The sharp morning air carried the rhythmic sound of pikes striking against wooden dummies. Gaius Severus led Romulus into the barracks, his heavy cloak sweeping over the damp ground. The yard ahead buzzed with activity: rows of recruits practiced thrusting with their newly fashioned pikes under the watchful eyes of their instructors, their movements awkward but determined.
“These are the men so far,” Gaius said, motioning to the training grounds. “Just shy of two hundred. Still far from the three hundred you wanted.”
Romulus frowned as his gaze swept over the recruits. Most looked young and untrained, their tunics hanging loosely over their lean frames. A few stood out as older, grizzled figures—men who carried themselves with the weight of experience. The pikes in their hands gleamed with fresh polish, but their grip betrayed inexperience.
“What’s keeping us from reaching the number?” Romulus asked, folding his arms as they stopped to watch a group attempt to form a line.
Gaius let out a dry chuckle. “If only it were that simple. Let me explain.”
They stepped closer to the yard, the crunch of gravel beneath their boots barely audible over the shouts of the instructors. Gaius gestured toward a recruit struggling to hold his shield steady as an instructor barked at him to stand firm. The young man’s thin frame trembled under the weight of repeated blows. “That one’s a farmer,” Gaius said. “Came here because his family couldn’t feed him this winter. But for every one like him, there are ten more who stayed home. Farmers can’t leave their land, Dominus. They’ve got crops to sow, animals to tend, mouths to feed. No matter how tempting our offer, they’ll choose survival over service.”
Romulus nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the struggling recruit. “So it’s not that they don’t want to join. They simply can’t afford to.”
“Exactly,” Gaius said. “And winter makes it worse. Families hoard their labor and their food. If we want their sons to fight, we’ll have to wait until the planting’s done—and even then, we’ll be asking them to risk starvation.”
They moved on, their path taking them past an older man sparring with a younger partner. The veteran’s strikes were precise but slow, his muscles straining with each motion. “That one fought in Gaul under Anthemius,” Gaius said. “A veteran. Knows what he’s doing, but he’s here because he’s got no other options. Most of the men we approach like him won’t come back. They’ve had enough of Rome’s wars.”
Romulus glanced at Gaius, his expression tight. “Why? We need their experience. Why won’t they fight?”
“Because they don’t trust us,” Gaius replied bluntly. “They bled for Rome before. What did they get for it? Land that was taken away, promises that were broken, and an empire that left them to rot. You want them back? You’ll have to give them more than words.”
Romulus clenched his fists, the weight of his father’s neglect and the empire’s decay pressing heavily on him. “What about the younger ones? The farmers’ sons, the city’s laborers? Surely they have the spirit to fight.”
“Some do,” Gaius admitted. “But spirit only gets you so far. A lot of them are just scared, Dominus. They’ve never held a sword before, let alone faced a real battle. Then there’s the former bandits.” He gestured toward a cluster of men on the far side of the yard, separated from the rest. They stood taller and moved with a confidence the others lacked, but their faces carried a hardness that set them apart. “They signed up, but there’s no trust between them and the others. The younger recruits see them as criminals, not comrades. It’s a problem.”
Romulus followed Gaius's gesture toward the bandits, now mingling hesitantly with the rest of the recruits. Their movements were smoother, their strikes more deliberate, but the gap between them and the others was undeniable. A few of the younger recruits cast furtive glances their way, their wariness palpable.
“It doesn’t make sense to keep them apart,” Romulus said. “If they’re here to fight, then they’re no different from the others.”
“In theory, no,” Gaius said. “But trust isn’t something you can force. These boys grew up fearing men like them—bandits who raided their villages, stole their grain, killed their fathers. Now we’re asking them to stand shoulder to shoulder and trust their lives to them.”
Romulus’s brow furrowed. “Have they caused any trouble?”
“Not yet,” Gaius admitted. “They’ve kept their heads down, done what’s asked of them. But the resentment is simmering. If we’re not careful, it’ll boil over.”
Romulus nodded thoughtfully. “Then mix them in. Pair them with the younger recruits during drills. Force them to rely on each other. If they work together long enough, they’ll learn to see each other as comrades.”
Gaius smirked. “That’s easier said than done, Dominus. But you’re not wrong. I’ll start with the pike drills—those are better for teaching discipline. If they can hold a line without stabbing each other, we might have a chance.”
