The corridor was dimly lit by flickering torches, their light casting long shadows against the cold stone walls. Gaius Severus walked with deliberate steps beside Romulus, his presence as steady as the sword at his side. Neither spoke as they ascended toward the emperor’s chambers. The silence between them was not from lack of words but from the unspoken weight of the day’s events.
Romulus’s thoughts churned like a storm-tossed sea. The ambush, Cassianus’s betrayal, and the close brush with death had left a wound deeper than he cared to admit. Every step seemed heavier, the air itself pressing down on him. Gaius glanced at him occasionally, his expression unreadable, but the faint tension in the old centurion’s jaw betrayed his concern.
When they reached the chamber, Gaius opened the door and gestured for Romulus to enter. “I’ll stand guard outside if you wish, dominus,” Gaius offered, his voice low and calm.
Romulus hesitated, looking at the man who had stood beside him through more than just battle drills. “No,” he said quietly. “Stay inside. I… I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
Gaius’s gaze softened, and he stepped into the room without a word, taking a position near the door.
Moments later, a soft knock interrupted the silence. Andronikos entered, his expression a mix of relief and worry as he looked between the two. “I heard what happened,” the Greek said, his voice trembling slightly. “Thank the gods you’re safe.”
Romulus forced a small nod, sitting down heavily by the brazier in the center of the room. The warmth did little to chase away the cold that seemed to seep into his very bones. Andronikos approached cautiously, his keen eyes studying the boy emperor.
Before the tension could settle, another knock came. Crassus entered without waiting for permission, his usual bluntness evident. “Dominus, I’ve sent word to Orestes. He’ll know of the situation by nightfall tomorrow. We should gather in the morning to plan our response.”
Romulus barely looked up. “Thank you, Crassus. That will be all for now.”
Crassus hesitated, his brow furrowing. “Romulus,” he began, uncharacteristically using the emperor’s name, “we’ll get through this. The loyalty of the empire hasn’t shattered yet.”
Romulus nodded faintly, dismissing him with a wave. Crassus left, closing the door behind him, leaving Romulus alone with Andronikos and Gaius.
The silence stretched again, broken only by the crackling of the brazier’s flames. Andronikos stepped closer, his face shadowed but his voice firm. “You need to talk about this, dominus. Holding it inside will only eat at you.”
Romulus shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” Andronikos countered, his tone sharper than usual. “And you don’t have to be. Not with us.”
Gaius shifted, his arms crossed as he watched the exchange. “The Greek’s right. You’ve been carrying too much alone. If today’s shown us anything, it’s that trust matters. You don’t have to keep us at a distance, boy.”
Andronikos turned to Gaius, his expression unreadable for a moment before he spoke again. “He should know, dominus,” he said softly. “Gaius deserves to know the truth. The knowledge you carry isn’t a burden you can bear alone, not anymore. “
Romulus stared at the flickering flames of the brazier, Andronikos's words sinking into the silence. The Greek was right. Gaius had proven his loyalty time and time again. This was long overdue. If anyone deserved the truth.
He glanced at Gaius, whose expression was steady but wary. The old centurion’s arms remained crossed, his broad frame silhouetted against the dim torchlight. Romulus could see the faint scars on his weathered face, each a testament to years of service and sacrifice. Gaius wasn’t a man given to fanciful notions or blind trust, and the weight of what he was about to say tightened Romulus's chest.
“I need to tell you something, Gaius,” Romulus began, his voice low but steady. “Something I’ve kept from everyone but Andronikos.”
Gaius’s brow furrowed, his body shifting ever so slightly as though bracing for a blow. “What is it, dominus?” His tone was cautious, almost suspicious.
“It’s… not easy to explain,” Romulus admitted, his hands tightening into fists. “But after today, after what happened on the road, I can’t keep this from you. You’ve earned my trust—more than anyone.”
