The warm light of dawn filtered through the narrow windows of Gaius Severus’s modest home, the golden glow casting soft shadows across the room. The clink of dishes and the low murmur of voices came from the other room, where Lucan and Marcus sat eating their breakfast. Normally filled with playful jabs and laughter, their voices were subdued, as if sensing the tension that hung in the air.
In the main chamber, Gaius stood near the hearth, his broad shoulders hunched as he sharpened his spatha with slow, deliberate strokes. The rhythmic scrape of steel against stone was the only sound between him and Lavinia. She stood by the table, her arms crossed tightly, her face a mixture of frustration and worry.
“You should have told me sooner,” Lavinia said, her voice low but laced with restrained anger.
Gaius didn’t look up. “I wasn’t keeping it from you,” he said quietly. “I needed time to think it through myself.”
“You had time to think it through,” Lavinia countered, taking a step closer. “But what about my time? My time to prepare, to figure out how to explain this to our sons?” She gestured toward the other room, her voice trembling slightly. “Every time you leave, Gaius, I’m the one who has to hold this family together, and now—now you want to uproot everything?”
He stopped sharpening the blade, letting it rest in his hand. When he looked up, his weathered face was softened by an expression of regret, but his resolve was evident. “Lavinia, this isn’t easy for me either. But it’s necessary.”
“Necessary?” she echoed, her voice rising. “Moving to the palace, surrounded by soldiers and scheming senators, while you leave for the East? You expect me to feel safe there? This isn’t just about Ravenna, Gaius—it’s about what happens to us if something happens to you.”
Gaius set the blade down on the table and took a step closer to her. “Lavinia,” he said, his tone lower but firm, “I’m trusting you with something I haven’t even told the boys, and I need you to trust me in return.” He paused, his eyes scanning hers for understanding. “There will be war again soon.”
Her expression shifted from anger to shock. “War?” she whispered. “You mean more raids, or—?”
“A siege,” Gaius said grimly. “Ravenna will be under attack before summer’s end. I can’t tell you everything, but it is the truth.”
Lavinia’s breath caught, her arms tightening around herself. “And you’re still leaving? Gaius, how can you go when—”
“Because I have to,” he interrupted, his voice edged with urgency. “If I stay here and do nothing, we won’t stand a chance. The East is our best hope. If I can help Romulus build this alliance, bring back men, supplies—anything—we might be able to hold the city. But without this expedition, without taking that chance…” He trailed off, his expression hardening. “It’s not a gamble, Lavinia. It’s the only move we’ve got.”
She stared at him, her eyes searching his face for some sign of hesitation, some reassurance. “And the palace? You think that will make us safe while you’re gone?”
“It’s the safest place in Ravenna,” Gaius replied. “Romulus offered it because he knows the risks. He said he’d feel better knowing you and the boys are there, under his protection. And so would I.”
“But Gaius—” Her voice broke, and she looked away, toward the other room where their sons sat, blissfully unaware of the storm looming over them. “How do I explain this to them? How do I tell them their father is leaving to fight for a battle in the east, while we’re uprooted from the only home they’ve ever known?”
Gaius stepped closer, his hand moving to rest gently on Lavinia’s shoulder. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze fixed on the flickering embers in the hearth. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy with emotion.
"You tell them the truth," he said softly, his voice trembling slightly. "That their father is doing this for them. For you. For all of us. You tell them I’ve seen what real war looks like, Lavinia. Not the kind of skirmishes they hear about in stories, but war that tears families apart, leaves children orphaned, and cities in ruins. I’ve lived through it. And I fight now so they never have to."
His grip tightened just slightly, as if anchoring himself to her. "I don’t want them to grow up knowing hunger. I don’t want them to ever have to fight for their lives, to carry the weight of fear every day. I want them to have more—more than I ever had, more than I ever dared to hope for myself. They deserve a future, Lavinia. A life filled with peace, not the shadow of war."
Lavinia turned her face to him, tears brimming in her eyes but refusing to fall. Her lips trembled, but she didn’t speak, letting him continue.
"And that’s why I worry about them," Gaius admitted, his voice cracking slightly. "I lie awake at night thinking of the life they’ll inherit if I don’t do everything in my power now. If we fall here, it’s not just Ravenna that’s lost—it’s the hope of anything better for them. And I can’t…I won’t let that happen."
The sound of the boys’ muffled laughter drifted in from the other room, momentarily breaking the tension. Lavinia exhaled shakily, her eyes searching his for some sense of certainty.
