Romulus Augustus awoke to the gray light of dawn filtering through the thick curtains of his chamber. He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, his body heavy with exhaustion. Sleep had been a scarce companion these last few days, driven away by restless thoughts and the ever-tightening knot of anxiety in his chest.
Today would decide more than the fate of the captured assassin, Cassinius. It was the day of his grand gambit, a carefully orchestrated display meant to restore faith in his rule and strike fear into the hearts of those who dared oppose him.
Romulus rubbed his eyes and sat up slowly, his throat dry as sand and his limbs sluggish. They’ll all be watching, he thought. Not for cracks in his resolve, but to witness the spectacle for themselves. The senators, the Church, and the citizens of Ravenna were still reeling from the sight of his newly assembled troops—a force so fresh and unexpected that rumors were spreading like wildfire. They didn’t understand how he’d done it, and today, they would come to see it with their own eyes.
The thought brought a flicker of nervous excitement. If all went to plan, the grand trick would leave the opposition wavering, hesitant to act during the trial.
Amidst the turmoil of the past days, a small solace had unexpectedly lightened his burden. Gaius Severus’s boys, now living in the palace, had been a surprising balm to his strained nerves. Their innocent energy, their games, their pure eagerness to spend time with him—they made him feel, if only briefly, like a boy again. For a few fleeting hours, he’d laughed without pretense and forgotten the weight of his crown. The memory of their voices echoing in the halls gave him a fragile but steadying sense of hope.
A knock at the door broke his thoughts.
“Enter,” Romulus called, his voice steady despite the turmoil within.
Andronikos stepped inside, his expression calm but his eyes sharp. “The city stirs, my emperor,” he said, bowing slightly. “Everything is in place. Magnus’s men have swept the forum and secured the perimeter. Gaius is already at the training grounds, overseeing the preparations for the... spectacle.”
Romulus nodded, his pulse quickening. He stood and allowed Andronikos to help him into his imperial tunic, deep red with gold embroidery. As Andronikos fastened the clasps, Romulus caught sight of his reflection in the polished bronze mirror. Dark circles framed his eyes, his face pale and drawn.
“Do I look as dreadful as I feel?” he asked, half-smiling.
“You look like an emperor,” Andronikos replied, his tone unwavering.
Romulus appreciated the reassurance, even if it felt hollow. He glanced at the table beside his bed, where the day’s agenda lay scrawled on a parchment. The grand trick would come first, a bold unveiling designed to capture the crowd’s attention and unnerve those who might challenge him.
The trial would follow, its atmosphere shaped by the display. With their doubts fresh and their confidence shaken, the senators and the Church would be more inclined to hesitate—hesitation that Romulus intended to exploit.
“I hope they see what they’re meant to see,” Romulus muttered, fastening his belt.
“They will,” Andronikos assured him. “The pieces are in place, and Gaius’s timing is precise.”
As he stepped into the corridor, the palace seemed unnaturally quiet. Magnus, his newly appointed captain of the guard, waited with a detachment of his best men.
“Your Majesty,” Magnus greeted, his deep voice steady. “The forum awaits.”
Romulus swallowed hard and nodded. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”
Together, they made their way through the palace, the sound of boots against marble echoing in the stillness. As they passed, servants bowed low, their expressions a mix of awe and apprehension. Word of the grand trick—and the trial to follow—had spread quickly through the city.
By the time they reached the grand doors leading to the forum, Romulus’s nerves felt like they were stretched taut. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, willing himself to steady his breathing.
The doors swung open, and the morning light poured in, accompanied by the distant hum of the gathered crowd. Romulus stepped forward, his head high, his heart pounding like a war drum.
This was it—the day he would gamble everything on a carefully orchestrated display of justice, strength, and ingenuity. Today, Rome would either rally behind its emperor or sink further into the shadows of doubt and division.