They moved on, passing a group practicing their pike formations. The recruits clumsily aligned their weapons, their attempts to form a unified front marred by hesitation and lack of coordination. Instructors barked commands, adjusting stances and correcting grips.
“The pikes at least look good,” Romulus said, watching the iron-tipped weapons glint in the morning light.
“They’d better,” Gaius replied. “We’ve spent weeks making them. The craftsmen finally have a good rhythm going. Not enough to arm an entire legion, but enough for this lot. The hard part is teaching them how to use them.”
Romulus watched as a line of recruits attempted to advance, their movements stilted and uneven. The line wavered, and an instructor cursed loudly, shouting at them to hold steady.
“Advance too fast, and the line breaks,” Gaius muttered. “Too slow, and they’re trampled. If the man in front falters, the rest will follow. It’s the difference between holding the enemy back and being skewered like boars.”
Romulus stepped closer, watching the recruits struggle to maintain their formation. “How long until they’re ready?”
“Depends on what you mean by ready,” Gaius said. “To stand firm in a drill? A few more weeks. To hold against a real charge? Longer than we’ve got.”
Romulus frowned. “And the crossbows? Any progress?”
Gaius sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “The craftsmen have tried. I’ve seen at least half a dozen prototypes. Every time, it’s the same problem—the mechanisms are too delicate, too complex. Either the bolts don’t fire, or the whole thing snaps apart after a few shots. The smiths are frustrated, and we’re running out of good iron to waste on failures.”
Romulus’s gaze darkened. “They’ve seen the designs I provided?”
“They’ve seen them,” Gaius confirmed. “But they’re not magicians, Dominus. These are skilled men, but crossbows aren’t like swords or armor. They’re intricate. Even with the sketches, it’s trial and error—and we’re mostly seeing error.”
Gaius and Romulus approached the edge of the training yard, where a wiry man in a leather apron was hunched over a table cluttered with tools, wooden limbs, and metal fittings. Beside him lay a partially assembled crossbow, its sinew string hanging loose and its bow arms slightly warped. The craftsman glanced up, wiping sweat from his brow, and straightened as he recognized Gaius.
"Ah, Centurion," the man greeted, his voice rough but respectful. "You’ve come at the right time. I’ve just finished putting this one together. Thought you might want to see it tested."
Gaius nodded, his expression cautious. “This is Dominus Romulus Augustus,” he said, gesturing to the boy. “He’s particularly interested in your work.”
The craftsman’s eyes widened as he hastily bowed. “Imperator, my apologies. I didn’t know.”
Romulus offered a small smile, stepping closer to the table. “There’s no need for apologies. I’m eager to see what you’ve built.”
The man hesitated, then picked up the crossbow, cradling it carefully. “This is the latest attempt. It’s sturdier than the last few—reinforced the arms with layered wood and bone, and the trigger mechanism is simplified. Should reduce the chances of misfires.” He glanced at Gaius. “Still not perfect, though.”
Gaius folded his arms. “We’ll judge that after the test.”
The craftsman led them to a clear space near a row of straw-stuffed targets. Setting the crossbow on a wooden stand, he carefully notched a bolt, pulled back the sinew string with a lever, and aimed. Romulus leaned in, watching intently as the craftsman steadied his grip and pulled the trigger.
The mechanism clicked, and the bolt shot forward—but instead of striking the target, it veered wildly to the side, burying itself in the dirt several paces away. The craftsman cursed under his breath and examined the crossbow, running his hands over its mechanism.
“Alignment’s off again,” he muttered. “The string tension’s uneven, and the trigger catch isn’t releasing smoothly. I thought I’d fixed it this time.”
Romulus frowned but kept his tone measured. “What’s causing the problem? Is it the materials or the design?”
“A bit of both, Imperator,” the craftsman admitted. “The wood we’ve got isn’t ideal—too soft in some places, too brittle in others. And the mechanism… well, I’m no stranger to engineering, but this is more complex than anything I’ve worked on before.”
Gaius raised an eyebrow. “So we’re still at square one?”
