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The Last Roman
17. Chapter

17. Chapter

The chamber was quiet but tense, the air heavy with unspoken words. A brazier in the corner cast a soft glow over the frescoed walls, the flickering light playing off scenes of divine triumph and imperial might. Romulus sat at the head of the modest table, his posture composed but his expression wary. Beside him, Andronikos stood with his arms crossed, a silent but attentive figure, ever watchful. Across from them, Bishop Felix adjusted his robes with deliberate care, his every movement measured, his gaze sharp and probing.

Felix broke the silence first, his voice smooth, almost soothing. “Your Grace, I was greatly troubled to hear of the cowardly attack on your life. It grieves me to think of such violence within the sacred bounds of Ravenna. Let me assure you that, in this matter, the Church stands firmly with you.”

Romulus inclined his head, his young face calm but unreadable. “Your concern is appreciated, Bishop Felix. Such treachery is a stain on the city and an affront to Rome itself.”

Felix’s smile widened, though his eyes retained their calculating gleam. “Indeed, treachery is the enemy of order and faith alike. Rest assured, Your Grace, the Church abhors such acts of chaos.”

Andronikos, standing just behind Romulus’s chair, interjected, his tone light but laced with subtle challenge. “A heartening assurance, Your Excellency. Though I wonder, has the Church’s vast network of confessions and whispers yielded any hint of who might be behind this affront?”

Felix’s expression flickered, a shadow of irritation passing quickly before his practiced composure returned. “Alas, Andronikos, the confessions brought before the Church are matters of the soul, not politics. But if I should hear anything of consequence, rest assured that it will reach the emperor.”

Romulus leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady. “The Church’s vigilance is invaluable. In times like these, we must stand united against those who would see the empire fall into disarray.”

Felix’s lips pressed into a faint smile, his fingers tracing the edge of the table. “Unity, yes. But unity comes from consultation, from shared counsel. One cannot navigate the storms of empire alone. Your Grace, forgive my candor, but I have wondered why you have not sought the wisdom of the Church more directly in recent weeks.”

Romulus held Felix’s gaze, understanding the unspoken accusation. “The demands of governance are many, Your Excellency. I rely on the expertise of many advisors, each suited to their station.”

Felix inclined his head, his smile lingering though his eyes betrayed a flicker of dissatisfaction. “Of course, Your Grace. Yet, it is the Church’s mission to guide not only the soul but also the hand that steers the empire. Our counsel has, perhaps, been underutilized of late.”

Romulus leaned back slightly, his expression thoughtful, deliberate. He clasped his hands on the table, his gaze unwavering. “Your concern for Rome’s welfare is noted, Bishop Felix. And, in truth, it is for Rome that I have asked for this meeting. I have a proposal—an offer which, I think, the Church will find compelling.”

Felix raised a brow, the calculated disinterest in his demeanor giving way to a glimmer of intrigue. “A proposal, Your Grace? How intriguing. Please, do continue.”

Romulus paused, allowing the tension to build before he spoke, his tone even but purposeful. “You are aware of the instability that has plagued the empire. Not just here in Ravenna, but across the Italian Peninsula and beyond. Our neighbors, particularly in the East, watch us with scrutiny—some as allies, others as opportunists.”

Felix nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “The Eastern court always has its eyes fixed on Ravenna, though rarely with a singular purpose.”

“Indeed,” Romulus continued. “Yet, Emperor Zeno, embattled as he is, has reached out. He seeks aid from the West to regain his throne. He offers us a rare opportunity—a chance to restore a measure of unity to the empire, or at least to reaffirm the ties that have frayed over time.”

A huge fat lie. Romulus paused, the weight of his own words settling in the room like a gathering storm. Zeno had not reached out for help—why would he? The Eastern emperor was barely holding his own crumbling court together. A drowning man rarely sought aid from another drowning man. But Romulus needed this. He needed the Church’s backing, its influence, and—most of all—its wealth. Without their support, his father would never take him seriously, and his tenuous grip on the reins of power would slip further.