“I hate that you have to go,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “I hate that we’re even in this position. But I know you, Gaius. I know you wouldn’t make this choice if it wasn’t necessary.”
He nodded, his jaw tight. “It is. And when this is over—when I’m back—I’ll make sure they have the life we both dreamed of for them. I promise you that.”
Lavinia placed her hand over his, her resolve softening but not breaking. “You come back to us, Gaius Severus. You come back in one piece.”
“I will,” he said, his voice steady despite the unspoken fears between them. “I swear it.”
For a long moment, they stood in silence, their shared determination unspoken but understood. The scrape of chairs and the patter of small feet drew their attention as Lucan and Marcus appeared in the doorway, their curious gazes flicking between their parents.
“Are you going somewhere, Father?” Lucan asked, his young voice tinged with both innocence and suspicion.
Gaius crouched down to their level, a rare smile breaking through his serious demeanor. “Not yet,” he said gently. “But when I do, I’ll be doing it for you. To make sure you and your brother have everything you need. And so you’ll never have to worry about anything but growing up strong and smart.”
----------------------------------------
Gaius’s spatha slid smoothly into its sheath as he rose to his full height. With one last look at his family, he nodded firmly. “I’ll be back before midday,” he promised, his voice steady but tinged with finality. He pulled his cloak over his shoulders, kissed Lavinia lightly on the forehead, and tousled Marcus’s and Lucan’s hair before stepping out into the brisk morning air.
The streets of Ravenna were beginning to stir with life as he made his way to the training grounds. Merchants called out to early customers, carts rattled over cobblestones, and the scent of fresh bread mingled with the salty tang of the sea breeze. Gaius moved through it all with purpose, his mind already focused on the tasks ahead.
When he arrived at the training grounds, the scene reflected months of steady but challenging progress. The veterans, their experience honed by years of service, moved with confidence in their tightly packed formations. Their pikes bristled like a porcupine’s quills, forming a near-impenetrable wall of sharpened steel. Behind them, lines of recruits—many still fresh to the legion—were not as steady. Their pike walls wavered, their stances less sure, and the gaps between them reflected their inexperience. Yet, compared to the chaos of their early days, their progress was undeniable.
Gaius strode toward the center of the training ground, where an instructor saluted sharply. “Centurion,” the man said, gesturing toward a group of younger recruits. “They’re improving, but they still falter when advancing together. The line holds better on flat ground, but uneven terrain throws them.”
Gaius nodded, his sharp eyes scanning the recruits. “It’s expected. They’ve made strides since we began. A few months ago, they couldn’t hold a line long enough to protect themselves, let alone each other. But this—” He gestured to the formation. “This is the foundation of survival in battle. They’ll improve.”
The pike formation was the backbone of their intended strategy. Drawing from lessons of the Macedonian phalanx and the disciplined Roman legions, the goal was to create a shield of solidarity that would deny enemies the chance to break through. Veterans formed the front line, the core strength of the wall. Behind them, less experienced soldiers would find their footing, protected and guided by the seasoned warriors.
“Recruits!” Gaius barked, his voice cutting through the din. “Form up! Pike wall—tighten the line and close the gaps!”
The recruits scrambled to obey, their movements clumsy but earnest. Gaius stepped into their line, adjusting grips and stances with practiced precision. “Anchor your feet. A strong foundation is the key to holding the line. Keep your pike leveled with the man beside you—no higher, no lower. You’re not individuals in this formation; you’re a single wall. If one of you falters, the rest of you fall.”
He stepped back, his presence commanding their full attention. “Remember, this formation is not just about defense. When the enemy approaches, you don’t just hold them—you push them back. Your pikes keep them at a distance, deny them the chance to close in. And when the line advances, it’s like a tide, relentless and unstoppable. That’s how you win.”
The recruits began their drill again, the lines moving forward slowly, cautiously. Their steps were uneven, but the gaps between them were smaller now. The instructors moved among them, correcting errors and shouting encouragement. Gaius watched, nodding with approval as the recruits began to move more as a unit.
“They’ll hold on flat ground,” the instructor said quietly, stepping up beside Gaius. “But the campaign in Asia Minor won’t give us many open fields. It’s hills, valleys, forests—terrain where this formation is harder to keep.”
“I know,” Gaius replied, his voice low. “We’ve trained for the ideal, but battle rarely gives you that. In the worst terrain, this formation won’t just be hard to maintain—it could become a liability. If the line breaks in uneven ground, they’ll scatter.”
