The wheels of the carriage jolted against the uneven road, the muffled clatter of wood and iron barely audible over the steady drumming of rain on the roof. Romulus Augustus sat inside, the damp chill of winter seeping through the cracks despite the thick fur cloak wrapped around his shoulders. The air within the carriage was heavy, both from the dampness and the weight of his thoughts.
Outside, the world was painted in shades of gray. The road ahead was a muddy quagmire, the surrounding fields saturated and lifeless under the relentless downpour. Water pooled in the ruts carved by passing carts and wagons, turning the journey into a slow, arduous crawl.
Romulus stared out the fogged window, his mind turning restlessly between worry for his father and the gnawing frustration over the state of the treasury.
Orestes had been gone for nearly a week now, and every day without news from Mediolanum made the weight of his father’s absence more palpable. For all his flaws, Orestes had been the linchpin holding their fragile empire together. He had pushed Romulus onto the throne before he was ready, but he had also shielded him from the worst—senators’ scheming, the grumblings of the foederati, and the delicate balancing act of managing the empire’s scant resources.
Without Orestes’s steady presence, Romulus felt exposed. He had expected to grow into his role gradually, under his father’s guidance. Instead, he was thrust into a storm of decisions and responsibilities, each more pressing than the last. And now, with the coffers nearly empty, every coin spent on soldiers, fortifications, and supplies felt like a risk he couldn’t afford to take.
The projects weighed heavily on him. The first watchtower, the one he was traveling to inspect, had taken far longer to construct than planned. The incessant rains had turned the ground to sludge, complicating efforts to lay a solid foundation. Supplies arrived late, roads rendered impassable by the weather. Even the simplest tasks seemed to stretch into monumental endeavors.
And yet, progress was being made. The tower stood, a beacon of their resolve amidst the chaos. Palisades were rising around nearby villages, though the work was slow, and the granary project had begun adapting abandoned villas as temporary storage sites. Gaius Severus continued drilling the new soldiers, his harsh methods carving discipline from a band of raw recruits. And the school—though its foundation was little more than churned mud—was a symbol of hope that they might rebuild what had been lost.
Romulus exhaled heavily, his breath misting in the chill air of the carriage. The flicker of pride he felt for these accomplishments was drowned by the constant awareness of how precarious their position remained. The treasury’s ledgers loomed large in his mind, each line a reminder of their dire financial straits. Every expenditure was a gamble, and the empire could not afford to lose.
A sudden burst of laughter pulled him from his thoughts. Peering through the rain-streaked window, Romulus spotted a group of children playing along the roadside. Their tunics were soaked through, their bare feet splashing in muddy puddles as they chased one another in mock battles. One boy brandished a crooked stick like a sword, leaping through the rain with wild abandon.
Romulus’s expression softened. For a moment, he envied their joy, their freedom from the burdens he carried. Their world was simple, defined by play and imagination, untouched by the weight of politics and survival. He had once been like them, before his father’s ambitions had stolen that innocence.
But even as he envied them, he felt a pang of guilt. Orestes had placed him on the throne to protect him, to ensure that his future would not be one of fleeting happiness but one of purpose and power. His father had borne the brunt of the empire’s struggles so that Romulus could grow under his shadow. Now, that shadow was gone, and the responsibilities Orestes had carried rested squarely on Romulus’s shoulders.
The carriage jolted again as it hit another rut, pulling Romulus from his thoughts. He leaned back against the seat, fatigue settling into his bones. The journey had been long and cold, and the constant rain only amplified his weariness. But there was no room for rest—not yet.
“Dominus,” called a voice from outside. It was Cassianus, one of the guards riding alongside the carriage. “We’re approaching the watchtower.”
Romulus pulled aside the curtain, peering through the rain-streaked window as the silhouette of the watchtower came into view. It loomed against the gray horizon, its timber frame standing resolute despite the endless deluge. The carriage slowed, jolting to a stop as the muddy road narrowed. Romulus adjusted his cloak, bracing himself for the cold as the door swung open.
