Romulus paced the length of his chamber, his hands clasped behind his back. The letter he had written to his father lay unopened on the desk, its wax seal gleaming dully in the sunlight. He had asked a servant to deliver it over an hour ago, but there had been no response. Doubt gnawed at his resolve. Would Orestes even consider his ideas, or had Romulus overstepped his bounds?
A soft knock broke the silence.
“Enter,” Romulus called, standing straighter.
A servant stepped in, bowing low. “Your father asks that you meet him in the gardens.”
Romulus blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected Orestes to respond so quickly, let alone invite him to a setting so relaxed. “Thank you,” he said, quickly collecting himself. With a nod to the servant, he left the chamber and made his way toward the palace gardens.
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The gardens shimmered in the morning light, the air perfumed with the fragrance of blooming roses and lavender. Orestes stood near a cluster of trees, his back turned as he surveyed the greenery. He wore a simple military tunic, his figure imposing even in this tranquil setting. Hearing Romulus’s approach, he turned, his sharp eyes studying his son.
“You wanted to see me,” Orestes said, his tone neutral but not unkind. “A letter, no less. I suppose barging into council meetings is no longer your style?”
Romulus blinked, caught off guard by the teasing remark. A faint smile tugged at his lips despite himself. “I thought you might appreciate a less… disruptive approach this time.”
Orestes let out a dry chuckle, gesturing to the gravel path. “Progress already. Let’s walk.”
They moved side by side, their steps crunching on the stone as birds chirped in the distance. Romulus glanced at his father, trying to read his mood, but Orestes’s expression remained inscrutable.
“You did the right thing,” Orestes said after a stretch of silence. “But not in the right way.”
Romulus frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You’re the emperor,” Orestes replied, his tone measured. “You don’t ask for an audience—you summon others. By framing it as a request, you cede authority.”
Romulus considered this, his brow furrowing. “I understand, but it feels… wrong to summon my own father. It’s difficult to treat you like anyone else.”
Orestes stopped and turned to him, his gaze piercing. “It may feel wrong, but you must rise above such feelings. Authority is not a burden you can set aside when it suits you, Romulus. Whether it’s a senator, a bishop, or your own father, you must project leadership at all times.”
Romulus swallowed hard. “I’ll try.”
“Not try,” Orestes said firmly. “Do. This is a lesson you cannot avoid, no matter how difficult it feels. If you do not claim your authority, others will seize it from you. Understand?”
Romulus nodded, his throat tight. “I do.”
“Good,” Orestes said, his tone softening slightly. “Now, what is it you wanted to discuss?”
Romulus straightened, taking a steadying breath. “It’s about Ravenna’s council. I’ve made promises to the craftsmen and other citizens who feel excluded from its decisions. I want to invite them—and other local leaders—to participate, not just the senators and the elite.”
Orestes raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting to one of skepticism. “Invite them? Why?”
Romulus met his father’s gaze, determination settling in his voice. “The council as it stands only serves the interests of a few. The senators and the wealthiest landowners dominate it. They argue endlessly about their estates, their wealth, and their power, but they ignore the people who keep this city running: the craftsmen, the merchants, the small landowners. If we include them in the council, we can gain their trust and insight. They have as much at stake as the elite—perhaps more.”
Orestes sighed, his expression turning serious. “Romulus, you’re thinking too idealistically. The lower orders might deserve a voice in theory, but in practice, this kind of change could destabilize the entire city. Look at Mediolanum—when the magistrates tried to give the plebeians more say in market regulations, the merchants revolted, and the senators withdrew their support. The city descended into chaos, and it took months to restore order. Do you want that for Ravenna?”
Romulus hesitated but quickly countered, “Mediolanum failed because they imposed the changes without building trust first. The merchants saw it as a threat because they weren’t involved in the process. What I’m proposing is different. By including the local leaders from the start, we give them ownership in the decisions. That fosters cooperation, not resentment.”
Orestes tilted his head, skeptical but listening. “And what about Rome? When the Senate tried to reform the grain dole, it ended in riots. The people burned warehouses and stormed the Capitol. It’s not just the elite who resist change, Romulus. The masses can be just as unpredictable.”
“That’s why this needs to be framed carefully,” Romulus said, his voice steady. “Not as a redistribution of power, but as an expansion. The senators will still hold influence, but they’ll share the table with people who understand the city’s practical needs. That balance will strengthen Ravenna, not weaken it.”