He forced himself to exhale slowly, as though weighing his next words carefully, before continuing. “As you know, the stability of the eastern court impacts us all. Should Constantinople fall into further disarray, the ripple effects will reach us here in the West. Refugees, raiders emboldened by the chaos, and perhaps even ambitions from across the Danube. We cannot afford to ignore the East’s plight.”

Felix tilted his head, his expression thoughtful but with an edge of skepticism. “And what, exactly, do you propose, Your Grace? Surely, you don’t suggest we take on the burdens of Constantinople while our own house is less than secure?”

Romulus straightened slightly, his voice steady. “Not the burdens, Your Excellency. The opportunities.”

Felix raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. “Opportunities?”

Romulus inclined his head, his voice steady but gaining momentum as he spoke. “The Church has always been a pillar of Rome’s strength. This mission would be no different. A thousand soldiers is not a vast army—it is not meant to be. It is a signal, a symbol of solidarity. A statement that the West stands with the East. That Rome, though fractured, is still Rome, united and indivisible.”

He let his words settle for a moment before continuing, his tone growing firmer. “This is not merely about aiding Zeno, Your Excellency. It is about what this gesture represents. The East looks to us with skepticism, and in truth, perhaps with pity. They see a Western Empire that has struggled to maintain its strength, divided by internal strife and burdened by its diminished resources. But sending this force changes that perception. It declares to the world that Ravenna still holds purpose and resolve, that we are ready to act—not just react—and that the connection between East and West remains vital.”

Romulus leaned forward slightly, his young face alight with conviction. “Zeno’s predicament is not just his own. Basiliscus has seized power, yes, but it is a fragile hold, one that sets Constantinople on the brink of chaos. If Basiliscus consolidates his rule, he will strengthen his hold through alliances that diminish our own. But if Zeno regains his throne with our aid, he will owe his restoration not just to his own forces but to the unity of Rome—East and West. This is our chance to mend the fractures of the past.”

He paused briefly, gauging Felix’s reaction before pressing on. “For centuries, misunderstandings and rivalries have frayed the bonds between our halves of the empire. Each has looked to the other not as a brother but as a rival. This mission is an opportunity to reverse that. To show that we are united in our shared faith, our shared history, and our shared destiny.”

Felix’s expression remained carefully composed, though a flicker of curiosity crossed his features. Sensing his opening, Romulus pressed further.

“Imagine the message it sends to our people, to our allies, and to our enemies. A united Rome, East and West, standing together to reclaim what is rightfully ours under God’s guidance. The Church’s role in this would be pivotal—not just as a spiritual authority but as a unifying force. Your Excellency, this is a chance for the Church to demonstrate its indispensability, to cement its position as the true heart of a renewed Christendom.”

He paused briefly, letting his words resonate before continuing, his voice steady but tinged with urgency. “This is not an opportunity that comes often. If we wait, Basiliscus will entrench his position, and Zeno’s allies will falter. The East will fall into further discord, and Constantinople will become a battleground of ambition, its wealth and influence torn apart by factions. That instability will not remain confined to the Bosporus. It will ripple into Italy, as rival claimants seek to exploit our own weakened state. We cannot afford to stand by and hope that the storm spares us.”

Romulus’s eyes met Felix’s directly, his tone turning sharper, more resolute. “But if we act—if we seize this moment—we do more than avert disaster. We reshape the future. A small, disciplined force of a thousand men may not seem like much, but it could tip the scales in Zeno’s favor. It could restore his throne, stabilize Constantinople, and establish a lasting partnership between Ravenna and the Eastern court.”

He leaned back slightly, his voice softening but losing none of its intensity. “And the Church stands to gain as much as the empire. This mission would not only secure its moral leadership but extend its influence. Imagine a Christendom where the Church’s authority stretches seamlessly from Ravenna to Constantinople, guiding both the faithful and the rulers who serve them. Imagine the prestige of having played the decisive role in reuniting the empire, in restoring its faith and strength.”

Felix let Romulus’s words linger in the air, his faint smile never quite reaching his eyes. He shifted in his seat with the deliberateness of someone accustomed to commanding attention, his hands resting lightly on the arms of his chair. When he spoke, his voice was smooth, almost deferential, but there was a subtle weight beneath it, a hint of condescension wrapped in the guise of polite inquiry.