Cassianus stood ready, offering a steady hand as Romulus stepped down into the muck. The rain was relentless, soaking through his hood within moments. Around him, workers moved with determined efficiency, hauling bundles of timber and crates of supplies despite the miserable conditions. A thin trail of smoke rose from a makeshift fire pit where a handful of laborers huddled, their faces drawn and weary.
The foreman, a stout man with a thick beard streaked with gray, approached, bowing his head respectfully. His tunic and boots were caked with mud, and his cloak hung heavy with rain.
“Imperator,” he said, his voice loud enough to cut through the rain but tinged with exhaustion. “It is an honor to have you here. The men will be heartened by your visit.”
Romulus offered a curt nod, scanning the partially completed tower. The wooden framework rose three stories, its base fortified with large stone blocks. A wooden platform near the top was manned by two soldiers, their cloaks flapping in the wind as they kept watch over the rain-soaked countryside.
“How sturdy is it?” Romulus asked, his gaze critical. “The foundation looks solid, but I can see the mud creeping up along the base.”
The foreman sighed, wiping rain from his face. “It’s holding, for now, Dominus. But the rain’s been our worst enemy. Every time we dig, the earth turns to soup. We’ve had to bring in extra stone to reinforce the foundation—costly, but necessary. Without it, the whole thing would’ve leaned like a drunken centurion.”
Romulus frowned, his mind already calculating the additional expense. “How much more stone will you need?”
“Not much more for this one, Imperator,” the foreman replied, “but if the rains don’t ease, the next towers will need the same treatment. We’ve been using what we can salvage from abandoned buildings nearby, but hauling it in this weather slows everything down.”
Romulus nodded, suppressing his frustration. He couldn’t fault the foreman; the rain was beyond anyone’s control. “And the men? Are they holding up?”
“They’re tired, Dominus,” the foreman admitted. “Cold and wet day after day wears on even the strongest. But they’ve kept at it, especially knowing this tower’s almost done. Once it’s fully manned, I think the sight of it will lift their spirits.”
Romulus turned his attention to the soldiers stationed at the tower. He gestured for Cassianus to follow as he approached the narrow staircase leading to the platform. The wooden steps creaked underfoot, slick with rain. At the top, the two guards snapped to attention, their expressions a mix of respect and weariness.
“At ease,” Romulus said, studying them closely. One was a grizzled veteran and the other a younger recruit who looked barely older than Romulus himself.
“How has the watch been?” Romulus asked.
The older soldier spoke first, his voice rough but steady. “Quiet so far, Dominus. A few travelers, merchants mostly, braving the roads despite the weather. Bandits have kept their distance—likely the sight of the tower’s enough to make them think twice.”
“And the conditions?” Romulus pressed. “Are you able to keep warm? Dry?”
The younger soldier hesitated before answering. “Not easily, Dominus. The rain gets through the gaps in the platform, and the wind chills to the bone. But we manage. Better to be cold up here than caught unaware on the ground.”
Romulus nodded, appreciating their honesty. “You’ll have proper quarters once the tower is complete,” he assured them. “For now, keep alert. This tower is a symbol of safety for those who travel these roads. Your presence here matters.”
The soldiers saluted, their resolve evident despite the harsh conditions. As Romulus descended the stairs, he felt a flicker of pride. The tower was far from perfect, but it was progress—a step toward securing the empire’s crumbling edges.
Back on the ground, Cassianus approached, his expression hesitant. “Dominus, there’s a village not far from here—one of the first to receive palisades. If we hurry, we could reach it before nightfall.”
Romulus considered for a moment, then nodded. “Let’s go. I want to see how the villagers are faring.”
The foreman bowed again as Romulus returned to the carriage. “Safe travels, Imperator. We’ll have this tower finished within the week, rain or no rain.”
“Good,” Romulus replied, stepping into the carriage. “Keep me informed of any delays.”
As the carriage began its slow, muddy journey toward the village, Romulus allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction.
The carriage creaked and groaned as it rolled along the uneven road, the rain continuing its steady assault on the land. Romulus sat back, staring at the sodden landscape through the fogged window. The sight of the completed watchtower lingered in his mind, a mixture of pride and melancholy welling within him.
