18. Chapter_The Last Roman

The echo of polished boots against marble filled the palace corridors as Senator Gaius Lepidus made his way toward the Council chamber. The brisk cadence of his steps was mirrored by the retinue of loyal lackeys flanking him, their faces schooled into expressions of deference. At his side walked Senator Marcus Pollio, a heavyset man with a perpetual sneer, his jowls quivering faintly as he muttered under his breath.

“Another assassination attempt,” Pollio grumbled, his voice low but brimming with disdain. “It’s becoming a tradition, isn’t it? An emperor rises, an emperor falls. Always the same song, just a different verse.”

Lepidus chuckled softly, the sound rich with sardonic amusement. “Indeed, Pollio. The purple changes hands as often as the seasons now. A pity the boy survived—though I hear the attack was quite the spectacle.”

One of the younger lackeys, a wiry man with an eager expression, leaned closer. “Do we know who orchestrated it, Senator? The streets whisper many things—mercenaries, discontented veterans, even Odoacer’s agents.”

Lepidus waved a dismissive hand, his gold ring catching the light. “The streets always whisper nonsense, boy. Odoacer is too cunning to be so overt, and as for discontented veterans—well, who isn’t discontented these days?” He smirked, his gaze sharp as he glanced over his shoulder. “But let us not distract ourselves with speculation. If the attempt had succeeded, we’d be discussing the next emperor by now.”

Pollio snorted. “Or the next puppet. First Orestes, now the boy. And who comes after him, I wonder? Perhaps we should start drafting our allegiance to the next usurper in advance—save ourselves the trouble later.”

The lackeys chuckled nervously, though their laughter faded quickly as Lepidus’s expression darkened.

“Careful, Pollio,” Lepidus said, his voice low and dangerous. “The boy may be a fool, but his father’s ears are everywhere. And until he falls—naturally or otherwise—it is best we maintain appearances.”

Pollio raised his hands in mock surrender, though his smirk lingered. “Of course, of course. Loyalty to the emperor. For now.”

They reached a wide corridor lined with mosaics depicting the glory of Rome—scenes of triumphal processions, gods bestowing favor upon emperors, and legions marching beneath standards. Lepidus’s gaze lingered briefly on one mosaic: a young emperor, laurel-crowned, standing triumphant on a chariot. He allowed himself a faint smile.

“Do you think he knows?” Pollio asked, breaking the silence.

“About the attempt? Likely. About its source?” Lepidus shook his head. “Doubtful. The boy is sharp, I’ll give him that, but he’s also young. He’ll suspect everyone and trust no one—which, ironically, works in our favor.”

One of the lackeys, a gaunt man with sunken eyes, spoke hesitantly. “But what if he uncovers the truth, Senator? If he were to—”

Lepidus silenced the gaunt man with a sharp wave of his hand. His voice dropped to a low, measured tone, enough to make the lackeys flinch. “We will speak of such things in private, Pollio,” he said, his words a veiled warning. His piercing gaze flicked over his entourage, ensuring their silence was absolute. “Loose tongues have brought down greater men than you.”

The group continued in silence for a few moments, the air taut with unspoken tension. As the ornate doors of the Council chamber loomed closer, Lepidus allowed himself a rare, calculating smile. “Cassinius will not break,” he said suddenly, his voice confident. “He knows his fate, and he knows the cost of disloyalty. If the boy’s trial is meant to rattle us, it will fail.”

Pollio’s smirk returned, though it was tempered with caution this time. “Let us hope your faith is well-placed, Lepidus. Betrayals have a way of spreading like a sickness.”

“Then let us ensure the cure is swift and decisive,” Lepidus replied, his tone unyielding. “Enough. Take your seats and wear your masks well.”

As they entered the grand chamber, the low hum of conversation swirled around them. Senators clustered in small groups, their voices hushed and their expressions a mixture of wariness and calculation. In one corner stood influential figures from the Church, their expressions guarded but attentive. Opposite them, guild representatives and craftsmen sat in modest seats, their presence a stark reminder of the emperor’s recent concessions to these so-called “pillars of the city.” Their advisory role was clear, yet Lepidus’s lip curled in disdain.