“Not entirely,” the craftsman said quickly. “We’re making progress. Each design’s an improvement on the last, and we’ve learned what not to do. But…” He hesitated, glancing at Romulus. “We could use someone with more experience. And as it happens, there’s a man who arrived in Ravenna a few days ago. From Capua. Claims he’s built crossbows before—served under Ricimer, if you can believe it.”
Romulus’s eyes lit up with interest. “Why didn’t you mention this sooner?”
“I only heard of him yesterday,” the craftsman said. “He’s been keeping quiet, trying to find work at one of the smithies. If he’s telling the truth, he might be able to show us where we’re going wrong.”
Gaius grunted. “If he’s telling the truth. A lot of men these days claim to be more than they are.”
“True,” the craftsman agreed. “But it’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
Romulus nodded firmly. “It is. Bring him here. If he knows anything that can help, we’ll put him to work. If he’s lying, we’ll send him on his way.”
The craftsman bowed again, relief evident on his face. “Of course, Imperator. I’ll send word immediately.”
As they walked away from the table, Gaius glanced at Romulus. “What if this man from Capua is just another charlatan?”
“Then we’ll know soon enough,” Romulus said. “But if he’s genuine, we can’t afford to ignore him. Every delay costs us time we don’t have.”
Later that afternoon, Gaius and Romulus stood near the same workbench where the crossbow test had failed earlier. The craftsman was back, his face flushed with anticipation as he waited for the arrival of the man from Capua. A low murmur of voices rose from the barracks as the recruits took a break from their drills.
The man arrived soon after, escorted by a young apprentice. He was in his mid-forties, with a wiry frame and hands calloused from years of labor. His tunic, though plain, was clean, and he carried a leather satchel slung over one shoulder. He approached with confidence but bowed deeply when he saw Romulus and Gaius.
"Imperator, Centurion," he said, his voice steady. "I am Lucanus of Capua. I was told you needed someone with experience in crafting crossbows."
Romulus studied him, his youthful gaze scrutinizing the man’s demeanor. “You claim to have worked with crossbows before?”
“I do,” Lucanus replied. “I was part of Ricimer’s efforts to equip the foederati with crossbows for siege defense. It’s not an easy craft, Imperator, but I’ve made them before. With the right materials and tools, I can make them again.”
The craftsman from earlier gestured toward the partially assembled crossbow on the workbench. “We’ve been trying, Lucanus. The design is there, but something always fails. Either the trigger mechanism is too fragile, or the tension from the string warps the bow arms. Take a look.”
Lucanus nodded and stepped forward, unfastening the satchel to pull out a small set of tools. He inspected the crossbow carefully, turning it over in his hands and testing the tension on the bowstring. His fingers moved deftly, tracing the edges of the wooden frame and the grooves of the trigger mechanism.
“This is decent work,” he said finally, glancing at the craftsman. “You’ve got the right idea, but the execution needs refinement. The bow arms are uneven—that’s why the string tension’s off. You need better wood for these, something with the right combination of flexibility and strength. Yew is ideal, if you can get it. Ash or elm might work in a pinch, but they’ll wear out faster.”
The craftsman folded his arms, a mixture of relief and irritation on his face. “Yew’s not easy to come by. The shipments we’ve been getting from the countryside are inconsistent at best.”
Lucanus nodded, not unsympathetic. “Then reinforce the arms with horn or sinew until you can get proper yew. It’ll take more time and effort, but it’ll hold better under the tension.”
Romulus, who had been listening intently, leaned closer. “And the trigger mechanism? Why does it keep failing?”
Lucanus set the crossbow down and pointed to the trigger assembly. “This piece here—it’s too thin. Under repeated use, it bends or snaps. You need tempered steel for this part, but the smiths will need to get the thickness right. Too thick, and it won’t release the bolt cleanly. Too thin, and it won’t last.”
“And how long would it take to make one functional crossbow?” Romulus asked, his tone firm but curious.
Lucanus considered the question. “If I had a dedicated team and the right materials, I could have a prototype ready in a week. For larger production, though, it depends on how many smiths you can spare and how consistent the materials are. A small workshop could produce five to ten crossbows a week, but that’s optimistic.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Gaius frowned. “And what about the cost?”
Lucanus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It’ll depend on the materials and the scale of production, Imperator. A single crossbow would cost around 1 solidus if the resources are readily available. If we’re reinforcing with horn or sinew or if the supply of good yew is tight, it could go up to 2 solidi at most. Still, far cheaper than equipping a cavalryman, but more costly than a simple spear.”