It was a small thing—a simple wooden tower with stone reinforcements—and yet it had become a momentous occasion. An emperor visiting a watchtower. In the days of Rome’s glory, such a task would have been beneath notice, a minor detail delegated to a distant governor or a military tribune. But now, it was his reality. He was not Augustus expanding the empire’s borders or Trajan overseeing magnificent construction projects; he was Romulus, trying desperately to hold together the crumbling remnants of a once-great civilization.
He sighed, his thoughts turning inward. How far we have fallen.
He wanted to do more, so much more. His head was full of ideas—better roads, reliable granaries, iron plows that could revolutionize agriculture. But every plan required coin, and every coin spent on innovation was one less for soldiers, fortifications, or food. The iron plow, for instance, remained a vision in his mind, sketched and calculated but not yet real.
Romulus clenched his fists, frustration simmering beneath the surface. For the 2,500 solidi required to implement the plow across Ravenna’s surrounding farms, he could build five more towers, each a tangible bulwark against chaos. But the plow would feed us for years, he reminded himself. It would strengthen the countryside, make it less dependent on the empire’s strained grain supply.
Still, he hesitated. The immediate needs of defense often won out against long-term investment. One day, he resolved. One day, the treasury will not dictate every choice.
The carriage jolted as it hit another rut, snapping Romulus back to the present. Outside, the road was little more than a ribbon of churned mud, its surface gouged by wagon wheels and hooves. The state of the roads was a constant frustration. Merchants complained about the difficulty of moving goods, and messengers often arrived late or not at all, their horses exhausted by the treacherous terrain.
Improving the roads was another dream deferred by the limits of their resources. Proper Roman roads—smooth, paved with stone, and crowned for drainage—were an ideal he could only fantasize about. Even basic maintenance seemed impossible in the face of winter’s relentless rains.
Romulus’s thoughts shifted to the village ahead. The wooden palisades being constructed there were another reminder of their diminished state. A generation ago, the villagers would have relied on a local garrison or a nearby fort to protect them. Now, they were building their own defenses, with the empire’s assistance reduced to providing tools and instructions.
And yet, there was a sense of satisfaction in knowing the villagers were taking part in their own defense. It was a pragmatic solution, born of necessity but not without merit. The palisades might not withstand a determined siege, but they could repel raiders or delay an attack long enough for help to arrive.
Cassianus’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Dominus, we’re nearing the village. It’s just ahead.”
----------------------------------------
The wheels of the carriage creaked to a halt near the village gates, the palisades rising sharply against the mist-shrouded horizon. Romulus Augustus stepped down onto the muddy ground, his boots sinking slightly as the rain eased into a persistent drizzle. The village before him was larger than he had expected—a bustling settlement of thatched roofs, timber-framed buildings, and narrow lanes winding between them. Smoke rose steadily from chimneys, mingling with the mist, and the low hum of activity reached his ears despite the subdued weather.
This was no mere hamlet; it was a key village close to Ravenna, strategically important both for its resources and its location along one of the empire’s crucial supply routes. Its palisades, constructed with a mix of timber and reinforced stakes, spoke of both necessity and forethought. The villagers had invested their labor and scant resources into these defenses, aided by imperial supplies, but the walls were clearly more about survival than strategy.
Romulus adjusted his cloak, his sharp eyes sweeping over the scene. The village was alive with activity, though much of it paused at his arrival. Merchants huddled beneath wooden awnings, shielding their wares from the drizzle, while workers hauled bundles of wood and sacks of grain. Children darted between the adults, their laughter muffled but persistent, a rare note of levity in the otherwise somber atmosphere.
A group of villagers gathered near the gate, led by a middle-aged man with a sturdy build and an air of authority. His tunic, though patched, was clean, and his hands bore the calluses of hard work. He stepped forward, bowing low as Romulus approached.
“Imperator,” the man said, his voice steady despite the evident awe in his expression. “Welcome to Monticulum. We are honored by your visit.”
Romulus inclined his head, his gaze lingering on the palisades and the busy lanes beyond. “Thank you, elder. I came to see how the fortifications are progressing and to hear of the challenges you face.”