“The plebs among us,” Lepidus muttered under his breath to Pollio, his tone dripping with contempt. “How far we have fallen. Rome’s glory reduced to sharing its halls with tradesmen.”

Pollio snickered quietly, his jowls quivering with amusement. “Perhaps the next session will be held in the forum, Lepidus, so the fishmongers and beggars can have their say as well.”

Lepidus’s sharp eyes moved across the room, landing on Crassus standing near the Church delegates. The man’s upright posture and keen gaze were unmistakable; he was no mere observer. Crassus, the eyes and ears of Orestes, stood like a sentry, ever watchful, and infuriatingly loyal to the boy emperor’s father. Lepidus suppressed a sneer, knowing full well that every word spoken in the chamber would find its way back to Orestes. Crassus was a thorn in his side—a man impossible to bribe or sway, bound by his loyalty to Orestes’s vision of power.

Lepidus turned his gaze forward as the heavy doors at the far end of the chamber swung open, silencing the murmurs.

Romulus Augustus entered, flanked by his Greek advisor Andronikos and the imposing figure of Gaius Severus. Behind them marched the emperor’s newly appointed guard captain, Magnus, and a contingent of armored men whose presence alone commanded respect. The boy emperor’s arrival was a stark contrast to the bickering senators; his calm determination exuded an authority far beyond his years.

Lepidus’s sneer deepened as he noted the calculated placement of Magnus and his loyal guards near the emperor’s seat. A performance, clearly, but one meant to intimidate. The boy was learning how to wield fear, a dangerous lesson in the wrong hands.

Romulus ascended to his chair, his hands resting lightly on the arms as he surveyed the gathered assembly. He allowed the silence to linger, commanding the room with an unspoken challenge. When he spoke, his voice was steady and measured, carrying across the chamber with practiced clarity.

“Senators, Church leaders, esteemed representatives,” Romulus began, acknowledging the mixed assembly with a slight nod, “before we address the matters of this council, I must first speak of the cowardly attack upon my life.”

A ripple of murmurs swept through the chamber, quickly stilled by the emperor’s raised hand.

“This treachery was not only an affront to me but to Rome itself,” Romulus continued, his gaze sweeping the room. “Such actions threaten the stability of our empire, the trust of our people, and the unity of this council. Let it be known that the perpetrator, Cassinius, will face a fair trial in five days.”

Lepidus kept his expression carefully neutral, though his mind raced. The boy’s choice to announce the trial publicly was bold, perhaps reckless. It left little room for maneuvering but ensured all eyes were on the accused—and by extension, on the council itself.

As Romulus’s gaze briefly swept over him, Lepidus felt the boy’s scrutiny, a flicker of something unreadable in the emperor’s young eyes. Then Romulus continued, his tone firm. “Justice will prevail, as it must. But let us not allow treachery to overshadow the duties we owe to Rome. We have much to discuss, and the future of the empire demands our focus.”

Crassus shifted slightly, his piercing gaze fixed on Lepidus for a moment before returning to the emperor. The man’s presence was a constant reminder that any overt misstep could bring Orestes’s wrath down upon them. Lepidus leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he observed the emperor. The boy was playing the part well—for now. But Lepidus knew the true test would come during the trial, and Cassinius’s silence would be critical. He allowed a faint, sardonic smile to touch his lips.

The faint smile on Lepidus’s lips faltered as Romulus rose from his seat once more, clearing his throat. The emperor’s posture remained composed, his hands clasped lightly in front of him. The gathered assembly quieted, sensing that he had more to say.

“There is another matter of great importance that I must bring before this council,” Romulus began, his voice steady and deliberate. “It concerns not only the stability of the empire but the future of our shared destiny.”

Lepidus’s brow furrowed slightly as murmurs rippled through the chamber. Pollio leaned in close, his expression one of bemused skepticism. “What is the boy up to now?”