“Your Grace,” he began, his tone carrying the practiced warmth of a bishop addressing his flock, “your vision is indeed noble, and your rhetoric admirable. But one cannot help but wonder: does such a vision rest upon solid foundations? Lofty ideals, after all, have a way of faltering when brought into the realm of the tangible.”

His gaze drifted briefly around the chamber before settling on Romulus again, a calculated gesture that seemed to imply he spoke not just for himself but for the collective wisdom of Rome. “Take, for example, the matter of resources. A thousand men, well-trained and equipped, would not be an inconsiderable undertaking for even the wealthiest of courts. And, as I am sure Your Grace is aware, neither the imperial treasury nor the Church’s coffers are in a position to lavishly fund such an expedition without consequence. We, too, have our responsibilities—the poor, the sick, the faithful who depend on us. If we are to support this venture, one must ask: where will the sacrifices fall? And who, ultimately, will shoulder the burden?”

Felix paused, tilting his head slightly as though weighing his own words. “Then there is the matter of Basiliscus,” he continued, his voice light but edged with something sharper. “He is, as you say, a usurper. Yet he holds Constantinople, commands its bureaucracy, and, for the moment, projects stability to those who value such things above all else. To aid Zeno, a man cast from power, is to gamble not only on his ability to reclaim the throne but also on his capacity to hold it once restored. Should he fail—and failure, as you must know, is a distinct possibility—we would have declared ourselves against the man who remains in power. And such declarations are rarely forgotten.”

Andronikos, who had been silent until now, stepped forward slightly, his presence commanding attention despite his understated demeanor. His tone, when he spoke, was measured, almost conversational, but carried the weight of a scholar unraveling a crucial thread.

“Your Excellency,” he began, addressing Felix with a respectful incline of his head, “you speak of Basiliscus projecting stability, yet I wonder if such stability is merely a facade. The usurper’s dealings with the Miaphysites have not gone unnoticed. His overtures to their cause may have secured him some support in the East, but they have also alienated many who hold to the Chalcedonian Creed. Indeed, Basiliscus has walked a dangerous line, issuing edicts that have stirred resentment among the orthodox faithful of Constantinople.”

Andronikos paused, his gaze steady, allowing the implications of his words to settle before continuing. “It is no secret that Basiliscus’s attempts to appease the Miaphysites are seen by many as a betrayal of the faith, an opportunistic maneuver rather than a true commitment. This has created deep divisions in the East—a fracture that, if left to fester, could weaken not only his claim but also the spiritual unity of Christendom.”

Romulus’s expression sharpened, his mind seizing upon Andronikos’s point with practiced precision. He leaned forward, his voice gaining a quiet intensity. “Your Excellency, consider what this means for the Church. Basiliscus’s policies threaten to deepen the rift between East and West, a rift that has already strained our shared faith. But what if the Church of the West could be seen as the savior of the Eastern faithful? Imagine how this expedition could be framed—not merely as a political maneuver, but as a mission of spiritual unity. A thousand soldiers bearing not just swords, but the strength of faith, sent to aid an emperor who holds to orthodoxy against a usurper who compromises it.”

He paused, allowing his words to linger, before continuing with growing fervor. “The Church in the West could be the bridge that spans this divide. By aiding Zeno, we would not only restore him to his throne but also reaffirm the authority of the Chalcedonian Creed. The faithful in Constantinople and beyond would see the West not as distant and indifferent, but as their steadfast ally, a protector of true doctrine.”

Felix’s expression shifted ever so slightly—an almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes, a subtle tightening at the corners of his mouth. Romulus pressed on, his youthful voice now carrying the cadence of conviction. “This is not merely about power, Your Excellency. It is about the soul of Christendom. If we stand idle, we risk allowing Basiliscus to reshape the Eastern Church in a way that further estranges it from us. But if we act, we send a message that reverberates across the empire—that the West does not merely protect its own but also guards the faith of all believers.”

He leaned back slightly, his gaze steady. “This mission could achieve something far greater than restoring an emperor or securing an alliance. It could heal wounds that have long divided East and West, proving that we are united not just by history, but by belief. And the Church, Your Excellency, would stand at the heart of this renewal.”