Andronikos stepped closer, his hand resting lightly on Romulus’s shoulder. “He’s telling you the truth, Severus. You may not believe it at first—I didn’t—but listen. Let him explain.”
Gaius’s gaze flicked between the two, his jaw tightening. “You’re both speaking in riddles. Out with it.”
Romulus took a deep breath. “I know things, Gaius. Things about what’s to come—about Rome, about the world. Knowledge that no one else has.”
The centurion’s eyes narrowed, his expression darkening with doubt. “What kind of knowledge?”
Romulus hesitated, then pressed on. “The kind that tells me Odoacer will betray my father. The kind that can see the shape of the future, not in vague omens or dreams, but in detail. I know about tools, weapons, and machines that don’t yet exist. I know about diseases that will one day ravage the world and medicines that will save lives centuries from now.”
Gaius stared at him, his expression unreadable. After a long pause, he spoke, his tone laced with skepticism. “Dominus, with all respect… you’re speaking madness.”
“It sounds like madness,” Andronikos interjected. “That’s what I thought when he first told me. But he has shown me things—explained concepts that no one of his age could possibly understand. It isn’t madness, Severus. It’s truth.”
Gaius’s frown deepened. “If it’s truth, then prove it. Words are just words.”
Andronikos nodded, stepping toward Gaius. “He can’t prove it all at once, but let me tell you what convinced me. He spoke of machines that harness steam, like Heron’s aeolipile, but not as mere curiosities—machines that can do the work of dozens of men. He explained the principles of lenses and glass, how they might one day allow us to see the heavens more clearly or examine the smallest details of life. And he sketched designs for tools that I—an educated man—could not even comprehend at first.”
Romulus rose from his seat, moving to a small chest in the corner of the room. He opened it, pulling out a set of parchment sheets. He laid them on the table, the flickering light illuminating sketches of a plow with iron blades, a water mill with intricate gears, and a crossbow design far more advanced than anything currently in use.
“These,” Romulus said, gesturing to the sketches, “are just the beginning. I don’t have the means to build them yet, but I know they can work. I know because I’ve seen their future uses in my mind.”
Gaius leaned over the table, his skeptical eyes scanning the drawings. His fingers traced the lines of the plow, the gears of the mill, and the complex mechanism of the crossbow. Finally, he straightened, his expression still guarded. “And how do you explain this… knowledge?”
Romulus met his gaze. “I don’t know. I only know that it’s there. It came to me suddenly, as if I’ve lived a life beyond my own. I see the future, Gaius—not in visions, but as a memory. I can’t explain why or how, but it’s real. And if we use it wisely, it could save Rome.”
The room fell silent, the weight of Romulus’s words pressing down on all three men. Gaius’s lips pressed into a thin line as he studied the young emperor.
“Do you believe him, Andronikos?” Gaius finally asked.
The Greek nodded without hesitation. “With all my heart. And I believe you will, too, in time. But for now, trust in what you’ve seen and heard tonight. Trust in the boy who has already shown us his courage and wisdom.”
Gaius stood silent for what felt like an eternity. His arms remained crossed, and his sharp eyes fixed on Romulus. The young emperor could almost hear the gears turning in the centurion’s mind, weighing the boy’s words against a lifetime of hard-won pragmatism.
At last, Gaius spoke, his tone low and deliberate. “If this is true, dominus… then tell me. What will happen to Ravenna?”
Romulus hesitated, the weight of the answer settling heavily on his chest. He looked to Andronikos, who gave him a subtle nod of encouragement. Turning back to Gaius, he drew a slow breath and began.
“Odoacer will betray my father. He’ll march on Ravenna and lay siege to the city. My father will fight, but he won’t prevail. Odoacer will take the city and dethrone me. I will lose the imperial crown, and Rome as we know it will cease to exist.”
Gaius’s face remained unreadable, but the tightening of his jaw betrayed the slow churn of anger and disbelief. “And then?” he asked, his voice steady but tinged with tension.