Romulus continued, undeterred by the whispers. “As you all know, our neighbors to the East have been embroiled in a conflict that threatens to destabilize the entire region. Emperor Zeno’s position remains precarious, and the usurper Basiliscus continues to consolidate power. It is in this climate of uncertainty that an opportunity has arisen—an opportunity for the West to demonstrate its strength and solidarity with Constantinople.”

Lepidus stiffened, disbelief beginning to creep into his features. “Surely he’s not about to suggest—” he muttered under his breath.

Romulus’s gaze swept the room, his tone growing more resolute. “I propose an expedition to the East. A small, disciplined force will be sent to aid Emperor Zeno in reclaiming his throne and stabilizing the Eastern Empire. This will not only secure a critical ally but also reaffirm Rome’s influence and unity across both halves of the empire.”

A stunned silence filled the chamber, followed by an explosion of incredulous murmurs. Lepidus’s lips parted in shock, Pollio’s jaw practically dropping beside him.

“An expedition?” Pollio hissed. “Has the boy gone mad?”

Lepidus quickly regained his composure, narrowing his eyes as he studied the emperor. Romulus stood firm, undeterred by the rising waves of disbelief.

The emperor raised a hand, silencing the chamber. “I understand your concerns,” he said, his tone firm but calm. “This is not a decision I have made lightly. The Church has pledged its support for this endeavor, both morally and financially.”

Lepidus’s gaze flicked toward the Church representatives, noting their careful neutrality. Bishop Felix inclined his head slightly, his expression measured but supportive—a calculated display that only deepened Lepidus’s suspicion.

Romulus pressed on, his voice steady. “This mission is not just about aiding the East. It is a statement—a declaration that Rome remains a force to be reckoned with, a beacon of strength and unity in a fractured world.”

Before the murmurs could rise again, Romulus added, “And to ensure the stability of Rome and Italy during this endeavor, I have taken steps to bolster our defenses.”

Lepidus leaned forward, his sharp eyes fixed on the emperor. “What steps?” he muttered under his breath, his unease growing.

Romulus’s next words sent a ripple of shock through the room. “Additional troops have been enlisted to safeguard the heart of the empire. They will arrive in Ravenna in five days, on the very day of the trial.”

Pollio choked on his breath, his face reddening. Lepidus clenched his jaw, struggling to maintain his calm exterior. The boy’s confidence was unnerving, his every move calculated to catch them off guard.

“This is madness,” Pollio hissed, his voice barely audible over the renewed murmurs. “He’s consolidating power. This isn’t about the East—it’s about tightening his grip here.”

Lepidus’s brow furrowed slightly as murmurs rippled through the chamber. Pollio leaned in close, his expression one of bemused skepticism. “What is the boy up to now?”

Lepidus stiffened, disbelief beginning to creep into his features. “Surely he’s not about to suggest—” he muttered under his breath.

A stunned silence filled the chamber, followed by an explosion of incredulous murmurs. Lepidus’s lips parted in shock, Pollio’s jaw practically dropping beside him. Even Crassus, who had stood impassively near the Church representatives, shifted visibly, his eyes narrowing in surprise. The reaction did not escape Lepidus, whose keen gaze lingered on Crassus for a moment.

“An expedition?” Pollio hissed. “Has the boy gone mad?”

Lepidus quickly regained his composure, narrowing his eyes as he studied the emperor. Romulus stood firm, undeterred by the rising waves of disbelief.

Lepidus’s gaze flicked toward the Church representatives. Bishop Felix inclined his head slightly, his expression measured but supportive. Lepidus couldn’t suppress a flicker of irritation at the calculated display—Felix had clearly orchestrated this alliance with the emperor, a move Lepidus hadn’t fully anticipated. That Crassus, Orestes’s man, appeared equally blindsided only deepened Lepidus’s unease.

Before the murmurs could rise again, Romulus added, “And to ensure the stability of Rome and Italy during this endeavor, I have taken steps to bolster our defenses.”