Orestes folded his arms, his tone measured but firm. “And what happens when these ‘real’ voices clash with the elite? The senators will accuse you of undermining tradition, and the Church will call it an affront to divine order. Stability is the key, Romulus. Without it, we lose everything.”
Romulus nodded thoughtfully, then replied, “Father, stability isn’t the same as stagnation. If we cling too tightly to the past, we’ll fail to adapt to the challenges ahead. Look at Constantinople—they’ve embraced cooperation between the imperial court and the guilds. The dēmoi have a voice, and that strengthens their loyalty to the city. It’s not without conflict, but it works because both sides see the value in unity.”
Orestes’s sharp gaze lingered on his son. “You think Ravenna can replicate Constantinople’s model?”
“No,” Romulus admitted. “But we can learn from it. This council won’t be perfect, but it’s a start. If we show and craftsmen that we value their contributions, they’ll stay invested in Ravenna’s future. If we ignore them, they’ll feel abandoned—and that’s when resentment turns to rebellion.”
Orestes was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke, his tone cautious. “And what of the senators? How will you stop them from sabotaging this idea?”
Romulus straightened, determination hardening his tone. “I’ll appeal to their pride. I’ll frame this as a way to showcase their leadership—that they’re wise enough to adapt to the empire’s needs. And I’ll remind them that without a stable city, their estates and wealth mean nothing. If they resist, I’ll make it clear that they’re standing in the way of Rome’s survival.”
A faint smile tugged at Orestes’s lips. “You’re bolder than I expected, I’ll give you that.”
Orestes regarded him for a long moment, the weight of his years etched into his features. Finally, he nodded, though his tone remained cautious. “Very well. You may proceed. But remember this, Romulus: every decision has consequences. You’ve chosen a difficult path, and you’ll face resistance from all sides. If this council experiment backfires, it will be on your shoulders—not mine.”
Romulus nodded, relief and determination flooding his chest. “I understand. Thank you, Father.”
Orestes turned to leave but paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “And next time, Romulus, send a letter to the council before you make promises. It might save you a few arguments.”
Romulus smiled faintly, a flicker of warmth breaking through his tension. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
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The sun dipped low over Ravenna, casting long shadows across the city’s cobbled streets and elegant villas. Inside the grand dining hall of Senator Gaius Lepidus’s estate, the air was thick with tension, an undercurrent of unease coursing beneath the polished veneer of Roman civility. The room was a picture of wealth and tradition, adorned with frescoes depicting Rome’s triumphs and silver candelabras casting a golden glow over the polished marble table. Around it sat some of Ravenna’s most influential senators and landowners, summoned by Lepidus to address the emperor’s controversial proposal.
At the head of the table, Lepidus leaned forward, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His sharp features, honed by years of political maneuvering, betrayed a disdain he no longer cared to hide. He waited until the quiet murmurs subsided before speaking, his voice slicing through the room like a gladius.
“This proposal is an insult to everything Rome stands for,” he began, his tone a mix of authority and outrage. “Our emperor—this boy—intends to grant craftsmen and guild leaders a voice in the council. Consider it: men who hammer nails, stitch leather, and haggle over fish prices, deciding the future of Ravenna alongside us. It is not just undignified—it is dangerous.”
A ripple of agreement spread around the table. Marcus Pollio, a stout man with a booming voice, slammed his fist on the table, sending the silverware rattling. “Lepidus is right! Craftsmen and merchants have their place—keeping markets running and paying taxes. But to allow them into the council? Madness! It undermines the hierarchy that has held our governance intact for centuries.”
“Intact?” Lucius Varius, a landowner with estates across the Po Valley, leaned back in his chair, his tone measured but pointed. “Is that what we are? Intact? The curiales are abandoning their posts, tax collection falters, and roads crumble. If the guilds and craftsmen are willing to step into the gaps we cannot fill, perhaps we should at least consider their grievances. Otherwise, we risk rebellion—or worse, collapse.”
Pollio sneered. “And you think granting them power will solve that? It will only embolden them! Today, they ask for a voice. Tomorrow, they’ll demand equal footing with us—or, God forbid, positions in the Senate.”