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Senator Lepidus leaned back lazily on the carved wooden bench reserved for Rome’s elite, his fingers drumming idly on the polished armrest. His companions, Pollio and a cluster of other senators who shared his disdain for the young emperor, huddled nearby. The morning sun cast a pale glow over the forum, where the crowd buzzed with murmurs of anticipation.
Lepidus’s lip curled into a faint sneer as he observed the commoners jostling for position, their faces alight with curiosity. “The boy emperor and his so-called spectacle,” he muttered, his voice low but laced with derision.
Pollio smirked, leaning closer. “Spectacle? Farmers and beggars cobbled together to look like soldiers, more likely,” he quipped. The others chuckled, their laughter tinged with contempt.
“The great Romulus Augustus,” Lepidus continued, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “has promised us an army. I’d wager my estates that what we’ll see is nothing but a rabble in patched tunics wielding sticks.”
One of the younger senators snorted, eager to join in. “Perhaps he’s dressed them in laurel wreaths to make them appear formidable. That would be an emperor’s ingenuity!”
The group erupted in laughter, but Lepidus’s sharp gaze flickered toward the emperor’s seat. Romulus sat in full view, his back straight, his expression impassive. For all his flaws, the boy had learned to wear the mask of command.
Still, Lepidus wasn’t impressed. He leaned toward Pollio, his voice quieter now. “He’s trying too hard to dazzle us. This so-called grand spectacle is a desperate ploy, nothing more. A child attempting to play king.”
Pollio nodded. “And after? The trial? It’s nothing but theatrics. A show for the mob.”
Lepidus smirked. “Exactly. And we all know how this ends. Rome’s power is not held in the hands of a boy—it lies with men like us. Men who understand real authority.”
Their conversation paused as a horn sounded in the distance. The murmurs in the crowd grew louder, rippling through the forum like a rising tide. Lepidus straightened, his smirk fading slightly.
“Here it comes,” Pollio said, his tone still mocking. “The grand march of Romulus’s legions.”
All eyes turned toward the broad avenue leading to the forum. The rhythmic beat of drums echoed through the air, slow and deliberate, accompanied by the steady tread of boots.
Lepidus squinted, his confidence wavering for the first time. A banner appeared at the edge of the forum, deep crimson and emblazoned with the imperial eagle. Behind it, ranks of soldiers marched in perfect formation, their armor gleaming in the sunlight.
“What—?” Pollio began, his voice faltering.
The soldiers continued to advance, row upon row of disciplined men, their shields held high, their spears pointed forward. These were not farmers or beggars. These were trained soldiers, their movements precise and their expressions grim.
Lepidus felt his stomach churn. “This... this isn’t possible,” he muttered under his breath.
The laughter and jeers among his companions died away, replaced by an uneasy silence. The spectacle continued, the ranks of soldiers seemingly endless.
Pollio leaned closer, his voice a whisper. “Where did he find them? How did he—?”
Lepidus didn’t respond. His mind raced as he tried to piece together the implications. The boy emperor had not only produced an army but one that could march with the discipline and pride of Rome’s finest.
As the first ranks of soldiers entered the forum, their disciplined march continued without pause, the rhythmic beat of their boots echoing through the vast space. They did not stop to gather; instead, the formation flowed like a river, each line advancing steadily, giving the impression of an endless tide of men.
The crimson banners waved proudly at the forefront, each emblazoned with the imperial eagle, as the gleaming armor of the soldiers reflected the morning sun. Their shields and spears, polished and well-maintained, gave no hint of disorder or improvisation.
Lepidus leaned forward, his earlier smirk replaced by a furrowed brow. “They’re not stopping,” he muttered, more to himself than to Pollio.
“What’s he trying to prove?” Pollio whispered, though his voice carried a faint tremor.
The continuous march of soldiers had begun to captivate the crowd. Their murmurs grew into a low rumble of awe, the sheer scale of the display overwhelming their initial curiosity. The senators, too, exchanged uncertain glances, their earlier jokes about farmers and beggars now feeling hollow and misplaced.