The elder straightened, his expression growing serious. “The palisades are holding well, Dominus, but the rains have made repairs and reinforcement difficult. The earth beneath them shifts, and the stakes need constant attention. We’ve done our best with the tools and supplies provided, but we could do more with better support.”
Romulus followed the elder’s gesture, studying the palisades closely. The stakes were driven deep, their bases packed with clay and gravel to hold them steady. The workmanship was impressive, given the conditions, but it was clear the defenses would not hold against a determined assault. His thoughts turned briefly to the treasury. Every coin spent here was an investment, but it came at the cost of another project, another village. The balance was maddening.
“These defenses are admirable,” Romulus said, his voice carrying a note of approval. “Your efforts are a testament to the resilience of this village. Tell me, elder, what else does Monticulum need to thrive?”
The elder hesitated, glancing back at the villagers who had gathered behind him. “Food, Dominus,” he said finally. “The harvest was poor this year, and the rains have made it hard to keep what grain we have dry. Fuel, too—we’ve had to ration wood to keep the fires going. And tools—our axes and hammers are dull, and we’ve no smith to repair them.”
Romulus absorbed the words, his gaze shifting back to the village. Despite its size and activity, the signs of hardship were everywhere—lean faces, patched clothing, and the faint air of weariness that hung over the people like the mist itself. Yet there was hope here, too, in the way the villagers worked together, in the children’s laughter and the steady rhythm of daily life.
As the elder spoke, Romulus’s mind turned toward the future. This village could be more than a stopgap, more than a defensive outpost. Its position near Ravenna and its proximity to the road made it ideal for development. He envisioned a proper granary here, one large enough to store surplus grain not just for the village but for surrounding settlements as well. He imagined a smithy, its forge burning bright, producing tools and weapons that would serve the empire’s needs. A market square could bring trade and prosperity, turning Monticulum into a hub of activity rather than a bastion of survival.
But the cost loomed large in his mind. Every improvement required resources they didn’t have—timber, stone, skilled labor, and, above all, coin. For now, the palisades and the few soldiers stationed here were all they could afford, and even that stretched the empire’s limits. He resolved to prioritize practical improvements—perhaps tools from Ravenna’s craftsmen or a shipment of salted meat to supplement their meager supplies.
“I will see to it that your requests are considered,” Romulus said, meeting the elder’s gaze. “The empire cannot thrive without its people, and Monticulum is no exception. For now, continue your work on the defenses. Reinforcements will come when the weather allows.”
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The elder bowed deeply, gratitude flickering across his face. “Thank you, Dominus. Your presence here will inspire the people.”
Romulus’s attention lingered on the villagers for a moment longer. Despite their hardships, they worked with quiet determination, their resilience a testament to the spirit of the empire he sought to preserve. As he turned back toward the carriage, Cassianus stepped closer, his eyes scanning the crowd with a wariness that Romulus had grown accustomed to. His guard’s hand rested lightly on the hilt of his spatha, a small but constant reminder of the dangers that lurked even in the heart of the empire.
“Dominus,” Cassianus said quietly, “we should return soon. The rain will worsen the road if we delay.”
----------------------------------------
The wheels of the carriage slowed as the rain eased into a light drizzle, the muffled chatter of the guards and the creak of the axles blending with the steady patter of water. Romulus Augustus shifted in his seat, staring out at the murky horizon. The palisades of the village were now behind them, and the road ahead wound through a stretch of sparse, rain-soaked forest. The mood in the carriage had grown heavy, the chill dampness seeping into every corner.
Cassianus rode alongside the carriage, his posture straight and alert. His glances toward Romulus had grown more frequent, though they seemed casual enough to go unnoticed. Yet there was a tension to him, an almost imperceptible stiffness in his movements that hinted at something more than mere vigilance.
“Dominus,” Cassianus called as they reached a bend in the road. “This stretch is narrow. Keep close.”
Romulus nodded absently, his thoughts still occupied with the precarious state of the treasury and the empire. So much depends on so little. We balance on the edge of ruin, and every decision could tip us into the abyss.