“And the bolts?” Romulus asked.
“Bolts are relatively inexpensive,” Lucanus replied. “Shorter than arrows, requiring less wood and iron. A good fletcher could produce a dozen for a fraction of a solidus, depending on the supply of feathers and iron for the heads. The main cost is ensuring we have enough to keep up with usage.”
Romulus nodded, taking it all in. “If we invest in this, how soon can you have something reliable for the men to train with?”
Lucanus smiled faintly. “Give me a week to work with your craftsmen. I’ll show you what I can do. If the Imperator finds it satisfactory, then we can talk about scaling up.”
Romulus turned to Gaius, who regarded Lucanus with his usual skeptical frown. “What do you think, Gaius?”
The centurion grunted. “If he can deliver, it’ll be worth it. But I’ve seen too many promises fall apart when the fighting starts. I’d rather have reliable pikes than gamble on crossbows we might not have in time.”
Lucanus bristled slightly but held his tongue. Romulus stepped forward, his voice calm but decisive. “You’ll have your week, Lucanus. Work with the craftsmen, and show us what you can do. If your design holds, you’ll be compensated. If not…”
“You’ll hear no complaints from me, Imperator,” Lucanus said, bowing again. “Thank you for the chance.”
As the man gathered the crossbow and his tools, Gaius leaned toward Romulus, his voice low. “You’re putting a lot of trust in him.”
Romulus nodded, his gaze fixed on Lucanus as he walked toward the smithy. “If he fails, we lose a week. If he succeeds, we gain a weapon that could help us hold what remained.”
After leaving the craftsman and Lucanus to their work, Gaius gestured for Romulus to follow him. The two walked in silence through the bustling training yard, past the rows of recruits drilling with their pikes. The rhythmic clatter of wood on wood faded as they approached the northern wall of Ravenna.
The fortifications loomed ahead, their age evident in the weathered stone and uneven mortar. While sections still stood solid, others bore the marks of time and neglect—cracks running along the foundations, crumbling parapets, and missing stones that left gaps in the defenses.
“This,” Gaius said, motioning to the wall, “is where we’ve made the most progress—if you can call it that.”
Romulus stopped and surveyed the scene. A team of workers was stationed at the base of the wall, hauling large stones into place with ropes and pulleys. Nearby, a small forge had been set up, where blacksmiths hammered iron into brackets and nails for reinforcing the structure. Buckets of mortar sat at the ready, their contents thick and gray, waiting to bind the stones together.
“It’s… better than I expected,” Romulus said cautiously.
“It’s barely a start,” Gaius countered, his tone sharp. “The gaps in the wall are worse than they look. The section we’re standing on now could hold against an attack, but fifty paces that way”—he gestured further down the wall—“you could push it over with a strong shove. And the towers…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “They’re too narrow to mount anything heavier than a single ballista. Even then, I’d question whether they’d hold under the recoil.”
As they walked along the wall, a man with broad shoulders and soot-streaked hands approached them. His tunic was damp with sweat despite the chill in the air, and his leather apron bore the marks of his trade. He carried a small ledger, its edges frayed from frequent use.
“Centurion,” the man greeted Gaius with a respectful nod before turning to Romulus. “Imperator. I am Marcellinus, foreman of the masonry crews.”
Romulus offered a polite nod. “Marcellinus. Your men are working hard.”
“That they are,” Marcellinus said with a faint smile. “But hard work only gets us so far. The state of the wall when we began was worse than I feared. The cracks go deeper than we thought, and some of the stones have started to crumble entirely. Replacing them is slow work.”
“What about the materials?” Romulus asked, his gaze drifting to the piles of stone and timber scattered nearby.
“We’ve got enough for now,” Marcellinus replied. “The stone comes from the quarries near Classe, and it’s good quality. But the timber…” He shook his head. “The forests near Ravenna have been stripped bare over the years. What we’ve got is either too green or too warped for proper scaffolding, let alone reinforcing the towers.”
Gaius grunted. “And what about labor? You’ve got enough hands?”
“Barely,” Marcellinus said. “Most of the men here are locals—farmers and laborers who were willing to work for a few solidi. But they’re not trained masons, and it shows. Every time we hit a snag, progress slows because I have to show them how to fix it.”