As the soldiers kept marching, an orator stepped forward to address the crowd. He was a tall man with a commanding presence, his voice cutting through the din like the clang of a sword.
“Citizens of Ravenna! Senators! Faithful of the Church!” he began, his tone firm yet resonant. “Look upon the strength of Rome—not the crumbling ruins of yesterday, but the resilience of today and the hope of tomorrow!”
The soldiers continued their steady march, disappearing down another avenue as more ranks entered the forum, the line unbroken and seemingly endless.
“These men,” the orator continued, gesturing to the troops, “are not born of privilege. They are not heirs to the wealth of the Senate or the estates of the patricians. They veterans who have answered the emperor’s call—not with empty words, but with the strength of their arms and the will of their hearts!”
The crowd erupted in cheers, their voices rising to meet the orator’s fervor. Lepidus shifted uncomfortably, his eyes following the unceasing march of soldiers.
“Under Emperor Romulus Augustus,” the orator continued, “Rome is not resigned to decay. We are not shadows waiting to fade into the night. We are a people who endure, who adapt, who rise again with every blow that would see us fall!”
Pollio’s earlier bravado had vanished. “Where did he get them?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Lepidus did not answer. He could feel the weight of the orator’s words pressing down on him, each phrase hammering away at his earlier certainty.
“These men you see today,” the orator concluded, “are the living proof of Rome’s enduring spirit. They march not for glory, not for riches, but for the empire they call home. Under the leadership of Emperor Romulus Augustus, they stand united to defend what is ours, to reclaim what has been lost, and to ensure that Rome’s light shall never be extinguished!”
The orator paused, allowing the cheers of the crowd to wash over the forum before raising his hand for silence. The soldiers continued their unbroken march, the rhythmic clatter of their boots now the only sound filling the air. Then, in a voice that carried the weight of conviction and authority, the orator continued.
“These men you see marching through the streets of Ravenna are not merely a show of strength. They have a mission—a mission entrusted to them by Rome and by Emperor Romulus Augustus.”
The crowd leaned forward, captivated. Even the senators exchanged uneasy glances, their earlier mockery now replaced with an uncomfortable curiosity.
“In the coming days,” the orator declared, “some of these troops will march south to stabilize our borders and ensure that none dare breach our lands. Others will move north to secure the vital passes, intercepting any who might threaten our sovereignty or our people. Rome does not cower; Rome does not yield!”
A new wave of applause erupted, but the orator raised his voice to carry over it. “And tomorrow—tomorrow, one thousand of these brave sons of Rome will set sail to aid our brothers in the East. These men will journey to support the legitimate and deposed Emperor Zeno, whose throne has been usurped by the heretic Basiliscus!”
A ripple of murmurs swept through the crowd, mingled with gasps. Lepidus’s fingers tightened on the armrest of his seat. The idea of Rome involving itself in Eastern affairs was bold—dangerously so.
“The Church,” the orator continued, gesturing toward the rows of clergy seated in solemn observation, “in its wisdom and faith, has pledged its support to this sacred mission. They have provided the funds necessary for this endeavor, a testament to their commitment to the unity and sanctity of Christendom.”
The crowd roared in approval, and many in the forum crossed themselves in reverence.
“But Rome,” the orator added, his voice rising, “provides what is most precious: her soldiers! Her sons! These men march not only to restore Emperor Zeno to his rightful throne but to uphold and defend the Christian faith against the heretical ambitions of Basiliscus. They march to ensure that the true light of Christendom shall not be extinguished by the shadows of division and blasphemy.”
The applause was deafening now, a thunderous ovation that seemed to shake the very stones of the forum. Lepidus felt a knot tightening in his stomach as he watched the crowd’s fervent reaction.