The carriage trundled forward, the road narrowing as the forest thickened. The shadows of the trees stretched long in the fading light, and the air felt colder, heavier. Romulus glanced toward the guards riding ahead and behind, their hands resting lightly on their weapons. The tension of the journey seemed to seep into everyone.
The sharp whistle of an arrow pierced the air.
It struck the side of the carriage with a dull thunk, sending the horses into a panicked whinny. The driver shouted, pulling hard on the reins as another arrow sailed past, narrowly missing one of the guards.
“Ambush!” Cassianus barked, drawing his spatha as the guards scrambled to form a defensive circle around the carriage.
Romulus’s heart leapt into his throat as he crouched low in the carriage, his spatha trembling in his hand. His thoughts raced. Who would dare attack here? Bandits? Or something worse?
The archers were hidden among the trees, their arrows striking with unnerving precision. One of the guards fell with a cry, clutching an arrow buried deep in his shoulder. Another arrow lodged itself in the carriage door, splintering the wood.
“Protect the emperor!” shouted one of the guards as they rushed to shield Romulus, raising their shields against the unseen attackers.
Cassianus moved swiftly, positioning himself near the carriage. His face was set in a mask of grim determination, but there was something cold in his eyes as he glanced toward Romulus. In the chaos, his movements were precise—too precise, almost calculated.
Romulus struggled to steady his breathing. He peeked out through the carriage window, catching sight of a cloaked figure among the trees. The archer notched another arrow, but before they could release it, one of the guards charged forward, forcing them to retreat deeper into the forest.
The attackers had no intention of engaging directly. Their tactics were clear: confusion and chaos, long enough to take their target.
“Stay inside, Dominus!” Cassianus shouted, his voice commanding. But as Romulus crouched lower, he noticed something strange. Cassianus’s hand wasn’t gripping his shield—it was resting lightly on his spatha, poised for something more deliberate.
The carriage jolted as the driver tried to maneuver it into a better position. Romulus felt the sudden shift and lost his balance, falling against the door. In that moment, Cassianus acted.
“Dominus, hold still!” he called, but instead of defending against the attackers, his sword flashed toward Romulus.
Romulus barely managed to raise his spatha in time. The force of Cassianus’s strike sent a jarring pain through his arm, and he stumbled backward, his heart pounding. “Cassianus? What are you doing?”
Cassianus didn’t answer, his face set with cold determination. His blade came down again, this time slicing through the air just inches from Romulus. “This isn’t personal, Dominus,” he said through gritted teeth. “But the empire doesn’t need a boy pretending to rule.”
Romulus scrambled backward, his small frame pressed against the far corner of the carriage. His spatha felt heavy in his hands, and his arms trembled with the effort of holding it steady. “Traitor!” he shouted, his voice cracking with fear and fury.
The guards outside hadn’t noticed yet, their attention focused on fending off the archers. Cassianus took advantage of the confusion, lunging toward Romulus again. This time, Romulus managed to deflect the strike, but the impact sent his spatha clattering to the floor.
Cassianus’s lips curled into a grim smile as he raised his sword for the final blow. But before he could strike, one of the guards burst into the carriage, his shield slamming into Cassianus’s side. The traitor stumbled, his sword swinging wildly as he fought to regain his balance.
“Dominus, are you hurt?” the guard asked, positioning himself between Romulus and Cassianus.
Romulus shook his head, his chest heaving with terror and adrenaline. “He’s the traitor! Cassianus is the traitor!”
The guard didn’t hesitate. With a swift movement, he engaged Cassianus, their blades clashing in the confined space of the carriage. The other guards, realizing what had happened, rushed to assist, pulling Cassianus out and pinning him to the muddy ground outside.
Romulus stepped out of the carriage, his legs unsteady. He looked down at Cassianus, who was now bound and kneeling in the mud, his face impassive.
“Who sent you?” Romulus demanded, his voice trembling with anger.
Cassianus looked up at Romulus, rain streaming down his face. Despite the binds around his wrists and the guards standing over him, his expression was one of defiance rather than desperation. His voice, when he spoke, was calm, almost disconcertingly so.
“Well, Dominus,” he said, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “What now? Will you kill me here, like a tyrant, or prove you’re better than that?”