Romulus frowned. “How long until the wall is secure enough to withstand an attack?”
Marcellinus scratched his beard, his expression pained. “If we keep this pace, three months. Maybe less if we can get more skilled masons from Mediolanum or Verona. But even then, I can’t promise it’ll be perfect. The wall was neglected for too long, Imperator. It’ll take years to make it what it once was.”
Romulus sighed, the weight of the foreman’s words pressing on him. “What about the towers? Can we reinforce them in time?”
“Reinforcing is easier than rebuilding,” Marcellinus admitted. “But it depends on what you want to mount. If you’re thinking catapults or heavy ballistae, that’ll take more work—and more timber.”
Romulus turned to Gaius. “What do you think? Can we hold with what we have?”
Gaius’s face was grim. “If an enemy attacks today, we’d hold the main gates and the strongest sections of the wall—for a time. But if they find the weak points, or if they bring siege engines…” He didn’t finish, but the implication was clear.
Romulus placed a hand on the rough surface of the wall, running his fingers along the ancient stone. He took a moment to steady his thoughts before addressing Marcellinus and Gaius. “The work you’ve done so far is commendable. Every stone you place and every crack you seal strengthens Ravenna’s chances. But we’re not just fighting time—we’re fighting uncertainty.”
Marcellinus nodded, his weathered features softening at the praise. “Thank you, Imperator. The men will appreciate hearing that. Morale’s a fragile thing with so many obstacles in our path.”
Romulus glanced up at the nearest tower, its narrow silhouette stark against the gray sky. “The towers still trouble me,” he admitted. “If we can’t mount effective ballistae, they’ll be nothing more than lookout posts. And even with reinforcements, they won’t hold under the recoil of larger siege weapons.”
Marcellinus followed his gaze. “That’s true, Imperator. We’ve braced the floors and widened the base of one tower as a test, but the timber we have won’t hold up to repeated use. Ballistae are heavy, and their firing mechanism exerts a lot of force. Without seasoned wood and proper iron fittings, the towers will collapse before the enemy does.”
Romulus sighed. “And we still don’t have a craftsman who can make a working ballista.”
Marcellinus’s expression turned thoughtful. “I’ve heard whispers of a smith in Verona—a man who worked on siege engines during Majorian’s campaigns. He’s retired now, but if we could convince him to come to Ravenna, he might be able to oversee the construction.”
Gaius raised an eyebrow. “Another gamble. We’re already relying on Lucanus for the crossbows. Do we have the resources to chase after another craftsman?”
Romulus nodded firmly. “If this man has the knowledge we need, then yes. I’ll have a messenger sent to Verona immediately. We can’t afford to let the towers remain empty.”
Marcellinus hesitated. “Even if we find the craftsman, Imperator, ballistae are expensive to produce. The metalwork alone will require skilled smiths, and the bolts—longer and heavier than standard arrows—need dedicated fletchers. We’re already stretched thin with the walls and the crossbows.”
Romulus turned to Gaius. “What do you think?”
Gaius folded his arms, his expression serious. “Ballistae are valuable—there’s no denying that. Even one or two could make a difference if placed strategically. But Marcellinus is right. The cost and time to build them won’t be small. If we commit to this, we’ll need to prioritize where we place them. A ballista at the main gate might hold back a battering ram, but one on the southern wall could buy time if the enemy breaches.”
Romulus nodded thoughtfully. “Then we’ll focus on the most critical points. Marcellinus, ensure the reinforced tower near the main gate is ready for testing. If the man from Verona agrees to help, we’ll start with a single ballista there. We can expand once we see results.”
Marcellinus inclined his head. “As you command, Imperator. I’ll see to it.”
Romulus stepped closer to the tower’s base, his voice quieter now. “Trial and error is costing us time and money, but I see no other way forward. This is the reality we face—a patchwork defense built on limited resources.”
----------------------------------------
Romulus returned to his chamber, the heavy weight of his ambitions pressing on his shoulders. The brazier in the corner of the room flickered, casting shadows that danced across the walls. He gestured for a servant.
“Fetch Andronikos,” Romulus instructed. “Tell him to bring the treasury records.”