Felix studied Romulus for a long moment, his practiced mask of neutrality showing the faintest crack of intrigue. His fingers drummed softly on the armrest of his chair, a measured rhythm that betrayed a mind weighing new possibilities. Andronikos stood silently beside the young emperor, his presence a quiet but undeniable endorsement of the vision Romulus had just outlined.

Felix leaned back in his chair, the faint smile still lingering but now accompanied by a glimmer of something else—perhaps respect, perhaps genuine curiosity. His fingers stopped their rhythmic drumming, and he clasped his hands lightly together as he regarded the young emperor.

“Your Grace,” he began, his tone slower, almost contemplative, “you surprise me. I confess, I expected a vision. Bold words and ideals, yes, but this… this is something more. You are not merely dreaming of unity; you are taking steps to make it a reality. That much is evident.” His eyes narrowed slightly, his voice gaining a note of weight. “What you propose is uncertain, yes—but it is also, I admit, a worthy cause.”

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He paused, the silence deliberate, a tool to emphasize the gravity of his next words. “A cause worthy of the Church’s involvement.”

Felix inclined his head toward Andronikos, acknowledging the Greek’s earlier intervention. “Andronikos speaks truthfully about Basiliscus. His dealings with the Miaphysites sow discord, and his rule is already a source of division within Constantinople. This endeavor of yours, Your Grace, has the potential not only to restore Zeno but to affirm the orthodoxy that binds our faith.”

Romulus’s posture remained steady, but a faint flicker of satisfaction crossed his expression. Felix noticed, and for the first time, his smile seemed almost genuine.

“Very well,” the bishop continued. “If this is to be done, it must be done properly. The Church will not merely lend its name to your cause; it will act as its steward. I will appoint a suitable negotiator to oversee our involvement—someone who can ensure that the spiritual aspects of this mission remain paramount. This cannot appear to be solely a political gambit, or it risks alienating the very faithful you seek to inspire.”

Felix’s gaze shifted, more calculating now. “As for resources… I will see to it that enough funds are collected to finance the expedition. It will not be easy, Your Grace. There will be sacrifices, and not all will agree with this use of the Church’s wealth. But I believe the cause can justify the cost.” He let the weight of his words settle before his expression turned ever so slightly sharper. “Provided, of course, that certain assurances are met.”

Romulus inclined his head, his voice steady. “And what assurances would the Church require, Your Excellency?”

Felix’s smile returned, measured and deliberate. “The Holy Father is not a young man. His health wanes, and though we pray for his continued service, the reality of this mortal world cannot be ignored. When the time comes, and the See of Saint Peter falls vacant, I trust that the true ruler of Rome will recognize the importance of ensuring a worthy successor—one who understands the delicate balance of faith and governance.”

The request, veiled in the gentlest of terms, hung in the air, its implications clear. Felix’s demeanor betrayed no overt demand, but his eyes revealed the stakes he was setting. This was not merely about Zeno or Basiliscus; it was about the Church’s long-term influence.

Romulus allowed himself a measured pause, his expression contemplative as though he were carefully weighing Felix’s words. When he spoke, his tone was calm but carried a quiet determination that seemed to lend weight to his youthful voice.

“Your Excellency,” he began, leaning forward slightly, “your counsel is invaluable, and your pledge of support means more to me than words can convey. Yet, if we are to embark on this shared endeavor, we must think not only of the immediate task but also of the foundation we are laying for the future.”

His gaze met Felix’s directly, unwavering. “The unity we seek to foster between East and West cannot merely rest on the shoulders of one campaign or even the restoration of an emperor. It must be strengthened through the bonds of understanding, education, and faith. To this end, I must ask for your assurance that the Church will not hinder my plans to expand schools and institutions of learning throughout the empire.”

Felix’s expression barely shifted, but the faintest flicker of surprise crossed his features. “Schools, Your Grace? An admirable vision, no doubt, but one that often comes with complications.”

Romulus inclined his head, acknowledging the subtle skepticism. “I understand the concerns, Your Excellency. Education, especially when accessible to the broader populace, can challenge established norms. But it is precisely this that makes it vital. A more educated citizenry is a stronger one, and a stronger Rome is a Rome that endures. These schools would not only teach the classical arts and sciences but would instill the values that have guided Rome and the Church for centuries. They would reinforce the very faith we seek to uphold.”