Quintus Marcellus, one of the younger senators, leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table. His voice was calm, but his words carried weight. “Gentlemen, we must consider the emperor’s intent. He seeks stability, not revolution. Including these craftsmen may buy us time to address our deeper issues—time we sorely need. We cannot simply dismiss this as a threat without acknowledging the alternative: alienation, unrest, and the eventual collapse of order.”
Lepidus turned his piercing gaze on Marcellus, his expression hardening. “Stability? When has granting power to the lower orders ever brought stability? Mediolanum’s experiment with guild councils led to riots, not harmony. Merchants revolted, senators withdrew, and the city descended into chaos.”
“Mediolanum failed because they imposed reforms without consensus,” Marcellus countered. “If we shape these changes to suit our needs, we might avoid a repeat.”
Lepidus’s voice grew sharper. “Shape them? And what happens when the plebeians refuse to be shaped? When they see this as the first step toward seizing more power?”
“They won’t refuse if we control the process,” Marcellus said firmly. “If we elevate plebs loyal to us, men we can trust, we maintain influence while offering the emperor his symbolic victory.”
Pollio snorted. “Symbolic? Give them a taste of power, and they’ll want more. Better to delay. Propose debates, demand consultations, call for reports. Bury this reform in bureaucracy until it dies a natural death.”
“A classic Roman solution,” Lepidus said, smirking faintly. “But too slow. The emperor may be a boy, but he has advisors who are neither patient nor naive. If we delay too long, Orestes may push this through by decree.”
The room fell into a thoughtful silence, broken only by the soft clinking of goblets and the rustle of tunics. From the corner, Crassus , a quiet but shrewd landowner, cleared his throat. “Then we must seek allies outside this room. The Church, perhaps. Bishop Felix values hierarchy and order. Frame this as an affront to divine law, and he may oppose it publicly.”
Varius raised a hand in caution. “Felix is no fool. He’ll demand something in return—land, money, or more influence in council decisions. Can we afford that price?”
“Better to pay it than see this reform pass,” Pollio growled. “The Church’s opposition could turn public sentiment against the emperor.”
Lepidus raised a hand, his voice cutting through the rising tension. “All viable options,” he said, his tone cold and calculating. “But none address the root problem: the emperor himself. This boy, idealistic as he may be, is a dangerous figure. He has visions for Rome that threaten the very foundations of our governance. If we cannot sway him, we must undermine him.”
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Marcellus stiffened, his jaw tightening. “Undermine the emperor? Lepidus, that is treacherous ground. If Orestes suspects a conspiracy—”
“Which is why it must be subtle,” Lepidus interrupted. “Whispers, not accusations. Spread doubts about his judgment. Suggest that he is being manipulated by advisors with their own agendas. If the people and the Senate lose confidence in him, Orestes will have no choice but to intervene.”
Crassus nodded slowly, his face shadowed by thought. “Divide and conquer. Turn his allies into liabilities. If the emperor finds himself isolated, he will have no choice but to abandon these foolish reforms.”
“And what of Orestes?” Varius asked, his tone cautious. “He has indulged his son so far, but if he sees this as a threat to his authority, he may strike back.”
“Which is why we must act as loyal Romans,” Lepidus said smoothly. “We are not rebelling; we are protecting the city from rash decisions. Everything we do must appear to be in service of stability and tradition.”
The room grew quiet as the gathered men absorbed Lepidus’s words. Finally, Marcellus spoke, his voice low. “A dangerous game, Lepidus. If this backfires—”
“It won’t,” Lepidus said firmly, his gaze sweeping the room. “But I will not force anyone’s hand. Each of you must decide how to proceed. Whether through delays, alliances, or whispers, we must act. If we fail to present a united front, this reform will pass, and our power will erode.”
A murmur of agreement spread through the room, though not all voices were equally enthusiastic. Lepidus leaned back in his chair, the faintest smile playing on his lips.
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The first snow of the season dusted Ravenna as Lepidus descended from his litter. Fine white flakes swirled through the crisp air, settling on the shoulders of his heavy cloak and the marbled steps of the council chamber. Around him, the city seemed momentarily softened by the wintry veil, though the chill wind biting at his face carried no such gentleness.
The streets were quieter than usual, the markets subdued under the spell of the snowfall. Yet within the political heart of Ravenna, a storm was brewing.
The council chamber loomed ahead, its columns stark against the gray sky. Snow clung to the carvings of mythic heroes and victories, blurring the edges of Rome’s glory. Lepidus allowed his gaze to linger on the façade as his attendants adjusted his cloak. Rome endures, he thought grimly, though the sight of the weathered stone reminded him of how fragile that endurance had become.