Romulus’s grip tightened on his spatha. The memory of Cassianus’s blade descending toward him was fresh, his words—“The empire doesn’t need a boy pretending to rule”—echoing in his mind. “You attacked me,” Romulus said coldly. “Your own emperor. What justification could there possibly be for such treachery?”
Cassianus met his gaze, unflinching. “The empire needs strength, Dominus, not naïve dreams or false hope. You should know that by now.”
“And you thought murdering me would solve anything?” Romulus’s voice was sharper now, cutting through the rain.
Cassianus shrugged. “A boy on the throne is a weakness others will exploit. You might mean well, but meaning well doesn’t rebuild cities or keep armies loyal. I thought someone else—someone stronger—might have the chance to do what you can’t.”
Romulus stared at him, the fury rising in his chest. “You underestimate me, Cassianus. But even now, you think yourself clever enough to talk your way out of this, don’t you?”
Cassianus smiled faintly, as though Romulus’s anger amused him. “It’s not about cleverness, Dominus. It’s about survival. Kill me here, in front of your men, and you’ll look like a paranoid tyrant. Take me back to Ravenna, and you risk exposing just how fragile your rule truly is. Either way, you lose.”
The veteran guard, standing at Romulus’s side, growled, his spatha glinting in the dim light. “Say the word, Dominus, and I’ll cut his throat. Treason deserves no mercy.”
Romulus hesitated, his mind racing. Cassianus was dangerous, not just because of his actions but because of his words. Even bound, he radiated confidence, his tone carefully measured to plant seeds of doubt and discord.
“No,” Romulus said finally, sheathing his blade with a decisive motion. “He’ll face trial in Ravenna. Let the city see him for what he is—a traitor.”
Cassianus’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a flicker of surprise. “A trial? Do you really think that will make you look strong?”
“It will make me just,” Romulus said, his voice firm. “And the empire needs justice as much as it needs strength.”
The guards hauled Cassianus to his feet, binding him securely and confiscating his weapons. The veteran leaned in close, his voice low and menacing. “Try anything, and I’ll make sure you never reach Ravenna.”
The rain eased into a steady drizzle as the journey resumed, the forest slowly giving way to open fields and winding roads. Inside the carriage, Romulus sat in silence, the weight of the events pressing heavily on him. His hand, still trembling from the encounter, gripped the armrest tightly. Across from him sat the veteran guard who had saved his life. His presence was calm, his spatha resting on his lap, as his sharp eyes remained fixed on the road ahead.
For a long moment, neither spoke, the steady creak of the carriage filling the silence. Finally, as the trembling in his hands subsided, Romulus drew a steady breath and turned to the guard. “What is your name?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual.
The veteran looked up, his expression softening slightly. “Magnus, Dominus. Magnus of Verona.”
Romulus nodded slowly. “Magnus,” he repeated, letting the name settle in his mind. “You saved my life back there. Without you…” He paused, the memory of Cassianus’s blade flashing before his eyes. “I owe you more than I can ever repay.”
Magnus inclined his head, his voice steady. “It is my duty, Dominus. A soldier serves to protect Rome and its emperor. I only did what any loyal man would.”
“No,” Romulus said, his gaze steady now. “You did more than your duty. In the chaos, you saw the truth, and you acted when others might have hesitated. I will not forget that.”
Magnus’s expression remained stoic, but a faint hint of pride flickered in his eyes. “Thank you, Dominus.”
Romulus leaned forward slightly, his young face hardened with determination. “Magnus, I need men like you—men I can trust completely. This empire is teetering on the edge, and every day brings new threats. I cannot afford to be caught off guard again.”
Magnus nodded. “Then you must surround yourself with those who will lay down their lives for you without hesitation.”
“That is exactly what I intend to do,” Romulus said firmly. He straightened in his seat, his voice gaining strength. “Magnus, I am appointing you as my guard captain. Your task is to assemble a team—thirty of the most loyal and capable soldiers you can find. They will be my personal guard, and their only duty will be to protect the emperor.”