Romulus continued, his voice quieter now. “It won’t end there. Odoacer’s rule will be short-lived. Theodoric, leader of the Ostrogoths, will come. He’ll lay siege to Ravenna again, a siege that will last nearly three years. The city will fall once more. Theodoric will take control, but Italy… Italy will remain a battleground for a hundred years. The wars will leave it broken, divided. The people will suffer through famine, poverty, and bloodshed for generations.”
Gaius exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound more like a growl than a sigh. His hand came up to rub his temple as he turned away, pacing toward the brazier. “A hundred years of war,” he muttered. “Gods help us.”
Romulus said nothing, letting the words hang in the air. He knew better than to push; Gaius was a man who needed time to process, to think.
Finally, Gaius stopped, turning back to face Romulus. His gaze was sharp, his voice low and heavy. “If this is true, then my boys… my wife… they’re all in danger. They’ll have to live through this chaos. My sons will grow up in a land of war, and Lavinia…” His voice faltered for the first time. “She’ll have to endure sieges. Starvation. Death.”
He let out a long, shaky sigh, his hand dropping to his side. “And worst of all, you’re saying that siege… we lose. Do you know what that does to a family? What that does to a city?”
Romulus’s throat tightened as he saw the raw emotion in Gaius’s eyes. This wasn’t just a man thinking about the empire—this was a father, a husband, imagining his family caught in the storm.
Andronikos stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. “This is why he told you, Severus. You have a right to know. And together, you might find a way to protect them. To protect Rome.”
Gaius glanced at the Greek, his expression still clouded with doubt. “And what do you expect me to do with this knowledge? If the gods themselves have decreed it—if this is fate—how do we fight it?”
Gaius stood by the brazier, his back to the boy emperor and the Greek. The flames licked and danced before him, their restless movement a cruel mirror of the chaos his mind struggled to contain. He wasn’t a man given to fear, not after decades spent staring it down on the battlefield. But this… this wasn’t the kind of enemy you could meet with a sword and shield. This was a storm stretching far beyond his reach, threatening to consume not just the empire but his family—the only thing in this world that still truly mattered to him.
He thought of Lavinia, her quiet strength and unwavering support. She had endured so much already, standing by his side through campaigns, injuries, and lean years when coin was scarce. How much more could she bear? A siege wasn’t just a military ordeal—it was a slow, grinding horror. Starvation. Disease. The collapse of order. The thought of Lavinia trying to protect their boys in such a nightmare was almost too much to bear.
His sons came to mind next: Marcus, with his wide-eyed curiosity and boundless energy, and Lucan, already trying to emulate his father’s stern discipline. Gaius had always imagined a life for them away from the battlefield, free from the shadow of war that had followed him since his youth. He wanted them to grow into men with choices—whether to pick up the sword or the plow, whether to serve Rome or build their own lives in peace.
But if Romulus was right, those dreams were as fragile as the flames before him. War wouldn’t give his boys a choice. It would shape them, harden them, strip them of innocence and leave them scarred—if they survived at all.
A hundred years. His fists clenched as he thought of the generations that would come after, inheriting a fractured Italy, each child born into a world where survival meant more than thriving. The endless wars would make men into beasts, and the very soul of Rome—the Rome he had fought for, bled for—would wither under the weight of it.
The room felt smaller, suffocating. He wanted to rage, to curse the gods for their cruelty, to demand why they had cursed this boy with such knowledge and left him, Gaius Severus, to bear the burden of it. But rage wouldn’t save his family. It wouldn’t undo what Romulus had seen.
Romulus shifted uncomfortably, sensing the growing weight pressing down on Gaius. The centurion’s silence was like a leaden chain pulling the room deeper into despair. Romulus couldn’t let that happen—not now. With a voice unsure at first, but gathering strength as he spoke, the boy emperor broke the stillness.
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“There is a possibility,” Romulus said, his words halting but deliberate. “A gamble, and it’s dangerous… but it could work.”