Lepidus leaned forward, his sharp eyes fixed on the emperor. “What steps?” he muttered under his breath, his unease growing.

The chamber erupted. Pollio choked on his breath, his face reddening. Lepidus clenched his jaw, struggling to maintain his calm exterior. Across the room, Crassus looked momentarily stunned before his expression hardened, his sharp gaze locking on the emperor.

“This is madness,” Pollio hissed, his voice barely audible over the renewed murmurs. “He’s consolidating power. This isn’t about the East—it’s about tightening his grip here.”

Lepidus didn’t respond immediately, his mind racing. The timing was no coincidence; the arrival of troops on the day of the trial was a clear show of force, a warning to anyone who might oppose the emperor. His sharp eyes darted back to Crassus, who stood rigid, clearly blindsided by the announcement. Lepidus’s unease deepened—if even Orestes’s trusted lieutenant had been kept in the dark, then the boy’s plans were more audacious than he’d imagined.

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Romulus, seemingly unbothered by the uproar, raised his hand once more, his voice cutting through the noise. “The Church has been instrumental in securing this initiative,” he said, emphasizing the word Church with deliberate weight. “Their unwavering support demonstrates the unity of faith and state in these uncertain times. Together, we will ensure the safety and prosperity of Rome.”

Felix inclined his head again, this time with a faint smile that did little to mask his satisfaction. Lepidus’s stomach churned. The Church’s overt support was a masterstroke, insulating Romulus from immediate criticism and framing his actions as divinely sanctioned. The boy had learned how to play the game—and he was playing to win.

Lepidus leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he watched Romulus take his seat once more. The emperor’s calm confidence was unnerving, and Lepidus couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d underestimated him.

The stunned silence in the chamber lingered for only a moment before it fractured into heated murmurs. Pollio, his face still red with disbelief, was the first to speak aloud.

“Your Grace,” he began, his tone barely respectful, “surely you must see the folly in this! Sending troops to the East when Italy itself teeters on the edge of collapse? Our coffers are strained, our provinces undermanned. How can we spare men for such an expedition?”

Romulus, seated once more, regarded Pollio with a steady gaze. His calm demeanor contrasted starkly with the senator’s visible agitation. “Senator Pollio,” he replied, his voice measured, “do you not see the interconnectedness of our fates? The instability in the East affects the West as surely as the tides are moved by the moon. Refugees, raiders, trade disruptions—all these will worsen if the East collapses further.”

Pollio leaned forward, his jowls quivering. “And what of our own defenses, Your Grace? What of the brigands that harass our countryside, the dwindling forces stationed at our borders? Do you think the Eastern Empire will send us aid in return? Constantinople has always looked after its own interests first.”

Before Romulus could respond, another senator rose. It was Quintus Marcellus, a younger man whose silver-streaked hair and calm demeanor marked him as a voice of moderation. His support for Romulus had been quiet but consistent in recent sessions. Now, he addressed the chamber, his tone thoughtful.

“Colleagues,” Marcellus began, “I understand the concerns raised by Senator Pollio, but I urge you to consider the broader picture. A strong Eastern Empire is not merely an ally—it is a buffer against the rising powers beyond the Danube and the Euphrates. If Basiliscus consolidates his power, his alliances with the Miaphysites could fracture Christendom further, weakening Rome’s position both spiritually and politically.”

Pollio sneered, waving a hand dismissively. “Spiritual unity will not fill our granaries or guard our borders, Marcellus. Let the East solve its own problems. We must focus on our own survival.”

Marcellus turned to face Pollio directly, his expression firm. “And if the East falls, do you believe the West will stand for long? We are not the Rome of Augustus or Trajan. Our resources are diminished, our armies stretched thin. Without allies, we are vulnerable. This expedition, though costly, is an investment in stability.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through a portion of the chamber. Bishop Felix, watching the exchange with sharp interest, rose from his seat.