The instructor frowned, his eyes flicking to the recruits who were mid-drill. “It’s a solid tactic for holding a choke point or defending open ground, but in Asia Minor? That terrain could break them before the enemy does.”
Gaius folded his arms, watching as a veteran barked corrections at a recruit whose pike dipped below the line. “The original plan accounted for crossbowmen to work in tandem with the pike wall,” he said after a moment. “The pikes hold the enemy at bay while the crossbows thin their ranks. But we won’t have crossbows by the time we set sail.”
The instructor nodded grimly. “Six days isn’t enough time to train men in using them effectively, even if we had more than a handful of prototypes. And we both know a formation without its ranged support is vulnerable.”
“Exactly,” Gaius said, his tone heavy with frustration. “Without the crossbows, the pike wall will be forced to face the brunt of the enemy directly. We’ll need alternatives to compensate.”
Another officer, Decius, approached, overhearing their conversation. He was one of the more outspoken members of the training cadre and had no qualms about voicing his opinions. “If you’re looking for alternatives, why not incorporate the Palatini more directly?” he suggested. “They’re heavily armored and experienced. They could provide the mobility and punch that a pike wall lacks, especially on rough terrain.”
The instructor raised an eyebrow. “You want the Palatini to act as shock troops alongside raw recruits? Mixing formations like that could cause confusion.”
Decius waved a hand dismissively. “Not if we keep it simple. The Palatini don’t integrate into the wall—they move with it, guarding the flanks and reinforcing weak points. They’re trained to adapt and could plug any gaps if the line falters.”
Gaius considered this, his expression unreadable. “It has merit,” he said finally. “The Palatini could provide the flexibility we need. But relying on them too heavily could expose their weaknesses. They’re few in number compared to the recruits, and if they’re tied down covering gaps, they won’t be able to engage in a decisive counterattack.”
Decius crossed his arms. “So what’s your plan, Centurion? Stick to the wall and hope for the best?”
“No,” Gaius said sharply. “We prepare for the worst. The recruits need to be drilled harder on shifting formations and regrouping under pressure. If the terrain forces them to break the line, they need to know how to reform quickly and keep fighting.”
The instructor nodded slowly. “That could work. Drill them on maintaining cohesion even when the wall fractures. It won’t be perfect, but it might buy enough time for the Palatini or the veterans to stabilize the formation.”
“And we teach the veterans to adapt as well,” Gaius added. “They’ll lead by example, showing the recruits how to adjust to the terrain without losing their nerve.”
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Decius still looked skeptical. “And what about offense? Holding the line won’t win the battle—it just delays the inevitable.”
“We use the terrain to our advantage where we can,” Gaius replied. “Rough ground disrupts the enemy as much as it disrupts us. If we position the pike wall at natural choke points—ravines, narrow passes—we can mitigate its weaknesses. The Palatini can then act as the hammer to the wall’s anvil, striking from the flanks when the enemy is bogged down.”
The men fell silent for a moment, the sounds of the training ground filling the space between them. The recruits had improved noticeably over the last hour, their movements more in sync as they advanced and held their lines.
“Six days,” the instructor said finally. “It’s not much time.”
“It’s all we have,” Gaius said firmly. “We’ll make it enough.” He turned his gaze back to the recruits. “They don’t need to be perfect by the time we leave—they just need to be disciplined enough to hold the line until the veterans and the Palatini can take over.”
Decius gave a grudging nod. “I’ll start coordinating with the Palatini officers. If we’re doing this, we need to start rehearsing joint maneuvers today.”
“Good,” Gaius said. “And drill the recruits harder. Terrain exercises begin tomorrow at first light. We’ll push them as far as they can go before we set sail.”
As the officers dispersed to carry out their orders, Gaius stood alone for a moment, his eyes on the recruits. The pike wall was not ideal for the unpredictable terrain of Asia Minor, but it was the best they had. If discipline and preparation could make up for the lack of crossbows and perfect ground, he would see to it that these men were ready. Failure, as always, was not an option.
----------------------------------------
Night had fallen over Ravenna, and the courtyard was cloaked in shadows, the brazier’s flickering light casting uncertain patterns over the gathered officers. This was their final meeting before the execution of the grand ruse—five days left before the performance that could determine the city’s survival. Gaius Severus sat at the center, his expression carved from stone as he listened to the low murmur of his officers’ voices.
