bring it together, to nurture it. That’s why the schools, the libraries, the universities—they’re not just dreams, Andronikos. They’re necessities.”
The Greek’s voice trembled with urgency. “What of science? Philosophy? Are there names, ideas we should follow?”
Romulus nodded, his mind drawing on fragments of his knowledge. “There are names—Galen, for medicine; Archimedes, for mechanics; Ptolemy, for astronomy. But there’s so much more beyond them. There will be men who discover how to heal diseases with herbs and others who will look at the stars and understand their movements like never before. There will be thinkers who question the very nature of existence and invent ways to record knowledge so it’s never lost. We must prepare for them, Andronikos. Build the foundations they’ll need.”
Andronikos’s mind reeled as he tried to process the implications. “What of the empire, Dominus? Does it endure? Do we recover?”
Romulus’s expression darkened at the question, and for a long moment, he said nothing. The weight of the future he had seen pressed down on him like an iron shroud, suffocating in its inevitability. He stared past Andronikos, his gaze fixed on something unseen, something far beyond the lamplit chamber.
“No,” Romulus finally said, his voice quiet but steady. “Not as it is now. The empire… the empire falls, Andronikos. It doesn’t survive the next year. Not here, in the West.”
The Greek froze, his sharp mind catching the bleakness in the boy’s tone. “What do you mean, Dominus? Surely there is time to save it?”
Romulus shook his head slowly, his hands clenched into small fists on the desk. “Ravenna falls before next winter. Odoacer betrays my father. He promises loyalty, but it’s a lie. When his demands for more land and power are denied, he marches on us with his army of foederati. My father—” Romulus’s voice faltered, but he forced himself to continue. “My father tries to resist. He raises an army and marches to Ticinum to meet Odoacer in battle. But it’s hopeless.”
Romulus stood abruptly, pacing the room as the memories—visions, prophecies, fragments of what could be—consumed him. “The army he gathers is too small, too poorly trained. They’re not soldiers, Andronikos. They’re conscripts, farmers with rusted swords, men who’ve lost hope. They don’t stand a chance.”
Andronikos leaned forward, his brow furrowed deeply. “The Battle of Ticinum,” he murmured. “And what happens there, Dominus?”
Romulus stopped, his back to the Greek. The flickering lamplight cast his shadow against the wall, a small figure dwarfed by the enormity of his words. “Odoacer wins. My father retreats to Placentia but after a short siege he is captured and executed. His head is sent to Ravenna as a warning. And then Odoacer comes here, to the city, with his full strength.”
“And you?” Andronikos asked softly, though he feared the answer.
Romulus turned to face him, his young face pale and drawn. “I surrender. What else can I do? I’m a boy with no army, no allies. I abdicate the throne, and Odoacer spares my life. But the empire…” He spread his hands helplessly. “The empire ends. The Western Roman Empire dies with me.”
The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the oil lamp. Andronikos’s mind raced, grappling with the enormity of Romulus’s revelations. “But what of the East?” he finally asked. “Constantinople, Emperor Basiliscus—they do nothing?”
Romulus shook his head again, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “Basiliscus will be dead soon and Zeno returns. They acknowledge Odoacer. They don’t fight for us, Andronikos. To them, the West is already lost. They survive, though—Constantinople holds for another thousand years. But Rome… the city of Rome itself… it falls into ruin.”
Andronikos leaned back in his chair, his thoughts spinning. He had known the empire was crumbling, but to hear its final moments laid out so plainly, so starkly, was devastating. “Dominus,” he said carefully, “if you have seen all this why not use this knowledge to change it?”
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Romulus said, his voice rising with desperation. “That’s why I speak to you. I thought… if I warned my father, he might see reason. But he doesn’t trust me. He thinks I’m just a boy repeating rumors. He won’t believe that Odoacer will betray him.”
Romulus took a deep breath and returned to his chair, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his words. “But even with all that knowledge, Andronikos, I can’t risk everyone knowing what I’ve told you. They’ll think I’ve lost my mind. It’s hard enough being taken seriously as a child emperor.”
Andronikos frowned, concern flickering in his eyes. “You fear they would question your sanity?”
Romulus nodded. “Yes. Imagine what the senators would say. They already whisper that I’m a puppet, too young to lead. If they hear me speaking of the future, of things that seem impossible to them, they’ll use it against me. Even my father might turn away.”
Andronikos’s brow furrowed as he considered the gravity of the boy’s position. “You are wise to be cautious, Dominus. Knowledge is powerful, but in the wrong hands, or misunderstood, it can destroy as much as it builds. You have my word—I will not speak of this to anyone.”