“The Church,” Felix intoned, his voice rich with authority, “has pledged its support for this endeavor because it sees not only the temporal benefits but also the spiritual imperative. The unity of Rome and Constantinople under the Chalcedonian Creed is a goal worthy of sacrifice. To abandon the East now would be to abandon our shared faith to heretics and opportunists.”

Lepidus’s eyes narrowed as he watched the chamber shift subtly. The Church’s endorsement carried significant weight, and Felix wielded it with precision. The crafty bishop had positioned himself as both a moral authority and a political power, leaving little room for dissent.

Romulus seized the moment, his voice cutting through the renewed murmurs. “Senators, I understand that this proposal demands much of us. But consider this: the additional troops arriving in Ravenna will not only secure our home but also serve as a visible reminder of Rome’s enduring strength. This is not an act of recklessness; it is a calculated move to ensure our survival and to project unity in a time of division.”

Pollio opened his mouth to retort, but Marcellus cut him off. “I, for one, support this measure,” Marcellus declared, his voice firm. “If Rome is to endure, we must act boldly. To cower behind our walls while the world crumbles around us is to invite our own downfall.”

More murmurs followed, some in agreement, others in quiet dissent. Lepidus sat silently, his fingers steepled as he studied the room. His mind raced, calculating the risks and benefits of opposing or supporting the measure. Crassus, meanwhile, remained stoic, though the tension in his jaw suggested his surprise had not fully dissipated.

Romulus let the chamber simmer for a moment before speaking again, his tone resolute. “The council will have its say, as it always does. But know this: Rome cannot afford inaction. The choice before us is clear—act now and secure our future, or wait and watch as it slips through our fingers.”

The emperor’s words hung in the air, a challenge as much as a plea. Lepidus leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes flicking to Pollio, whose face remained flushed with frustration. The boy had played his hand well, Lepidus thought begrudgingly. Too well.

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Romulus leaned back against the carved wooden chair in his private chamber, the weight of the council session still pressing on him. The flickering light from a bronze oil lamp played against the frescoed walls, casting shifting shadows across his contemplative face. Andronikos stood near the door, his arms crossed, while Gaius Severus remained seated in silence, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

The sound of hurried footsteps broke the quiet. Romulus straightened, his sharp eyes fixed on the door as Crassus entered without ceremony, his face a mask of restrained anger and confusion. The room stilled, the tension palpable.

“Your Grace,” Crassus began, his voice measured but carrying an edge. “May I speak freely?”

Romulus nodded, gesturing for him to continue. “Always, Crassus.”

Crassus’s eyes narrowed as he stepped closer. “What is happening here? An expedition to the East? Additional troops? Why was I not informed? And has the Magister Militum approved any of this?”

Romulus held his gaze, his expression calm but firm. “Because I deemed it necessary to act decisively, Crassus. The council needed a bold move to rally behind.”

Crassus’s voice rose slightly, the control in his tone fraying. “Bold, yes. Reckless, perhaps. Do you understand the position this puts your father in? The Magister Militum commands the army. Any deployment, any enlistment—those decisions are his to make, not yours, Your Grace. Have you even consulted him?”

Romulus’s voice remained steady. “I have kept my father informed. He is aware of my actions, and I trust you will do the same. Let us see what he has to say when he learns of the full situation.”

Crassus faltered, caught off guard. “He… knows of this?”

“He does,” Romulus confirmed, his tone unyielding. “I may be young, Crassus, but I do not act without consideration for the greater picture. My father placed me in this position, and I will not fail him—or Rome.”

Crassus’s jaw tightened. “The additional troops you mentioned—where are they coming from? And who is paying for them?”

Romulus stepped closer, his voice low but resolute. “The Church has pledged funds, as I stated. The troops are veterans and militias being reorganized under Gaius’s supervision. They are disciplined men, eager to serve.”

Crassus turned sharply toward Gaius, his frustration evident. “You knew of this?”

“I did,” Gaius replied, his voice as calm as ever. “And I approved. These are seasoned soldiers. They’ve seen battle and are ready for purpose. They will serve Rome well.”