Decius leaned forward, tapping the map spread across the table. “We’ve gone over this a dozen times, Gaius, but I still don’t see how you think this will fool everyone. The Senate’s spies are sharp, and Odoacer’s men will be watching like hawks. If we slip up, we’re not just exposed—we’ll be inviting disaster.”
“That’s why it must be perfect,” Gaius said evenly, his voice calm but firm. “We’ve rehearsed the rotations, the insignia changes, and the timing. The men know their roles, and the officers know the routes. Every detail has been accounted for.”
Marcus Felix crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. “It’s not the men I’m worried about—it’s the sheer scale of what we’re attempting. Rotating 3,000 soldiers to appear as 10,000 is no small feat. And with the roads so narrow, one bottleneck could expose the entire ruse.”
Gaius leaned forward, his gaze steady. “That’s why the routes have been chosen so carefully. The eastern gate will allow the men to exit without drawing too much attention. They’ll circle past the amphitheater, change their insignias and banners, and re-enter through the northern gate. By the time they reach the Forum road again, they’ll appear to be an entirely new cohort.”
Decius snorted, leaning back in his chair. “And you think the Senate won’t notice the same men marching past their windows three times?”
“They won’t,” Gaius replied sharply. “Not if the timing is precise. The rotations will ensure there’s no overlap in the lines visible from the palace. To the observers, it will look like a constant, seamless stream of reinforcements.”
“And the Palatini?” Marcus asked. “Are they to remain completely out of sight?”
“Yes,” Gaius said firmly. “They’re too recognizable, and their distinctive armor would be impossible to replicate. Their role is to reinforce the perception of control, not to march. They’ll remain stationed at key points—visible but not part of the parade.”
Decius crossed his arms, his tone tinged with disbelief. “I still can’t believe you’ve burned through every favor you had to make this happen. Do you have any idea how hard it’ll be to rebuild those relationships when we actually need real support?”
“I know exactly how hard it will be,” Gaius said, his tone clipped. “But this isn’t a matter of convenience. If Rome’s enemies believes Ravenna is weak, he’ll strike before we return with reinforcements. The Senate will panic, the city will fall into chaos, and there won’t be anything left to rebuild.”
Marcus nodded reluctantly, but his expression remained troubled. “And if just one soldier falters? If one rotation is off or one banner doesn’t switch in time?”
“Then we adapt,” Gaius said simply. “This isn’t just a test of numbers—it’s a test of discipline. The men know what’s at stake, and they’ve been trained to perform under pressure. We’ve rehearsed every contingency.”
“But not every outcome,” Decius muttered under his breath. Gaius shot him a sharp look but let it pass.
Marcus sighed, rubbing his temples. “So, to summarize: Decius, you oversee the eastern gate and the rotations. I’ll handle the staging point and ensure the insignias and banners are distributed efficiently. And you, Gaius?”
“I’ll oversee the Forum road and coordinate with the officers at each checkpoint,” Gaius said. “We’ll maintain communication through runners, and any discrepancies will be addressed immediately.”
“And the Senate?” Marcus asked. “What if they request a closer inspection?”
“They won’t,” Gaius said with certainty. “They’ll see what they want to see—strength. And if anyone tries to investigate further, we’ll ensure they’re kept at a safe distance.”
The officers dispersed into the shadows, their tasks clear. Gaius remained by the brazier, staring into the embers as the night deepened around him. The weight of what they were attempting pressed heavily on his shoulders, but there was no room for doubt.
----------------------------------------
Gaius stepped through the door of his modest home, the weight of the evening’s discussions still heavy on his mind. The faint glow of lamplight spilled out from the main room, where Lavinia sat quietly, her hands busy with needlework. She looked up at him, her eyes betraying her worry despite the calm facade she wore.
“Did you eat?” she asked softly, her voice steady but tired.
“Not yet,” Gaius replied, his tone low as he pulled off his cloak and hung it near the door. “But I’m not hungry.”
“You should eat,” she said firmly, returning her gaze to her work. “You’ll need your strength.”
Gaius didn’t argue. He knew her insistence was more about keeping herself occupied than any real concern over his appetite. Instead, he moved toward the adjoining room, where the sound of hushed voices and stifled giggles reached his ears.
Lucan and Marcus were sitting on the floor, surrounded by wooden figurines of soldiers, mock battles laid out between them. They looked up as he entered, their faces lighting up with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.
“Father!” Lucan exclaimed, scrambling to his feet. “Did you decide yet? When are you leaving for the East?”