The servant bowed and exited swiftly. Romulus paced the room, the day’s observations swirling in his mind. The cracks in the walls, the wavering pike formations, the unfinished crossbows—all of it seemed to stretch far beyond the means he knew were available. He stopped by the desk, running his fingers along the edges of the parchment where he’d sketched plans for the walls and towers.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Andronikos stepped inside, a leather-bound ledger tucked under his arm. The Greek’s sharp eyes took in Romulus’s restless posture, and he inclined his head.
“You summoned me, Dominus?” he asked.
Romulus gestured to the chair across from him. “Yes, Andronikos. Sit. I need to know exactly where we stand with the funds.”
Andronikos set the ledger on the desk and opened it with practiced ease. “Of course. Let us begin with what has already been spent.”
Romulus leaned forward, his hands clasped as Andronikos ran a finger down the columns of figures.
“Of the 3,000 solidi allocated to your efforts,” Andronikos began, “approximately 1,200 have already been spent. This includes wages for the masons, carpenters, and blacksmiths, as well as the materials for the walls—stone, timber, and iron. Another 500 solidi have gone toward the production of pikes.”
Romulus frowned. “And the crossbows?”
“Thus far, 300 solidi have been allocated for materials and initial attempts,” Andronikos replied. “The craftsmen are working diligently, but progress has been slow, as you’ve seen.”
Romulus tapped his fingers against the desk. “So that leaves us with...”
“Approximately 1,000 solidi,” Andronikos finished. “And that is not enough for everything you’ve planned.”
Romulus sat back, his gaze drifting to the sketches on the desk. “What about the works we’ve yet to start? What remains undone?”
Andronikos turned a page in the ledger, his tone becoming more deliberate. “The towers, for one. Reinforcing them to withstand ballistae will require significant timber and iron, which we currently lack. Even if we secure a craftsman from Verona, the construction of a single ballista could cost another 300 solidi, not including the bolts or maintenance.”
Romulus’s frown deepened. “And the walls?”
“The walls are progressing, but slowly,” Andronikos admitted. “The masons estimate they’ll need at least another 500 solidi to make the weakest sections defensible. And even that is a bare minimum.”
Romulus shook his head. “So, we’re already short.”
“Indeed,” Andronikos said, his tone calm but firm. “The funds you have will allow us to complete some projects, but not all. Decisions must be made.”
Romulus stared at the sketches before him, his mind racing. “What would you prioritize, Andronikos?”
The Greek leaned back slightly, considering his answer. “The walls and the men. Without a solid defense, no weapon—no matter how advanced—will save the city. Reinforcing the weakest sections of the wall must come first. After that, equipping the recruits with reliable pikes and armor. Crossbows and ballistae are valuable, but they are luxuries compared to the basics.”
Romulus nodded slowly. “And yet, if we delay the crossbows and ballistae too long, we risk being unprepared when the enemy brings siege weapons. Odoacer will not hesitate to exploit our weaknesses.”
“True,” Andronikos conceded. “But you must consider the resources at hand. Attempting to do everything with what little we have will result in nothing being finished.”
Romulus fell silent for a moment, then leaned forward. “Let’s discuss the numbers in more detail. How much would it cost to reinforce the most critical sections of the wall?”
“Approximately 500 solidi,” Andronikos replied. “That would cover materials and wages for the masons.”
“And the towers?”
“To reinforce one tower for a ballista, at least 200 solidi,” Andronikos said. “The others could wait, but that would still leave the ballista itself to be built.”
Romulus’s lips pressed into a thin line. “The crossbows?”
“With Lucanus overseeing the work, we could produce enough to outfit one company for another 400 solidi. But that’s assuming no further setbacks.”
Romulus exhaled sharply. “That’s already more than we have.”
Andronikos nodded. “Precisely. Which is why priorities must be set. If I may, Dominus, I suggest we focus on the walls first. They will buy you time to address the rest.”
Romulus sat back, considering Andronikos’s suggestion. The Greek’s calm, methodical demeanor helped clarify the harsh reality of their situation, but it didn’t make the decisions any easier.
“You’re right,” Romulus said finally. “The walls must come first. Allocate 500 solidi to the masons and prioritize the weakest sections.”
Andronikos nodded, making a note in the ledger. “And the remaining funds, Dominus?”