Gaius turned to face him, his arms dropping to his sides. His expression was one of faint irritation mixed with curiosity. “A gamble? What kind of gamble?”
Romulus glanced at Andronikos, who nodded encouragingly. Taking a deep breath, he pressed on. “Zeno.”
“The Eastern Emperor?” Gaius asked, his brow furrowing. “What about him?”
Romulus stood, pacing a few steps to the table and leaning on it as he gathered his thoughts. “Right now, Zeno is barely holding on to power. His rivals in Constantinople forced him out not long ago. He’s hiding in his home province of Isauria, with no real support except for his loyalists there. No army. No allies. No power. But…” He paused, meeting Gaius’s skeptical gaze. “But in a year, Zeno will regain his throne. He’ll crush his enemies and become the undisputed ruler of the East.”
“And you want to bet on this?” Gaius asked, crossing his arms again. “A year is a long time, dominus. He could just as easily die in a skirmish or be assassinated before then.”
Romulus ran a hand through his hair, the firelight casting long shadows across his youthful face. He hesitated before speaking again, his voice quieter but laden with conviction.
“I didn’t want to suggest this,” he began, his gaze shifting from Gaius to Andronikos and back again. “I thought what we were doing—fortifying the walls, training the militia, rebuilding Ravenna piece by piece—would be enough. I thought the money we had, the resources we could gather, would carry us farther. That it would buy us time.”
He shook his head, his frustration evident. “But it’s not enough. Everything takes longer than I imagined. Costs more than I calculated. And every day that passes, Odoacer grows stronger, while we scramble to hold on to what little we have. And Nepos watches our every step for a mistake to take advantage of.”
Gaius remained silent, his eyes narrowing as he studied the boy emperor. Romulus’s voice grew steadier, though the uncertainty behind his words was palpable.
“If it were just me, I might take the risk of waiting. I’d let the chips fall where they may. But it’s not just me. It’s everyone in this city—everyone I’ve sworn to protect. It’s your family, Gaius. Lavinia, Marcus, Lucan—they’ll live or die based on the choices I make. And I can’t—I won’t gamble their lives on the hope that what we’ve started here will be enough to stop Odoacer.”
He took a step closer to Gaius, his young face etched with an intensity that belied his years. “This isn’t about glory or ambition. It’s about making sure we have a fighting chance. If we help Zeno now, and he wins, we’ll have an ally strong enough to back us when the time comes. Someone who can send troops, supplies—things we’ll need when Odoacer finally turns on us.”
Andronikos nodded, his calm voice lending support to Romulus’s words. “The dominus speaks the truth, Severus. We’ve all seen how precarious our position is. Zeno may be our best hope to tip the scales in our favor.”
Gaius let out a long breath, his expression hard to read. He turned back to the brazier, watching the flames dance as if they might offer answers. “You’re betting everything on a man who’s already been thrown from his throne,” he muttered. “And if he loses, we’ll have spent what little we had left on a fool’s errand.”
Romulus hesitated, the tension in the room thickening as Gaius’s skepticism hung in the air. Finally, the boy emperor spoke, his voice softer but no less resolute.
“You think the gamble is whether Zeno wins or loses,” he said, his gaze fixed on the brazier’s flickering flames. “But that’s not the gamble. The real risk—the one I’m worried about—is whether we can afford to send the men he’ll need.”
Gaius stiffened, turning sharply to face Romulus. His face, already lined with years of wear, seemed to harden further. “You want to send troops to Zeno?” he asked, his voice rising. “We can barely maintain order here! Half the militia is made up of farmers and smiths who can’t even hold a spear straight. The Palatine Guard is stretched thin, and you think we have soldiers to spare?”
The sudden outburst made Romulus flinch, but he held his ground. “I know what we’re risking, Gaius,” he said, his voice steady despite the centurion’s anger. “I know the state of the militia. I know how thinly stretched we are. But if we do nothing, Odoacer will crush us. And if Zeno regains his throne without our help, he’ll have no reason to aid us when we need him most.”