Felix’s faint smile returned, though his eyes betrayed his continued calculation. “A noble aspiration, Your Grace. Yet, aspirations often require time—and time is not always a luxury we possess.”

Romulus’s gaze sharpened, and his voice gained a touch of resolve. “Then let me offer you time. I pledge to you, Your Excellency, that within seven years, I will see the wrongs committed against the faithful by the Vandals in North Africa avenged. I will restore not only the empire’s control over those lands but also the Church’s rightful authority. The martyrs who fell under Vandal persecution will not be forgotten, and their sacrifice will be honored.”

The brazier crackled softly in the corner, the only sound as Felix regarded the young emperor in silence. His fingers tapped lightly on the armrest of his chair, the motion slow and deliberate. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost amused, but there was a newfound respect beneath it.

“Seven years is a bold timeline, Your Grace,” Felix said, the faintest edge of a smile curling at his lips. “And boldness, I am learning, is something you seem to possess in abundance. But seven years is also a long time. Let us first see what you accomplish by the end of the next.”

Felix leaned forward slightly, his expression softening but still carrying the weight of his authority. “If you can deliver on this first promise—this campaign for Zeno—then you will find the Church a willing partner in your greater aspirations. Until then, Your Grace, consider my support… provisional. Faith, after all, must be tested.”

Romulus inclined his head, accepting the bishop’s terms with quiet composure.

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As the heavy oak doors of the chamber swung shut behind Romulus and Andronikos, the silence lingered, broken only by the soft crackle of the brazier. Felix remained seated, his posture relaxed but his mind clearly at work. A faint rustle came from a shadowed alcove near the far wall, and a figure emerged—a thin, ascetic-looking priest clad in simple robes, his face weathered but sharp with intelligence.

The priest moved with quiet purpose, stopping a respectful distance from Felix. His voice, when he spoke, was low and measured, though tinged with skepticism. “A child’s dreams, Your Excellency. Foolishness cloaked in ambition. Surely, you cannot believe in such an endeavor?”

Felix didn’t immediately respond. He clasped his hands lightly, his gaze fixed on the brazier’s flickering flames as though pondering the priest’s words. After a moment, he leaned back in his chair, a faint smile playing at the edges of his lips.

“Dreams, yes,” Felix murmured, his tone thoughtful, almost contemplative. “But not without merit. The boy speaks with conviction, and conviction—misguided or not—has a way of moving men. More importantly, his vision offers opportunities, regardless of its success.”

The priest’s brow furrowed. “Opportunities, Your Excellency? For whom? Surely not the Church, should this foolhardy campaign fail.”

Felix turned his gaze to the priest, his expression sharpening ever so slightly. “You underestimate the beauty of this arrangement, my friend. If the boy succeeds, we—no, I—shall be remembered as the guiding hand that brought the Church into this glorious moment of unity. The restoration of Zeno, the affirmation of the Chalcedonian Creed, the salvation of Christendom’s soul—all achieved under my counsel. And should the pope’s chair fall vacant in the near future, who better to occupy it than the man who safeguarded the faith at such a critical juncture?”

The priest inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the logic but still hesitant. “And if he fails?”

Felix’s smile widened, a touch of something cold flickering behind his eyes. “If he fails, my dear friend, the burden will fall squarely upon his shoulders. A young emperor who overreached, who gambled the empire’s fragile resources on a cause beyond his grasp. I will be the loyal servant of the Church, who acted in good faith to support a noble but ultimately misguided effort. In the eyes of the faithful, I shall remain unblemished—a defender of orthodoxy and a voice of reason amid the storm.”

He gestured lightly, the movement elegant and deliberate. “It will cost us little—five thousand solidi, a fraction of what the empire itself must contribute. A mere trifle, yet one that ensures the Church’s place at the center of this drama, no matter the outcome.”

The priest frowned, his skepticism lingering. “It is still a risk, Your Excellency. The boy may yet prove more capable than he seems. Ambition is a dangerous thing, especially in one so young.”