“Tomorrow,” the orator concluded, “all of you are invited to bear witness as the heroes of Rome sail forth to join our brothers in the East. Stand with them in spirit, pray for their victory, and know that under the guidance of Emperor Romulus Augustus, Rome shall rise again to her rightful place—not only as a beacon of power but as a bastion of faith and unity!”
The crowd erupted once more, chanting the emperor’s name. Lepidus clenched his jaw, his thoughts racing. The spectacle was more than he had expected. The emperor had not only showcased military strength but woven it into a narrative of divine purpose and imperial resurgence.
The orator stood tall, his commanding voice cutting through the deafening applause like a clarion call. He raised a hand for silence, and the crowd gradually quieted, their attention riveted on his every word.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“But today,” he began, his tone solemn now, “we will also bear witness to justice—a justice demanded not only by the emperor but by the laws and spirit of Rome itself.”
The murmurs returned, a wave of curiosity sweeping through the forum. Lepidus leaned forward, his earlier unease giving way to a flicker of suspicion.
“In one hour,” the orator continued, his voice steady and measured, “we will hold a trial—a trial for a man who embodies the corruption, the cowardice, and the treachery that seek to undermine all that Rome stands for.”
The crowd murmured louder, and even the senators exchanged glances. Lepidus’s fingers tightened on the armrest, his mind racing.
“This man,” the orator said, his tone darkening, “did not attack a soldier in battle. He did not stand openly against the might of Rome. No, he is worse than an enemy at our gates. He is the snake in our midst, the whisper in the shadows, the hand that seeks to destroy not with honor but with treachery.”
The crowd grew restless, their murmurs turning to angry mutters. The senators whispered amongst themselves, their earlier disdain for the spectacle now overshadowed by the implications of the orator’s words.
“This man,” the orator declared, his voice rising, “Cassinius, attempted the most heinous of crimes: the assassination of our emperor, Romulus Augustus. He sought not to challenge Rome, but to tear its heart from within.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by a low, simmering anger. Lepidus felt his stomach churn as the orator’s words painted Cassinius as the embodiment of betrayal and sin.
“Cassinius,” the orator continued, “is a man who represents all the vices that have plagued Rome: envy, greed, cowardice, and a blasphemous disregard for the divine order. He is not merely a murderer in intent; he is the father of all sins. And today, Rome shall judge him.”
The crowd erupted into shouts, a cacophony of voices demanding justice. The soldiers continued their relentless march, their presence reinforcing the gravity of the moment.
“In an hour,” the orator said, his voice cutting through the clamor, “the trial will commence. All who love Rome, all who believe in her glory and her justice, are invited to witness it. Let it be known that under the reign of Emperor Romulus Augustus, Rome will not falter. Treachery will not stand. Justice will be swift, and Rome’s light will endure!”
The crowd roared its approval, the chant of “Romulus! Romulus!” rising once more. Lepidus clenched his fists, his earlier confidence shattered. The emperor had not only demonstrated strength and purpose but had masterfully manipulated the forum’s emotions, turning the trial into a stage for his authority.
As the orator stepped back and the soldiers continued their endless march, Lepidus glanced at the emperor’s seat. Romulus sat motionless, his expression calm yet watchful.
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Lepidus sat stiffly, his hands resting on the carved armrests of his bench, his mind churning with unease. The forum, which had been brimming with chants and cheers only minutes ago, was now filled with an uneasy murmur. Conversations buzzed all around him, fragmented voices of disbelief, apprehension, and uncertainty.
“This... this is unprecedented,” whispered Pollio beside him, his earlier smug demeanor entirely gone. His voice was laced with confusion. “Where did he find the resources? The troops? And now, this trial...”
Lepidus didn’t respond, his lips pressed into a thin line. He could still hear the rhythmic beat of the soldiers’ boots echoing in his mind. The sheer scale of the marching troops and the calculated precision of the orator’s words had left him, like many others, disoriented.