“You’re asking me to choose between defending our own people and throwing away what little strength we have on a distant gamble!” Gaius shot back, his frustration spilling over. “Do you even understand what you’re asking? You’re asking me to send men—good men, with families—to die in a war that’s not theirs!”
Romulus’s hands tightened into fists, his jaw clenched. “I’m asking you to help me save everyone,” he said, his voice rising. “This isn’t just about Zeno or Ravenna. It’s about giving us a chance to survive what’s coming. If we don’t act now, there won’t be a city left to defend!”
Gaius’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes blazing with anger and something deeper—fear, perhaps, or the weight of responsibility. For a moment, the room seemed poised to erupt into a full argument, the tension almost unbearable.
And then Andronikos stepped between them, his voice calm but firm. “Enough, both of you,” he said, his sharp tone cutting through the rising storm. “This isn’t a decision to be made in anger.”
Gaius exhaled sharply, turning away from Romulus with a muttered curse. Andronikos placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, guiding him back to the table. “Severus isn’t wrong,” the Greek said, addressing Romulus but glancing at Gaius. “This is a dangerous gamble, and it must be weighed carefully. But neither is the dominus. If we don’t take risks now, the future will leave us no options at all.”
He turned to Gaius, his expression softening. “We must consider what we can spare, not what we wish we had. If we send too many, we weaken ourselves beyond recovery. If we send too few, the gesture may mean nothing. But there must be a balance—something we can offer without breaking ourselves.”
Gaius remained silent, his jaw working as he wrestled with the Greek’s words. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping. “If we do this,” he said, his voice low, “it has to be done with precision. No more than we can afford. No more than we can lose.”
Romulus stepped forward, his gaze steady and determined. “That’s why I want you to lead this mission, Gaius.”
The centurion stiffened, turning sharply to face him. “What?” The word was more bark than question, disbelief clear in his voice. “You want me to leave Ravenna? To leave my family, my post, to march to some foreign province on a gamble?”
Romulus held his ground, his young face resolute. “I need someone I trust. Someone who can ensure this mission succeeds. If this fails, Gaius, Rome fails. It has to be you.”
Gaius took a step back, his arms falling to his sides as he processed the words. “No,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “I won’t do it. My place is here, defending Ravenna. My family is here, Romulus. My sons. Lavinia. If this city falls, they’ll need me to protect them.”
“They need you to succeed,” Romulus countered, his voice rising with urgency. “If this mission fails, if Zeno doesn’t survive or if he regains his throne without our help, there won’t be enough left of Ravenna for you to defend. Your family will face the same horrors whether you’re here or not.”
Gaius’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening. “And what if I fail, dominus? What if I lead these men and we’re slaughtered before we even reach Isauria? What if the troops I take are the ones we need here, and Odoacer strikes while we’re gone? Will you still call it a gamble worth taking then?”
Romulus hesitated, the weight of the question pressing down on him. He glanced at Andronikos, who nodded encouragingly, before turning back to Gaius. “If you fail, I’ll bear the blame. But I trust you, Gaius. I trust your skill, your judgment, your ability to protect the men you lead. You’ve spent your life defending Rome—you know what’s at stake better than anyone.”
He stepped closer, his voice softening. “You’ve always told me to fight for what matters. To take risks when the stakes are high enough. This is one of those moments. If we succeed, if we win Zeno’s favor and he sends us reinforcements when we need them most, you won’t just be protecting your family—you’ll be saving them.”
Gaius stared at him, his expression unreadable, the brazier’s light casting flickering shadows across his face. For a long moment, the room was silent, the tension palpable.
Finally, Gaius let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping. “You think this will help my family, boy? You think marching away from them, leaving them here to face whatever comes, is the way to protect them?”