Felix chuckled softly, the sound devoid of true mirth. “Ambition, yes. But ambition without guidance is like a sword without a hilt—dangerous to the wielder as much as to his enemies. Let the boy dream. Let him try to grasp the world with both hands. In the end, he will need us far more than we need him.”

He rose smoothly from his chair, the motion almost regal, and moved toward the brazier, his silhouette framed by the soft glow of the fire. “The Church will prosper, regardless of the boy’s fate. And I, my friend, shall see that our position remains unassailable.”

The priest inclined his head in silent acquiescence, his reservations unspoken but understood.

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The modest room chosen for the meeting was far less grand than the council chamber where Romulus had sparred with Felix, but it carried its own weight of authority. Thick tapestries muffled the chill of the stone walls, and the heavy table at the center bore the marks of countless deliberations over the years. Senator Quintus Marcellus, a man of middle age with streaks of silver in his hair and a calculating gaze, sat at one end. His fingers traced idle patterns on the table’s edge as he studied the young emperor and his Greek advisor.

“Your Grace,” Marcellus said, his voice calm but carrying the undertones of curiosity, “you’ve called upon me at an unusual hour. This alone piques my interest. But I must ask—why the urgency?”

Romulus, seated opposite the senator, offered a faint smile. Andronikos stood to his right, his expression unreadable but his posture taut, as though bracing for what was to come.

“We require your support, Senator Marcellus,” Romulus began, his voice steady and deliberate. “A council meeting has been called for tomorrow, and I need men of vision—men like you—to stand with me.”

Marcellus’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Support? For what purpose, Your Grace? Surely you understand that aligning oneself with any proposal requires clarity.”

Romulus leaned forward slightly, his expression carefully measured. “You are aware of the situation in the East—the chaos wrought by Basiliscus and the tenuous position of Emperor Zeno.”

Marcellus inclined his head, his curiosity deepening. “I am. Constantinople is a hornet’s nest, one that we in the West would do well to avoid disturbing.”

Romulus smiled faintly, as if anticipating the remark. “And yet, Senator, it is precisely in such chaos that opportunity lies. Zeno has reached out to us, seeking aid to reclaim his throne. This is our chance to demonstrate that the West is not merely a distant shadow of its former self but a decisive force in the affairs of the empire.”

Marcellus straightened slightly in his chair, his fingers ceasing their movement. “You propose to involve us in the Eastern court’s intrigues? I cannot imagine that your father would approve of such... boldness.”

Romulus did not flinch. “My father values results, as do I. And this is not mere intrigue, Senator—it is strategy. I intend to send a thousand men to Zeno’s aid, a small but significant force to tip the balance. The Church already supports this endeavor, and now I seek the council’s broader approval.”

Marcellus’s lips pressed into a thin line, his skepticism clear. “A thousand men, Your Grace? While our own defenses are stretched thin? Surely you must see the risk in this.”

Before Romulus could reply, Andronikos shifted, his sharp intake of breath signaling unease. But the young emperor cut him off with a calm, almost practiced response.

“You are right, Senator. A thousand men alone would not suffice. That is why I have already secured commitments for an additional eight thousand troops.”

Andronikos visibly started, his hand gripping the back of Romulus’s chair for support. “Eight thousand?” he blurted, unable to mask his shock.

Marcellus’s reaction was equally incredulous, his eyes widening as he leaned forward. “Eight thousand? Where in Jupiter’s name do you intend to find such forces, Your Grace?”

Romulus’s expression remained composed, though a spark of challenge gleamed in his eyes. “I have called upon veterans who remain loyal to the empire, men who have grown weary of idleness and seek purpose once more. They will not only serve in the East but also bolster our defenses upon their return, ensuring Rome’s strength is not diminished.”

Marcellus studied the young emperor in silence, his mind clearly racing to process the implications. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and cautious. “This is... ambitious, to say the least. But you must understand, Your Grace, that ambition alone will not sway the council. They will demand assurances—practical ones.”