The sound of crunching snow underfoot heralded the arrival of other senators and dignitaries. Lepidus exchanged nods and murmured greetings, his practiced smile concealing the calculations racing through his mind. Each interaction was an assessment—who stood firm in their opposition to the emperor’s proposals, who wavered, and who might yet be persuaded. The day’s proceedings would be decisive, and Lepidus intended to emerge as the arbiter of that decision.
“Lepidus!” boomed Marcus Pollio, striding up the steps with his usual bluster. Snowflakes clung to his thinning hair and the folds of his toga. “The emperor chooses a fine day for his reforms, doesn’t he? Snow on the ground, frost in the air, and chaos in the council.”
Lepidus allowed a faint smile. “Chaos, indeed. Though I suspect the weather is the least of our concerns.”
Pollio chuckled, a rough, booming sound that drew the attention of passersby. “True enough. But at least the cold keeps the rabble indoors.”
As Pollio moved off to greet another senator, Lepidus adjusted the folds of his cloak and ascended the steps. His thoughts turned inward, weighing the events of the past weeks.
The snowfall blanketed the city in an uneasy stillness, but beneath it, Ravenna had been anything but quiet. The emperor’s early efforts to strengthen the city’s defenses had drawn attention. Repairs to the walls had begun, the clatter of stone and mortar a daily soundtrack to the city. Recruits—many of them former laborers or small landowners—now trained under the watchful eye of Gaius Severus, their ragged formations slowly taking shape into something resembling discipline.
And now, this. The boy-emperor’s proposed changes to the council threatened to cement that inclusion, giving these groups not just a stake in the city’s survival but a voice in its governance. Lepidus’s jaw tightened as he entered the chamber, the weight of the day pressing heavily upon him.
The bronze doors stood open, revealing a hall filled with senators, the magistrate, and prominent landowners. The warmth of braziers fought against the encroaching cold, but the tension in the air was palpable. Men gathered in clusters, their conversations low and urgent. Lepidus paused at the threshold, his sharp gaze sweeping the room.
“Senator Lepidus,” came a voice to his left. He turned to see Lucius Varius, his cloak dusted with snow. Varius inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “A historic day, wouldn’t you say?”
“Historic, indeed,” Lepidus replied evenly. “Though history is not always kind to the ambitious.”
Varius’s lips twitched in something resembling a smile. “True enough. But ambition has a way of reshaping the world, whether we like it or not.”
Lepidus watched as Varius moved away, his mind turning over the implications of the exchange. Varius was pragmatic, a man who valued results over tradition. If he chose to align with the emperor’s reforms, it could shift the balance of the council. Lepidus resolved to keep a close eye on him.
The chamber’s high vaulted ceilings amplified the murmurs of conversation as Lepidus made his way to his seat. He passed Quintus Marcellus, who offered a polite nod. The younger senator had proven cautious but open to compromise—a potential ally, if properly persuaded.
Lepidus settled into his seat, his gaze fixed on the raised platform at the front of the chamber. The emperor would soon enter, flanked by his advisors. Lepidus knew what to expect: the boy-emperor, small yet composed, speaking with a confidence that belied his years. And behind him, the real architects of this upheaval—Andronikos, the Greek tutor whose whispered guidance shaped the emperor’s idealism, and Gaius Severus, the scarred centurion who lent the boy his gravitas.
The snow continued to fall outside, its quiet persistence a stark contrast to the storm brewing within. As the room fell silent, the chamber doors opened, and the emperor entered.
Romulus Augustus walked with deliberate steps, his youthful face set in an expression of seriousness. He ascended the platform, flanked by Andronikos and Severus, and took his seat. The boy’s gaze swept the room, and Lepidus felt a flicker of grudging respect. The child knew how to command attention, even in a room filled with men who doubted him.
The snow continued its quiet descent over Ravenna, muffling the bustle of the city outside. Inside the council chamber, warmth radiated from iron braziers, doing little to thaw the tension hanging in the air. Gaius Lepidus sat in his place among the gathered council members, his sharp gaze fixed on the boy who dared to challenge the traditions of their city.