Magnus’s eyes widened briefly at the weight of the responsibility, but he nodded with a sharp salute. “It will be done, Dominus. I will choose only the best.”
Romulus allowed himself a faint smile, the first since the ambush. “Good. Begin your selection as soon as we return to Ravenna. Report directly to me once you have your men.”
Magnus hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “Dominus, if I may?”
Romulus nodded, gesturing for him to continue.
“Loyalty is paramount, but so is vigilance. Even among the men I choose, there must be checks. Betrayal can come from anywhere, as we saw today. I will select men I trust, but I will also ensure they are watched. Trust is earned, not given freely.”
Romulus considered this, his expression thoughtful. “You’re right. Even the most trusted man must be held accountable. Make it so.”
“As you command, Dominus,” Magnus said, his voice firm. “I will not fail you.”
----------------------------------------
The carriage rocked gently as the wheels rolled over uneven ground, the sound of the rain fading into the background. Romulus leaned back, feeling a small measure of relief.
Romulus stepped into his chamber, the heavy wooden door shutting behind him with a dull thud. The warm glow of a brazier cast flickering shadows across the stone walls, but the heat barely reached him. He dropped his soaked cloak onto a chair and slumped into the one beside it, his hands gripping the armrests as if to steady himself. The events of the day weighed heavily on him, and for a brief moment, he allowed his head to fall into his hands.
The room was quiet, save for the distant patter of rain against the narrow window. The flickering light illuminated his young face, etched with exhaustion far beyond his years. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, the tension of the ambush and the betrayal still coiled tightly within him.
The silence was broken by the sound of hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor. The door swung open with enough force to rattle the hinges, and Gaius Severus stormed into the room, his broad frame filling the doorway.
“Romulus!” Gaius barked, his voice rough with concern. His eyes scanned the boy quickly, his posture tense. “Are you hurt? Speak to me!”
Romulus lifted his head, startled by the sudden intrusion. “I’m fine, Gaius,” he said, his voice steady but quiet. “The ambush… it’s over.”
Gaius crossed the room in long strides, stopping just short of where Romulus sat. His face was a storm of anger and guilt, the lines around his eyes deep with frustration. “Over? Over?” he growled. “A traitor—your guard—tried to kill you! How did it come to this?”
Romulus opened his mouth to reply, but Gaius cut him off, pacing the room like a caged animal. “I should’ve been there,” he muttered, his fists clenched at his sides. “Damn it! I knew there was rot in the ranks, but I didn’t think it would reach this close to you.”
He stopped abruptly, turning to face Romulus. His voice dropped, the anger giving way to something heavier. “This is my fault, Dominus. I was supposed to protect you, to make sure you were safe. I failed.”
Romulus shook his head, his voice soft. “You couldn’t have known, Gaius. None of us did.”
“That’s no excuse,” Gaius snapped, his frustration directed inward. “It’s my job to know. It’s my job to ensure the men around you are trustworthy. And now, because of my failure, you came within inches of losing your life.”
The room fell silent, the weight of Gaius’s words hanging in the air. Romulus felt his throat tighten as the tension he had been holding onto all day began to unravel. His hands trembled again, and this time, he couldn’t stop the tears that welled in his eyes.
“I was so scared,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “I thought—” He stopped, his words caught in his throat as a sob escaped.
Gaius’s expression softened instantly, and he dropped to one knee beside the chair, his large hand resting gently on Romulus’s shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said, his voice low but steady. “You’re safe now. Let it out.”
Romulus couldn’t hold back any longer. The tears came in a torrent, years of suppressed fear and the day’s terror spilling out all at once. His small frame shook with each sob, and Gaius pulled him into a firm embrace, his strong arms wrapping around the boy protectively.
“You’re stronger than this,” Gaius murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “I’ve seen it. You’re a fighter, Romulus, even if you don’t feel it now. But you don’t have to carry this alone.”
The warmth of Gaius’s words and the solidity of his presence steadied Romulus. He clung to the older man, the weight of the day slowly ebbing away. Gaius held him until the sobs subsided, his large hand resting on the back of Romulus’s head in a gesture of quiet reassurance.