Crassus shook his head, his frustration simmering. “Purpose is one thing, but an army needs cohesion and resources—all of which take time. You’ve just announced their arrival to the entire council. What happens if they fail to meet expectations? Or worse, if they never arrive?”

“They will arrive,” Romulus said, his tone brooking no argument. “And they will meet expectations. I have ensured it.”

Crassus studied him for a moment, his gaze searching. “Your father may not take kindly to being circumvented, even if you’ve informed him.”

Romulus’s eyes sharpened. “I have not circumvented him, Crassus. He entrusted me with this authority, and I am exercising it. Inform him of everything—if I have erred, he will tell me. But in his absence, Rome requires action, not endless debates.”

Crassus stared at him for a long moment, his expression caught between frustration and reluctant respect. Finally, he exhaled sharply, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Very well, Your Grace. But understand this—announcements like today’s cannot become the norm. Without unity among your advisors, bold actions can become dangerous gambles.”

“I understand,” Romulus said, his voice softening slightly. “And I value your counsel, Crassus. But I also understand that boldness is required to steer Rome through this storm.”

As the door clicked shut behind Crassus, the room seemed to release a collective sigh. Romulus leaned back in his chair, his hands briefly rubbing his temples before folding neatly in his lap. Andronikos, standing near the wall, allowed his usually composed expression to falter, exhaustion creasing his brow. Gaius Severus groaned as he leaned back, stretching his shoulders with an audible crack.

“Well,” Gaius muttered, his voice gruff, “that could have gone worse. But it felt like herding wolves with a stick.”

Andronikos let out a dry chuckle. “A performance worthy of the great tragedians, but even the finest actors must rest.”

Romulus offered a faint smile, though his eyes remained sharp. “You both speak as if we barely survived a battle.”

Gaius shook his head, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. “Your Grace, when you’re playing a game this delicate, every move feels like a battle. Crassus is sharp, loyal to your father, and none too easy to convince. Keeping him off balance was no small feat.”

Romulus nodded, but his gaze shifted to Andronikos, his expression probing. “Do you think the trick will hold?”

Andronikos straightened, some of his scholarly detachment returning as he regarded the emperor. “The concept is sound—a masterstroke of deception. Cycling the troops through Ravenna in shifts to give the illusion of a much larger force will sow doubt in even the most skeptical minds.”

Gaius’s lips quirked into a grudging smirk. “I admit, when Andronikos first told me of this plan, I thought it was lunacy. Now? It’s starting to look like brilliance. Tell me, Your Grace—where did you learn such a trick?”

Romulus leaned forward slightly, the glint of a strategist in his eyes. “It’s from a man far in the future, a commander called the Desert Fox. He used this very tactic to convince his enemies he had far more troops than he truly did. Confusion, hesitation—that’s how you gain the upper hand before the first blow is struck.”

Gaius chuckled, though his tone held respect. “The future, is it? If this Desert Fox’s trick works as planned, I’ll drink to his name.”

Romulus’s faint smile lingered. “And the men—are they performing as we need them to?”

Gaius’s tone shifted to one of pragmatism. “Two thousand men. A mix of the Palatini, militias from the surrounding regions, and whatever veterans I could scrape together. Not a proper army, but they’ll look the part. Over the next five days, they’ll cycle through the streets, set up camps in prominent areas, and march in formation around Ravenna. By the morning of Cassinius’s trial, anyone watching will believe you’ve brought eight thousand fresh troops into the city.”

Andronikos folded his arms, his tone measured. “The timing will be critical. If the rotations falter or the movements seem too rehearsed, the illusion could collapse.”

Gaius nodded grimly. “I’ve made sure the officers leading this effort understand the stakes. But I won’t lie to you, Your Grace—this ruse came at a price. I’ve burned through favors, called in debts, and leaned on every bit of goodwill I’ve earned. If this doesn’t work, there’ll be a line of people expecting repayment.”

Romulus’s expression grew serious. “I understand the cost, Gaius. But the stakes are too high for caution. The trial, the council’s suspicions, and the expedition—this trick could buy us the leverage we need.”