The chamber was modest compared to Rome’s Senate but carried significant weight in Ravenna’s governance. Stone walls bore carvings of local triumphs and civic glory. At the head of the room sat the magister of Ravenna, a figure tasked with balancing the needs of the city’s administration and its ruling class. To his left was the single chair of prominence, where the boy-emperor now sat. Though small and slight, Romulus carried himself with surprising composure, his youthful face set in an expression of seriousness. Beside him stood Andronikos, ever-watchful, and Gaius Severus, whose silent presence lent the boy an air of gravitas.
“My lords of the council,” Romulus began, his voice clear despite its youthful timbre, “I have called you here to propose a change—a change that I believe is necessary for the stability and prosperity of Ravenna.”
Lepidus watched the room shift uncomfortably. The magister, ever cautious, exchanged glances with Lucius Varius. Though the magister had no direct voting power, his influence could sway opinions, particularly among the less vocal members. His neutrality—if it held—would be critical.
Lepidus leaned back, his expression impassive, though his thoughts churned. A necessary change, the boy says. Necessary for whom? Around him, the other council members shifted in their seats, some leaning forward with interest, others with thinly veiled skepticism. Marcus Pollio, seated to Lepidus’s right, crossed his arms with a scowl that telegraphed his disdain.
Romulus continued, his gaze sweeping across the room, catching the wary stares and skeptical glances from seasoned senators like Lepidus and Pollio. A flicker of doubt threatened to surface, and he hesitated briefly, his voice faltering on the next word. Gaius Severus, standing just behind him, shifted subtly, his presence a grounding reminder that he was not alone.
Romulus straightened, forcing his nerves down. “The challenges facing our city are evident. Our defenses are being repaired, our walls strengthened. Recruits train daily to defend Ravenna. Yet these efforts alone will not suffice. The strength of this city lies not only in its fortifications but in its people—those who labor and trade, those who keep our streets, markets, and households running.”
Lepidus noticed the momentary lapse and smiled faintly, though he masked it quickly. A boy, after all, he thought. Yet the child had recovered well, enough to draw curious glances from some of the younger senators. Lepidus noted Marcellus’s intent expression, one that seemed open to persuasion. Dangerous, if the emperor capitalized on it.
Pollio scoffed, loud enough for the room to hear, but Romulus pressed on. “The guilds, and the craftsmen of Ravenna contribute as much to this city’s survival as any seated here. Yet their voices are absent from these chambers. I propose that we correct this. Let us invite representatives from these groups to join this council—not to undermine tradition, but to strengthen it by drawing on the wisdom and insight of all who serve Ravenna.”
A ripple of unease passed through the room. Lepidus felt it as much as he saw it in the shifting postures of his peers. The boy’s words, though measured, struck at the heart of a delicate balance: the entrenched power of the city’s elite. Beside him, Pollio was the first to rise.
“Imperator,” Pollio began, his tone dripping with formal deference that barely masked his outrage, “you honor us with your vision for Ravenna’s future. But I must question whether this proposal is truly in the city’s best interest. The guilds have their place, but it is not in these chambers. This council has long been guided by tradition and the wisdom of those who understand the complexities of governance. What can merchants and craftsmen—men who barter and hammer—offer to such a body?”
Pollio’s words drew murmurs of agreement from several council members. Lepidus observed the room carefully, noting which heads nodded and which remained still. Lucius Varius, ever the pragmatist, met Lepidus’s gaze briefly before turning his attention back to the boy-emperor.
Romulus, for his part, showed no outward sign of faltering. “Senator Pollio,” he replied, his voice steady, “they can offer precisely what this council lacks: a direct understanding of the daily workings of Ravenna. The guilds know the challenges of trade and supply. Their insight would strengthen our decisions, not weaken them.”
A bold answer, Lepidus thought, though it remained to be seen whether it would convince this room.
As the murmurs subsided, Lepidus decided it was time to interject. Rising with deliberate calm, he bowed slightly to the emperor before speaking. “Imperator, may I address this esteemed assembly?”
Romulus nodded, and Lepidus clasped his hands behind his back, his expression measured. “It is true that Ravenna faces challenges, and it is commendable that our emperor seeks to address them. However, we must tread carefully. The traditions of this council are not mere formalities; they are the foundation of governance. This chamber represents the city’s landowners, its magistrate, and its most experienced citizens. To include voices from outside this structure—however well-intentioned—risks diluting the authority that has guided Ravenna for generations.”