When Romulus finally pulled away, his face was red and streaked with tears, but his breathing was calmer. Gaius looked at him with a mixture of pride and determination. “Cassianus will answer for what he did,” Gaius said firmly. “I’ll see to it myself. I’ll get the truth from him, no matter what it takes.”
Romulus nodded, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank you, Gaius.”
“You don’t need to thank me, Dominus,” Gaius said, rising to his full height. “It’s my duty. And I promise you this—I will never let anything like this happen again.”
Romulus sat in silence for a moment after Gaius left, the warmth of the brazier doing little to thaw the chill that had settled in his bones. The events of the day lingered in his mind, each moment replaying with vivid clarity. He exhaled slowly, gathering his thoughts before calling out to the guard stationed outside his door.
“Send someone to fetch Magnus,” he said, his voice steady. “I want to know how the wounded soldiers are faring.”
The guard saluted and disappeared down the corridor. Romulus sat back, his hands resting on the arms of the chair as he stared into the flames. The faces of his guards flashed through his mind, their loyalty and bravery in the face of danger now burdened by the knowledge that one among them had betrayed him.
Minutes later, Magnus entered, his expression as composed as ever despite the strain of the day. “You summoned me, Dominus?”
Romulus nodded. “The soldiers who were wounded during the ambush—how are they?”
Magnus stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back. “Two men sustained serious injuries, but they are stable. The physician is tending to them now. Others have minor wounds—cuts and bruises mostly—but they will recover quickly.”
Romulus’s brow furrowed. “I want to see them.”
Magnus hesitated, his brow arching slightly in surprise. “Dominus, it’s late. They’re being cared for.”
“I don’t care,” Romulus said firmly, standing from his chair. “They bled for me today. The least I can do is show them that their sacrifice is not unnoticed.”
Magnus regarded him for a moment, then nodded. “As you wish, Dominus. I’ll take you to them.”
Romulus followed Magnus down the dimly lit corridors of the palace to a small chamber that had been converted into an infirmary. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and smoke from a brazier burning in the corner. The faint sound of labored breathing filled the room, along with the occasional murmur from the physician.
Two soldiers lay on narrow cots, their tunics cut away to expose bloodied bandages wrapped tightly around their torsos. The physician, an older man with a graying beard, glanced up as Romulus entered, his hands pausing in their work of cleaning a wound.
“Dominus,” the physician said, bowing slightly. “You honor us with your presence.”
Romulus nodded, his gaze moving to the soldiers. “How are they?”
The physician straightened. “Both will live, Dominus, though they’ll need time to recover. One took an arrow to the shoulder, the other a deep gash to his side. Neither wound is fatal, but they’ll bear the scars.”
Romulus stepped closer to the first cot, where a young soldier lay with his eyes half-open, his face pale but alert. The soldier struggled to sit up, grimacing in pain as he moved.
“Lie still,” Romulus said gently, raising a hand to stop him. “You’ve done enough.”
The soldier swallowed hard, his voice hoarse. “Dominus, it was an honor to protect you.”
“No,” Romulus said, his voice soft but firm. “It’s I who am honored. You risked your life for me today, and I will not forget it. What is your name?”
“Lucius, Dominus,” the soldier replied, his breathing shallow. “Lucius of Ravenna.”
Romulus placed a hand on Lucius’s shoulder, careful to avoid the bandages. “Rest, Lucius. The empire needs men like you, and I need you to heal.”
Lucius managed a faint smile, his eyes closing as exhaustion overtook him. Romulus turned to the second soldier, an older man with a rugged face and a bandaged torso. The man’s gaze was steady, and he inclined his head as Romulus approached.
“You fought bravely,” Romulus said. “Your courage protected not only me but the empire itself.”
The man nodded. “It’s our duty, Dominus.”
“And I will make sure that duty is honored,” Romulus said. He glanced at Magnus, his voice quiet but resolute. “Ensure that their families are cared for while they recover. They should want for nothing.”
Magnus saluted. “It will be done, Dominus.”
Romulus lingered for a moment, his gaze moving between the two wounded men. “I will not let your sacrifices be in vain,” he said softly, more to himself than anyone else.