“In a few days,” Gaius said, crouching down to their level. He reached out to ruffle Lucan’s hair, but the boy ducked with a playful grin. “But we’re not talking about that tonight.”
“Why not?” Marcus piped up, clutching one of the wooden figurines tightly. “Isn’t it exciting? You’re going to sail across the sea and fight in battles! Will there be elephants? Or maybe those Persian cavalry with the curved swords?”
“Enough, Marcus,” Lavinia’s voice called gently but firmly from the other room. “Your father has had a long day.”
“It’s all right,” Gaius said, giving her a small, grateful smile. He turned back to his sons, his expression softening. “It’s not as exciting as you think, boys. War is…complicated. Dangerous.”
“But you’re not scared, are you?” Lucan asked, his wide eyes fixed on his father. “You’re the bravest man in Ravenna.”
Gaius chuckled softly, a bittersweet sound. “Even brave men get scared, Lucan. It’s what you do with that fear that matters.”
Marcus frowned, his brow furrowing. “So you’re scared?”
“Yes,” Gaius admitted quietly, resting a hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “I’m scared because I’ll be leaving you and your brother. And your mother. But I’m doing this because I want to keep you all safe. So that you never have to see the things I’ve seen or carry the burdens I’ve carried.”
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of his words settling over them. Lucan fidgeted with the hem of his tunic, his earlier excitement tempered by the realization of what his father’s departure truly meant.
“Will you come back?” Marcus asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Gaius met his son’s gaze, his expression firm. “I will. I promise.”
Lucan glanced at his brother, then back at his father. His young face lit with a mixture of curiosity and concern. “Mother said we’re moving to the palace soon. Is that true?”
Gaius nodded, leaning back against the wall as he watched his sons. “Yes. In two days.”
“What’s it like there?” Lucan asked eagerly, his earlier hesitation replaced by excitement. “Is it big? Are there lots of rooms? Does the emperor have a throne made of gold?”
Gaius smiled faintly at his son’s enthusiasm. “It’s big, yes. Bigger than anything you’ve seen. The halls are wide enough for a horse to walk through, and the ceilings are so high they seem to touch the sky. There are gardens inside, fountains that never run dry, and yes, the emperor does have a throne—though it’s not made of gold.”
“What’s it made of?” Marcus asked, leaning forward.
“Bronze and ivory,” Gaius said. “Strong, but simple. Just like Romulus himself.”
The boys exchanged a look, clearly impressed. “We’ve met him,” Lucan said, puffing out his chest. “He’s nice. He even smiled at us when you introduced us.”
“Not many emperors smile,” Marcus added seriously, as if he were an authority on the subject.
Gaius chuckled. “Romulus is different. He’s young, like you, but he’s learning what it means to be a leader. He’s trying to do what’s right for Ravenna—for all of us.”
“Will we see him a lot?” Lucan asked.
“Maybe,” Gaius said. “But the palace is a busy place. The emperor has many responsibilities, and so will I, even from afar. Your mother and I will make sure you’re comfortable, but you must promise to behave yourselves. The palace isn’t a place for games like this.” He gestured to the wooden soldiers still scattered on the floor.
Lucan frowned but nodded. “We’ll be good,” he said earnestly. “Right, Marcus?”
Marcus hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. “I guess so. But can we still go to the gardens? You said there are fountains.”
“You can explore the gardens,” Gaius said. “Just stay where the guards can see you.”
Lucan's eyes lit up with renewed enthusiasm. “Father, you know what the Greek man you work with said? He said he might teach us when we move to the palace. Is that true?”
Gaius smiled, nodding as he leaned back against the wall. “Andronikos? Yes, he’s agreed to teach you some lessons in his free time. He’s a learned man, and you’ll do well to listen to him.”
“What will he teach us?” Marcus asked, leaning forward, his curiosity piqued. “Will it be about fighting? Or strategy like you talk about?”
“Not exactly,” Gaius replied, his tone thoughtful. “Andronikos knows many things—mathematics, reading, history, even the works of philosophers from Greece and Rome. He’ll start with the basics: teaching you how to read and write if you’re willing to put in the effort.”
“Reading?” Lucan said, tilting his head. “But isn’t that what scribes do? Why do we need to know it?”
“Because it opens doors to the world,” Gaius said firmly. “When you can read, you can learn from books, even ones written by people who lived long before us. You can write your own thoughts, share ideas, and understand the world beyond Ravenna. Knowledge is as powerful as a sword, Lucan—sometimes more.”