The tension in Romulus’s face softened, a flicker of relief crossing his features. “Thank you, Andronikos. You don’t know how much it means to have someone I can trust with this.”
For a moment, silence settled between them, the room illuminated by the flickering lamplight. Then Andronikos leaned forward, his curiosity overcoming his reservations. “Dominus… if we have this time together, may I ask more about the future? About the world you’ve seen? There is so much I don’t understand.”
Romulus smiled faintly, the prospect of sharing his knowledge with someone who believed him bringing a rare sense of comfort. “Of course. Ask whatever you want.”
Andronikos hesitated, his mind torn between the many subjects he wished to explore. Finally, his scholarly instincts took over. “Let us begin with history, Dominus. You mentioned great empires rising and falling. What becomes of the world after Rome?”
Romulus leaned forward, his gaze distant as he recalled the fragments of the future. “After Rome falls, Andronikos, the world splinters into kingdoms and tribes. But eventually, new empires rise. In the East, Byzantium endures, becoming what we’ll know as the Byzantine Empire. In the West, chaos reigns for centuries—until a leader named Charlemagne unites much of Europe under a new empire. But even that doesn’t last.”
“Charlemagne?” Andronikos asked, his voice filled with curiosity. “Who is he?”
“A Frankish king,” Romulus replied. “Centuries from now. He’s crowned emperor in Rome itself, trying to revive the glory of what we’ve lost. But his empire breaks apart after his death. What follows is a long struggle—a mix of kingdoms, duchies, and the Church fighting for power.”
Andronikos stroked his beard thoughtfully. “And what of other parts of the world? Does the East remain stable?”
Romulus nodded. “The East holds, but it changes too. Constantinople thrives for centuries, becoming the center of trade and learning. But even it faces its own collapse when invaders—first crusaders, then a people called the Ottomans—take the city. Byzantium falls after over a thousand years, and a new empire rises in its place.”
The Greek’s eyes widened. “And what of knowledge? Philosophy, mathematics—do they survive these upheavals?”
Romulus smiled faintly. “They do, though not as you’d expect. During the chaos in Europe, much of what we know now is forgotten. But in the East—Persia, Arabia—they preserve it. They translate the works of Aristotle, Ptolemy, and Archimedes, adding their own discoveries. Astronomy, medicine, and mathematics flourish there while Europe struggles. It’s not until centuries later that this knowledge returns to the West.”
Andronikos leaned forward, excitement flickering in his voice. “What kind of mathematics, Dominus? What discoveries?”
Romulus’s eyes lit up, the weight of his earlier despair momentarily lifting. “There’s something called algebra. It’s a way of solving problems with symbols instead of just numbers. It makes calculations faster, more precise. And geometry—the study of shapes—advances too. People like Euclid and Pythagoras will inspire new thinkers who build on their work. One day, mathematicians even discover how to calculate the motion of planets.”
“The motion of planets?” Andronikos’s voice rose with awe. “You mean to say the stars can be predicted?”
“Yes,” Romulus said, his tone filled with quiet reverence. “There’s a man named Copernicus, long after our time, who proves that the Earth moves around the Sun, not the other way around. And another, Galileo, who builds devices to see the stars more clearly—telescopes. They discover moons orbiting other planets and stars so distant they seem like pinpricks of light.”
Andronikos sat back, overwhelmed by the enormity of what he was hearing. “The Earth moving around the Sun… that will change everything. How does the Church respond?”
“With anger,” Romulus admitted. “At first, they refuse to believe it. They call it heresy because it challenges their teachings. Men like Galileo suffer for speaking the truth. But eventually, the evidence is too strong to ignore.”
Andronikos’s voice grew quieter. “Dominus, do you know the stars as well as you know history? Are there secrets there we could uncover?”
Romulus hesitated, then nodded. “I know some of what I’ve seen. The stars are like a map of the heavens, and they move in patterns we can predict. Mariners—sailors—use them to navigate across vast oceans. And astronomers learn how to measure time and seasons by studying the sky.”
The Greek’s eyes widened, the sheer potential of such knowledge staggering. “If we could achieve even a fraction of that… it would save countless lives.”
Romulus nodded. “That’s why I want to build schools, Andronikos. To teach people how to think, to experiment, to question. Without knowledge, none of these things are possible.”
The Greek leaned closer, his voice filled with reverence. “Dominus, what you’ve seen… it’s as if you carry the entirety of time within you. If this is true, if we can teach even a fraction of it, we might truly change the course of history.”
They spoke for hours, Andronikos asking about everything from the geometry of arches to the mysteries of distant stars. Romulus, for the first time, felt the relief of sharing his burden with someone who believed him.