His words were met with nods from some and skeptical looks from others. Lepidus pressed on, his tone softening as though offering sage advice. “Consider, my lords, the precedent we would set. Today, we grant a voice to the craftsmans and the guilds. Tomorrow, what might they demand? More influence? Equal standing with this council’s members? History teaches us that such changes, though meant to unify, often lead to division. Mediolanum is but one example of reform gone awry.”
Romulus’s youthful features betrayed a flicker of doubt, but the boy recovered quickly. “Senator Lepidus,” he replied, his voice firm, “what I propose is not division but unity. The representatives I suggest would not undermine this council; they would complement it. Their role would be to advise, to bring their knowledge and experience to our deliberations. The decisions would still rest with this council.”
Lepidus inclined his head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment that did not commit to agreement. Before he could respond, Lucius Varius rose, his tone deliberate and calm.
The magister of Ravenna, a middle-aged man with a solemn bearing and the stoic demeanor of one who had weathered countless political storms, shifted slightly in his chair. Though his role was to mediate rather than legislate, the weight of his authority could not be ignored. Clearing his throat, he addressed the emperor with measured caution.
“Imperator, the idea of broadening this council’s membership is undeniably bold. However, I must raise a concern regarding its execution.” His eyes scanned the room, gauging the reactions of the senators and landowners. “The guilds are already heavily burdened with their obligations—taxes, civic duties, maintaining standards in their trades. To ask them to shoulder the additional responsibility of governance may strain their capacity and lead to resentment rather than cooperation.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. Senator Marcus Pollio, always quick to voice opposition, leaned forward, his expression dark. “The magister speaks wisely. Guilds and craftsmen have their place—hammering iron, weaving cloth, and keeping our markets supplied. But they lack the education and refinement required to govern. Do we truly believe they are capable of understanding the complexities of law and administration?”
Romulus’s voice cut through the growing dissent, calm but firm. “Senator Pollio, it is precisely because the guilds carry these burdens that their voices must be heard. Their labor sustains this city—its defenses, its trade, its very survival. If we deny them a role in shaping their own future, we risk alienating those who are vital to Ravenna’s prosperity.”
The magister inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the emperor’s point. “Imperator, your argument holds merit. But I must emphasize that the process of selecting representatives must be handled with care. If the guilds perceive favoritism or manipulation, it could foster discord instead of unity.”
Senator Gaius Lepidus, who had remained silent thus far, leaned back in his chair, his expression measured but skeptical. “And how, Imperator, do you propose to prevent this? The guilds are not monolithic. Each will seek to prioritize its own interests above the collective good. The potters will clash with the weavers, the masons with the blacksmiths. Are we to mediate every petty squabble within their ranks?”
Romulus met Lepidus’s gaze steadily. “The guilds are indeed diverse, Senator, but they share common ground: the desire for stability, fair representation, and the prosperity of Ravenna. By granting them a voice, we bring them into the fold as allies rather than leaving them as factions at odds with one another—and with us.”
Quintus Marcellus, younger and less steeped in tradition than most, stood next. His tone was conciliatory but thoughtful. “Imperator, perhaps a compromise could address the concerns raised here. If guild representatives were to serve in an advisory capacity rather than as full voting members of the council, it would grant them a voice without disrupting the existing structure of governance. This approach could also serve as a trial, allowing us to assess the practicality of their involvement before granting them full membership.”
Lepidus’s lips curled into a faint smile. “A wise suggestion, Marcellus. An advisory role would allow us to harness their insights without risking the integrity of our decision-making process.”
Romulus’s gaze swept the room, noting the cautious nods of agreement. “A trial period, then,” he said. “We will appoint representatives from the guilds to serve as advisors, ensuring their expertise is heard. This will be an opportunity for them to demonstrate their commitment to Ravenna’s welfare—and for us to prove that their contributions are valued.”
The magister inclined his head again. “A pragmatic solution, Imperator. If carefully managed, it could foster trust without compromising our authority.”
The senators murmured their assent, though the tension in the room lingered. The emperor’s proposal, though tempered, was still a significant departure from tradition. As the discussion moved on to other matters, Lepidus exchanged a glance with Pollio, his skepticism undiminished.
An advisory role was less threatening than full membership, but it still represented a shift in power. If such a measure passed, Lepidus would need to ensure these representatives remained firmly under the influence of Ravenna’s elite.