Gaius leaned back, his tone softening. “You’re not wrong, lad. But keep in mind—deception is a tool, not a crutch. If the council catches on, they won’t hesitate to turn it against you.”

Romulus nodded, then shifted the subject. “And the navy? How does it fare?”

Gaius’s smirk faded, replaced by a grimace. “Not great. We’ve got twenty ships that can sail—mostly biremes and a few dromons, and half of those are held together by hope and good planks. The sailors are skilled, but the fleet’s condition leaves much to be desired. It’ll suffice for a small expedition, but don’t expect it to impress anyone paying close attention.”

Andronikos interjected, his voice calm. “And the preparations for the expedition itself? How are they progressing?”

Gaius sighed heavily, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, the weight of the task evident in his posture. “The expedition is coming together, but it’s a mad scramble, Your Grace. You tasked me with assembling a thousand troops, and I’ve managed to piece together a force. It’s a mix—five hundred seasoned veterans, drawn from the Palatini and other experienced detachments, and five hundred fresh recruits and militia from the surrounding regions.”

He paused, his brow furrowing. “The veterans are solid—men who’ve seen real combat and know how to hold a line. But the militia? They’re green. I’ve had them training day and night, drilling them until they can march and fight in some semblance of order. It’s progress, but seven days isn’t enough to turn farmers and merchants into soldiers.”

Romulus nodded thoughtfully. “And the officers? Have you chosen leaders who can handle such a mix?”

“Aye,” Gaius said, a flicker of confidence returning to his voice. “I’ve appointed experienced centurions to command the veterans and guide the militia. They know what they’re doing. I’ve also placed a few trusted officers who can think on their feet. They’ll need that if we’re sending them into unfamiliar territory.”

Andronikos stepped closer, his tone even and probing. “Supplies? Equipment? How are we faring on those fronts?”

“Better than I expected,” Gaius admitted, though his tone remained cautious. “We’ve managed to gather enough provisions—grain, oil, dried meat—to last the force three months, assuming careful rationing. As for weapons, we’ve made do with what we’ve got. The veterans have their own gear, mostly well-worn but serviceable. The craftsmen in Ravenna have been working on repairs and outfitting the militia with spears, shields, and simple armor.”

He hesitated before adding, “The biggest challenge is transport. The navy, as I mentioned, is in poor shape. Twenty ships are seaworthy, but they’re old—biremes and dromons that have seen better days. I’ve assigned crews to patch them up, but it’s a gamble whether they’ll handle the journey. Still, they’ll carry the troops and their supplies, with enough capacity for ballistae and other siege equipment.”

Romulus leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in thought. “And the timeline? Will they be ready to sail in seven days?”

“They’ll sail,” Gaius said firmly, though his tone carried a hint of resignation. “Ready is another matter. The men will be tired, the ships will creak, and the supplies will be barely enough—but they’ll sail. I’ve made sure of that.”

Andronikos regarded him with a mix of concern and respect. “You’ve done well, Gaius, considering the time and resources available. But do you believe this force will succeed in aiding Zeno?”

Gaius sighed again, this time leaning back with a faint groan. “Success depends on what they’re sent to do. If Zeno needs a decisive blow to reclaim his throne, this force might not be enough. But if they’re meant to bolster his position, show Western support, and buy him time, they’ll do just fine.”

Romulus’s gaze hardened, his voice low but resolute. “They must succeed, Gaius. This expedition is not just about aiding Zeno—it’s about sending a message. To the East, to Odoacer, and to every senator in that chamber. Rome is not finished.”

Gaius shifted in his seat, his shoulders visibly tense, and leaned forward. The faint glow of the lamp caught the edges of his scarred face, etching lines of fatigue and frustration into his features. He exhaled slowly, his hands clasped together as if bracing himself for what he was about to say.

"The preparations, Your Grace," Gaius began, his voice heavy with weariness, "are coming along, but it’s like stitching together a torn tunic with fraying thread. It’ll hold for a time—if we’re lucky."