Marcus glanced at his brother, then back at Gaius. “What else? What else will we learn?”
“Arithmetic,” Gaius said, holding up a hand as he began counting on his fingers. “So you can measure, count, and plan. Geography, so you know the shape of the world and the lands beyond our own. And history, to understand the mistakes and triumphs of those who came before us.”
The boys exchanged a wide-eyed glance. “That sounds...hard,” Lucan admitted.
“It will be at first,” Gaius agreed. “But it will get easier. And it will make you stronger—not in body, but in mind.”
Marcus perked up. “Did you learn all that when you were young, Father?”
Gaius hesitated, his expression softening. “No,” he admitted. “I didn’t have the chance to go to a school. I learned to read and write later, thanks to a kind man who saw potential in a young soldier with more grit than sense. That’s why I want you to have what I didn’t. And it’s why I’m glad that Romulus establish the first school here in Ravenna. It will open in one month.”
Lucan’s jaw dropped. “A school? For everyone?”
“Yes,” Gaius said, smiling at his sons’ surprise. “Anyone who wants to learn—whether they’re the sons of senators or blacksmiths—will be welcome. It won’t be easy, and some might not want to go. But it will be there for those who do.”
“Can we go too?” Marcus asked eagerly. “None of our friends go to school. They’d think we’re the smartest boys in Ravenna!”
Lavinia stepped into the room, a soft smile playing on her lips as she watched the exchange. “That depends,” she said, her tone warm but teasing. “Are you ready to sit still long enough to listen and learn?”
“We can do it!” Marcus said quickly, while Lucan nodded with equal enthusiasm.
Gaius chuckled, ruffling Marcus’s hair. “We’ll see. First, you’ll spend some time with Andronikos. If you do well and show you’re ready, then yes, you can attend the school when it opens.”
Both boys beamed, their earlier concerns about the palace forgotten in the excitement of this new opportunity. Lavinia caught Gaius’s gaze, her eyes soft with gratitude, though she said nothing.
As the evening deepened, the flickering light of the oil lamp in the main room dimmed, signaling the end of the day. Lavinia shepherded Lucan and Marcus to their small room, their energy finally waning after their excitement about the prospect of school and learning.
“Off to bed, both of you,” she said firmly, her hands on her hips.
“But I’m not tired,” Marcus protested, though his stifled yawn betrayed him.
“No arguments,” Gaius added, standing in the doorway. “A rested mind learns better.”
Lucan climbed into his cot with little fuss, while Marcus followed reluctantly. Lavinia tucked them in, smoothing the blankets and kissing their foreheads. “Good night, my loves,” she whispered.
“Good night, Mother. Good night, Father,” they chorused, their voices drowsy as they nestled into the warmth of their beds.
Gaius lingered for a moment, watching their small faces relax into sleep. He exhaled quietly, the tension of the day ebbing slightly. Lavinia touched his arm gently, and together they retreated to their own room.
Once inside, the weight of the day settled heavily between them. Gaius removed his belt and cloak, placing them neatly by the door, while Lavinia extinguished the small lamp on the table. The faint moonlight from the window illuminated the modest room, casting soft shadows across the worn furniture.
As they slipped under the covers, Lavinia turned toward Gaius, her hand resting on his chest. The warmth of his presence was a familiar comfort, but tonight it felt more fragile. She tightened her arms around him, resting her head against his shoulder.
“Gaius,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “I don’t want to lose you.”
He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. “You won’t,” he said softly, though the resolve in his voice couldn’t mask the uncertainty that lingered in the air. “I promise you, Lavinia, I’ll come back.”
Her fingers gripped his tunic, and for a long moment, she said nothing, her emotions too raw to form words. Finally, she whispered, “I trust you, but the thought of you out there, so far from us... I hate it.”
“I know,” he murmured, his hand gently stroking her hair. “I hate it too. But I can’t stand by and let this city fall. Not when there’s a chance to stop it.”
“I just—” Her voice broke, and she took a shuddering breath before continuing. “I just want you to know that I love you. More than anything. And I can’t bear the thought of raising Lucan and Marcus without you.”
“You won’t have to,” Gaius said firmly, tilting her chin up so their eyes met in the pale light. “I’ll do everything in my power to come back to you—to them. You and the kids are my anchor, Lavinia. The reason I fight. The reason I come home.”
Her tears fell then, silent and steady, and she buried her face in his chest. He held her tightly, as if the strength of his embrace could shield them both from the storms ahead.