Romulus nodded slowly. “I do. Because if you succeed, we’ll have a chance—a real chance—to hold this city. To rebuild what’s been broken. Without you, Gaius, without your leadership, this mission might fail before it even begins. And if it does, we lose everything.”
The centurion rubbed a hand across his face, the lines of exhaustion and conflict etched deep into his features. He turned to Andronikos, his voice low. “And you agree with him?”
Andronikos nodded slowly, stepping closer to the brazier where the flames cast his sharp features into relief. “I do, Severus, though with some reservations. The dominus is right—this mission could be the turning point for Ravenna, for all of Rome. But...” He paused, his gaze flicking between the centurion and the young emperor. “There might be another way to approach this.”
Romulus frowned, leaning forward. “What do you mean?”
Andronikos folded his arms, choosing his words carefully. “This mission is not just military—it’s diplomatic. You’re not merely sending troops to fight; you’re sending a message to Zeno. A plea for alliance and solidarity. That makes it as much about persuasion as strength. And that’s where the Church could come in.”
Gaius snorted, his skepticism clear. “The Church? You’d hand this over to priests and bishops?”
“No,” Andronikos said firmly, turning to Gaius. “Not hand it over—work with them. The Church wields immense influence, both here and in the East. Including them in this mission, under strict oversight, could accomplish several things.”
He began counting off points on his fingers. “First, it could provide a credible diplomatic channel. A representative of the Church could negotiate with Zeno in ways even the most skilled military commander cannot. Second, the Church’s involvement could bring financial support for the mission. Third—and perhaps most importantly—it would bolster Romulus’s legitimacy. If the Church stands behind the dominus publicly, it strengthens his position in Ravenna and beyond.”
Romulus considered the idea, his expression thoughtful but cautious. “You think they’d agree? The Church isn’t exactly generous when it comes to supporting military ventures.”
“They might,” Andronikos replied, “if it’s framed correctly. Present it not as a military gamble, but as a mission to restore order and protect Christendom. Zeno is Christian, as are his rivals. Position this as an effort to stabilize the empire under a godly ruler, and they’ll be hard-pressed to oppose it. Especially if they’re given a seat at the table to oversee the mission.”
Gaius’s face darkened. “A seat at the table? You mean letting them dictate how we fight?”
“No,” Andronikos said firmly. “The military strategy remains yours. But having a bishop or high-ranking cleric accompany the mission as an envoy could make all the difference in the negotiations.”
Romulus frowned. “And who would lead this from their side? Felix?” He didn’t bother to hide the distaste in his voice when mentioning the ambitious bishop.
Andronikos shook his head. “Not Felix. Someone more measured, less ambitious. Perhaps a lower-ranking but well-regarded cleric. Someone known for their diplomacy.”
Gaius crossed his arms, his skepticism unabated. “You’re putting a lot of faith in priests and politics, Greek. Wars aren’t won with words.”
“No, but alliances are forged with them,” Andronikos countered. “And this is as much about forging alliances as it is about strength.”
Romulus leaned back, the flickering light of the brazier reflecting in his eyes. “It’s risky,” he said finally. “The Church could see this as an opportunity to demand more power, more influence.”
“True,” Andronikos admitted. “But that’s why it must be handled carefully. Make it clear that their role is advisory and diplomatic, not military. And choose their representative wisely.”
Romulus took a deep breath, leaning forward in his chair as he addressed Gaius directly. “We’ll proceed cautiously. I’ll speak with Felix tomorrow. Andronikos and I will ensure that we keep the Church’s involvement limited to diplomacy and funding. The mission’s leadership remains yours, Gaius. But if their participation means we can secure the resources and legitimacy we need without further depleting Ravenna, it’s a risk worth taking.”
Gaius let out a low growl of frustration but nodded. “Fine. If it means more support for the mission, I’ll trust you to handle the Church. But don’t let them overstep, dominus. The last thing we need is priests meddling in matters they don’t understand.”