Romulus tapped his fingers on the desk, his thoughts turning to the day’s discussions. “Set aside 200 solidi for the towers and send the messenger to Verona for the siege engineer. Even if we can only mount one ballista, it will be better than none.”
“And the crossbows?” Andronikos asked, his quill poised above the parchment.
Romulus hesitated, then shook his head. “Allocate 250 solidi to Lucanus and the craftsmen. Focus on producing enough crossbows for a single company first. We’ll see results faster that way.”
“That leaves us with 50 solidi unspent,” Andronikos pointed out. “Shall I mark it as a reserve?”
Romulus paused, an idea forming. “No. Set that aside for something else—something longer term. I want you to begin establishing a school here in Ravenna.”
Andronikos studied the ledger before him, quill poised as Romulus outlined the allocation of funds. The firelight cast flickering shadows across the room, and the Greek’s brow furrowed in thought. When Romulus finished, Andronikos glanced up.
“So, you wish to allocate the remaining fifty solidi to begin establishing the school,” Andronikos said, his tone measured. “It’s an admirable plan, and one we’ve spoken of before. But I hadn’t expected you to prioritize it so soon.”
Romulus leaned forward, his voice steady. “Nor had I, at first. But after what we heard today—the masons, the smiths, the engineers all lamenting the lack of skilled workers—I realized we can’t delay. Every craftsman trained now is one less gap in our defenses tomorrow.”
Andronikos nodded slowly, acknowledging the point. “It’s true that the shortages are becoming critical. A school, even a modest one, could start addressing the issue. But with only fifty solidi, we must be highly focused. How do you propose we proceed?”
Romulus gestured to the sketches and notes spread across the table. “We begin simply. Use one of the abandoned storehouses near the city center. It’s already standing, and its roof is intact. The space is large enough for several groups, and it’s accessible to both citizens and craftsmen. A few benches and partitions will suffice for now.”
Andronikos made a note. “And the curriculum? What trades will we teach first?”
“Start with the most urgent needs,” Romulus replied. “Masonry, carpentry, and blacksmithing—skills we need for the walls, the towers, and the weapons. The masons and smiths already working on the defenses can teach their apprentices on-site. Pair the young with the experienced. Adults willing to learn should focus on immediate tasks—repairing tools, reinforcing scaffolding, crafting nails, or cutting stone.”
Andronikos tapped the edge of the quill against the table, his mind already turning over the logistics. “A pragmatic approach. But skilled craftsmen are often protective of their trade secrets. How do you intend to persuade them to teach?”
Romulus leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “Offer them something in return. Reduced taxes or small stipends for each apprentice trained. If they know the school benefits them directly, they’ll participate. For the adults attending, prioritize those willing to work on the defenses after they’ve been trained. Let them see that education leads to employment.”
“Practical incentives,” Andronikos said with approval. “That will help. And for the younger students? You’ve spoken before about teaching literacy and numeracy.”
“Yes,” Romulus affirmed. “We need to prepare the next generation, not just for these walls but for rebuilding the empire itself. Teach them to read, write, and count—skills that make them valuable not just in workshops but in trade and governance. Start small: simple arithmetic, basic letters, and simple contracts. If they can tally supplies or draft a clear message, they’re already more useful than half the laborers we’ve seen.”
Andronikos smiled faintly. “A modest beginning, but one with immense potential. And the clergy—will you involve them? Many priests already teach, and their participation could lend the school legitimacy in the eyes of the people.”
Romulus frowned slightly, weighing the suggestion. “I won’t let the Church control it, but if individual clerics are willing to teach practical subjects, I’ll consider it. This school must serve all, not just those who follow one path.”
“Understood,” Andronikos replied, making another note. “And oversight? The school will need someone to organize it, ensure it runs effectively.”
“That will be your task, Andronikos,” Romulus said without hesitation. “You’re the most learned man I know, and you understand the value of education better than anyone. Delegate as needed, but I want you to guide the school’s creation.”
Andronikos inclined his head. “I am honored by your trust, Dominus. I’ll see that the school begins on sound footing. With time, it could grow into something far greater.”
Romulus’s gaze sharpened. “That’s the goal. For now, it will teach the basics and serve our needs. But in time, I want it to be a model for other cities. An empire is only as strong as the knowledge of its people.