He rubbed his temples briefly, then looked up, meeting Romulus’s steady gaze. "We have the thousand troops you requested, but let me be clear—this is no army of legends."

He held up a hand, counting off on his fingers. "First, the Palatini. Three hundred strong. These men are our best—veterans of campaigns long past. They know how to fight, how to hold a line, and how to inspire those around them. They’ll carry the Roman standard, and their presence alone will give this force the semblance of legitimacy."

Romulus nodded, his expression thoughtful. “They’ll set the tone for the rest?”

“They’ll have to,” Gaius replied, his voice laced with both confidence and concern. “But even they aren’t what they used to be. Years of reduced funding, dwindling numbers, and scattered deployments have taken their toll.”

He raised a second finger. “Then there’s the core of our new recruits—three hundred men I’ve been training for the better part of three months. They’re green, no question about it, but they’ve learned the basics of discipline. They can hold a pike in formation, march in step, and follow orders. I’ve paired them with the Palatini during drills to stiffen their resolve.”

Andronikos interjected, his tone cautious. “But their lack of experience—can they be relied upon in a real engagement?”

Gaius leaned back slightly, his jaw tightening. “They’ll hold if the veterans hold. That’s the truth of it. They’ve seen no real bloodshed, but they’ve learned enough to keep their nerves in check—at least for the first clash.”

He raised a third finger, his tone dropping further. “The remaining four hundred are... a mixed bag. Local recruits, former brigands, and a handful of veterans who’ve been out of the game for too long. They’re the hardest to manage—undisciplined, with loyalties that are often more to their stomachs than to Rome.”

Romulus’s brow furrowed. “And their equipment?”

Gaius let out a short, humorless laugh. “Pikes, shields, and what weapons we could scavenge or forge on short notice. The best gear, of course, is with the Palatini and the core recruits. The rest? A patchwork. Spears, axes, and even a few farming tools converted into weapons. It’s not pretty.”

Romulus leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “What about discipline? Can these men hold together when it matters?”

Gaius nodded slowly, though his face betrayed lingering doubts. “I’ve placed the most reliable centurions I have over them. We’ve drilled them day and night, focusing on holding a line and basic formations. By the time we march, they’ll look the part—but whether they’ll hold when the arrows start flying... that’s a question I can’t answer yet.”

Andronikos tapped his chin thoughtfully. “And the logistics? A thousand men require more than just training.”

“Logistics,” Gaius muttered, his voice tinged with frustration. “A waking nightmare. We’ve managed to stockpile two months’ worth of grain, salted pork, and hardtack. Enough to get us to Constantinople and back if we ration carefully—but there’s no room for error. The Church’s funds have helped, but we’re stretched thin.”

Andronikos frowned. “No siege equipment, I take it?”

“None,” Gaius confirmed. “We’re traveling light—no choice. The focus is on speed and visibility, not prolonged engagements. If Zeno’s forces can’t supply us when we arrive, we’ll have to scavenge or retreat.”

Romulus’s expression darkened, his fingers steepling as he stared at the table. “You’re telling me this force is more theater than army.”

“It’s the truth,” Gaius admitted, his voice steady but somber. “This isn’t a campaign to conquer—it’s a gamble to show strength, both to our enemies and to our allies. The Palatini will anchor us, the recruits will fill the ranks, and the rest will provide the illusion of numbers. But make no mistake, Your Grace—if it comes to a pitched battle, this force will break under sustained pressure.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of Gaius’s words sinking in. Finally, Romulus spoke, his voice calm but resolute. “Then we must ensure it never comes to that. The moment we set foot in the East, we need to project strength and unity. Every detail matters.”

Gaius met his gaze, a faint hint of admiration flickering in his eyes. “I’ll make sure they’re ready, Your Grace. But this is a desperate move, and you’ll need to be prepared for the fallout if it fails.”

Romulus leaned back, his youthful face hardening with resolve. “Failure is not an option, Gaius. Do whatever it takes.”

18. Chapter

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