Romulus gave a faint smile, though his expression remained serious. “I’ll keep that in mind. Now, about the troops…”
The centurion straightened, his demeanor shifting to one of calculated focus. “If you’re determined to send a thousand men, I’ll need free rein to select them. We can’t afford to send untrained farmers or smiths. I’ll take veterans where I can find them and use reliable militia to fill the ranks. But I’ll also need to assess the Palatine Guard—they’ll need to stay here to defend Ravenna.”
Romulus nodded. “You have my trust, Gaius. Take whoever you deem fit, but ensure that Ravenna remains secure. I won’t risk this city’s defenses.”
“I’ll make it work,” Gaius said, his tone firm. “But a thousand is no small number. That’s nearly a quarter of what we have. I’ll also need to inspect the navy—if we’re sailing to Asia Minor, we’ll need ships capable of carrying the men and supplies safely. I’ll have my assessment ready within a week.”
“That’s all the time we have,” Romulus said, his voice resolute. “We need to be the first to offer Zeno aid. If we hesitate, his rivals could gain the upper hand—and we’ll lose any leverage we might have had.”
Andronikos interjected, his tone thoughtful. “Gaius, when you assess the naval forces, consider bringing a few of the ship captains into the planning discussions. They know the seas and the dangers better than anyone. Their insight could save us time—and lives.”
Gaius gave a curt nod. “Agreed. I’ll speak with them personally.”
Romulus rose from his seat, his young face set with determination. “Then it’s settled. Gaius, start your preparations. I’ll deal with Felix tomorrow. Andronikos, I’ll need you with me during that meeting—your understanding of the Church’s inner workings will be invaluable.”
The Greek inclined his head. “Of course, dominus.”
Gaius turned toward the door, his broad frame silhouetted against the flickering torchlight. “I’ll have my list ready in a few days. And Romulus—” He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Make sure this gamble is worth it. Because if it fails, it won’t just be soldiers who pay the price.”
Andronikos moved closer to Romulus, his brow furrowed in thought. The flickering light of the brazier cast shadows on his face, deepening the lines of concern that etched his expression.
“Dominus,” he began cautiously, “we’ve spoken of troops, ships, and alliances. We’ve even considered the Church’s involvement. But there’s one challenge we haven’t addressed yet—the most formidable one.”
Romulus turned to him, his youthful face resolute but curious. “What is it?”
“Orestes,” Andronikos said simply, his tone heavy with implication.
The name hung in the air, the weight of the boy emperor’s father’s authority overshadowing their plans. Romulus straightened, his expression tightening. “What about my father?”
Andronikos folded his arms, his sharp gaze fixed on Romulus. “Do you truly believe he’ll allow this? A thousand troops, the navy, a mission halfway across the empire? Orestes will see it as a gamble that risks everything he’s worked to hold together. And worse, he’ll see it as a challenge to his authority.”
Romulus clenched his jaw, his thoughts racing. He knew Andronikos was right. Orestes had always been pragmatic, his decisions calculated and driven by immediate survival. Sending such a large force to aid Zeno would likely seem to him like madness—an unnecessary risk when their hold on Italy was already so tenuous.
“I’ll convince him,” Romulus said finally, though his voice carried a trace of uncertainty. “He’ll listen.”
Andronikos raised an eyebrow, his skepticism clear but measured. “Your father has trusted you more lately, but trust only goes so far when the stakes are this high. He’s a man who values control, and this plan takes much of it out of his hands. If he returns and disagrees—if he forbids this—what will you do?”
Romulus hesitated, the weight of the question pressing down on him. “If I wait for his approval, it might be too late. Zeno needs support now, not when Orestes finally sees the logic in this. We have to act.”
Andronikos sighed, stepping closer to the boy emperor. “I agree with you, dominus. But you must be prepared for his reaction. He will see this as impulsive at best, rebellious at worst. You need to have answers ready when he challenges you—and he will.”