Romulus nodded, his tone softening but not losing its edge. “I understand, Senator. And I also understand that men such as yourself have their own concerns, their own priorities. Consider this: should this endeavor succeed, the expansion of Rome’s influence will create opportunities for all its loyal sons. For example, a fortified watchtower and a garrison strategically placed near your estates in Picenum would not only secure the region but also demonstrate the empire’s renewed commitment to its provinces.”

Marcellus’s gaze narrowed, his sharp mind catching the underlying offer. “A watchtower and a garrison, Your Grace? That would indeed be a... prudent investment.”

Romulus allowed a faint smile, sensing the senator’s shift. “Prudence is the hallmark of great leadership, Senator. Support me tomorrow, and I assure you, the rewards will be tangible—not just for you, but for all who stand with us.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the distant sounds of the city beyond the thick stone walls. Marcellus sat back in his chair, his calculating gaze flicking between Romulus and Andronikos. At last, he inclined his head, a gesture of cautious approval.

“You make a compelling case, Your Grace. I will speak with my allies. We will stand with you—provided, of course, that your promises hold.”

“They will,” Romulus said firmly, rising from his chair. “Together, Senator, we will remind the world of Rome’s strength.”

As Andronikos and Romulus exited the room, the Greek leaned close to the young emperor, his voice a hushed hiss. “Eight thousand troops? Have you lost your mind?”

Romulus’s stride didn’t falter as he moved down the corridor, his hands clasped behind his back, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips. He glanced sideways at Andronikos, who looked like he might collapse from sheer exasperation.

“I haven’t lost my mind, Andronikos,” Romulus said, his tone calm but tinged with a quiet intensity. “I have a plan.”

Andronikos raised a skeptical brow. “A plan that involves conjuring eight thousand troops from thin air? Forgive me, Your Grace, but unless you’ve learned sorcery, I fail to see how this ends in anything other than humiliation.”

Romulus chuckled softly, pausing at a window overlooking the city. The flickering torchlight of Ravenna’s streets reflected in his eyes as he spoke. “Not sorcery. Deception. There will come a general in the far future—Erwin Rommel, the Desert Fox. He will master the art of making his forces seem far greater than they are, fooling even the sharpest minds of his enemies.”

Andronikos blinked, caught off guard. “Rommel? This... Desert Fox? You’re speaking of the future again. And what exactly did this Rommel do?”

Romulus turned to face his advisor fully, his expression thoughtful. “He moved his forces in circles. Used the same soldiers, the same vehicles, and paraded them in ways that gave the illusion of a vast army. His enemies believed they were outnumbered, outmaneuvered. It won him victories he could not have achieved otherwise.”

Andronikos’s initial incredulity faded into quiet contemplation as the idea took root. “You’re suggesting we apply this... illusion to our current predicament? Recycle our troops and make them appear greater in number?”

“Exactly,” Romulus said, his voice firm. “We gather what forces we can—veterans, the militia we’re training, even the Palatine Guard. We parade them in and out of Ravenna, change their banners, their tunics, and ensure they are seen in different formations across the city and its outskirts. By the time we’re done, no one will doubt we have the strength I claimed.”

Andronikos exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. “It’s audacious. Reckless, even. But it might just work.” He glanced at Romulus, his tone turning serious. “This will require coordination, precision, and discipline. Gaius Severus must be involved. He has the experience and authority to organize such a ruse.”

Romulus nodded. “Then we’ll bring Gaius into this. He’ll see the value in it. But there’s more—this is not just about deceiving the Senate. If we can execute this illusion effectively, it will bolster morale among the people and soldiers alike. They’ll believe in the strength of Rome once more.”

Andronikos regarded the young emperor carefully, a mix of admiration and apprehension in his gaze. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Romulus. If this ruse is exposed—”

“It won’t be,” Romulus interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. “It can’t be. We’ll ensure the movements are seamless, the disguises impeccable. By the time anyone questions the truth, the Council’s support will be locked, the Church’s funds secured, and Zeno restored.”

Andronikos sighed, shaking his head with a faint smile. “You’re a madman, Romulus. But perhaps a brilliant one.”

Romulus’s expression softened, though his eyes remained resolute. “Madness and brilliance are often the same thing, Andronikos. Now, let’s find Gaius. There’s much to prepare before tomorrow’s council meeting.”