All around the forum, the senators were in quiet, frantic discussion, their earlier mockery and dismissive attitudes replaced by whispers of uncertainty. The Church officials, seated in their designated rows, exchanged murmurs with furrowed brows, while the common citizens filled the air with a mix of awe and speculation.
“I never thought he’d pull this off,” said one voice behind him.
“Did you see those men? Those weren’t farmers,” another muttered.
“And the trial—what happens if he makes an example of this assassin?”
Lepidus’s gaze shifted to Romulus Augustus. The young emperor remained seated at his elevated position, surrounded by his advisors and flanked by his personal guard. His posture was composed, regal even, as though the chaos swirling in the forum beneath him was entirely beneath his notice.
The murmurs grew louder as the herald returned to the center of the forum, raising his staff to demand silence. The gathered masses stilled, though an electric tension remained in the air.
Lepidus felt his stomach knot further. He’s playing this too well, he thought.
The herald’s voice boomed. “Citizens of Rome, faithful of the Church, and venerable senators! The trial of Cassinius shall now commence!”
All eyes turned to the makeshift dais where a heavy wooden platform had been erected for the accused. The clinking of chains echoed across the forum as two soldiers dragged a gaunt, shackled man forward. Cassinius, the would-be assassin, stumbled slightly but kept his head low, his disheveled hair obscuring much of his face.
The murmurs of the crowd turned venomous.
“Snake!” shouted one man.
“Traitor!” cried another.
The herald raised his hand for silence, and the orator from earlier returned to address the crowd. His presence was as commanding as before, his voice measured and deliberate.
“This man,” the orator began, his voice cutting through the noise, “stands accused of treason most foul. He sought not to face his emperor on the battlefield nor to challenge him through the laws of the Senate. Instead, he crept in the shadows, bearing the blade of betrayal, to strike at Rome’s heart when it was most vulnerable.”
The crowd erupted in jeers, but the orator raised his hands for calm.
“Today, Rome shall judge him. But remember this: Cassinius does not act alone. He is but a symptom of the sickness that has plagued Rome—a disease of greed, ambition, and treachery that seeks to tear our empire asunder. In judging him, we send a message to all who would seek to follow his path: Rome will endure. Rome will prevail. And treachery will meet its end under the banner of justice!”
The crowd roared in agreement, their earlier confusion now replaced by fervent rage. Lepidus gripped his armrests tighter.
“The boy is smarter than we gave him credit for,” Pollio muttered, his voice barely audible over the din. “He’s using this trial to solidify his grip. The people... they’re already on his side.”
Cassinius stumbled forward, his chains rattling as the soldiers dragged him into the center of the platform. The forum, which had fallen eerily quiet, erupted in angry jeers the moment he appeared. His face was pale, his once-defiant posture now replaced by a stoop of utter defeat. The confidence he had exuded in the days following his arrest had melted away, leaving only wide, darting eyes filled with panic.
“Snake!”
“Traitor!”
“Coward!”
The venom of the crowd seemed to seep into Cassinius’s very bones, causing him to flinch with each cry. He glanced around frantically, as if searching for a lifeline amidst the sea of hostile faces. His gaze finally settled on the senators’ seats, lingering on Lepidus with a desperate plea.
Lepidus’s heart pounded in his chest, though his face betrayed none of the turmoil roiling within. He met Cassinius’s eyes briefly, then shook his head ever so slightly, a subtle but damning gesture. No help is coming. You’re on your own.
Cassinius’s shoulders sagged, his lips trembling as he turned his gaze downward. Whatever thin hope he had clung to had been snuffed out. Lepidus felt his stomach churn, but he forced his expression to remain neutral. Beside him, Pollio shifted uncomfortably, his hand gripping the edge of his seat.
“He’s unraveling,” Pollio muttered under his breath. “Good. The less he says, the better.”
Lepidus said nothing. His throat felt dry, and the air around him seemed heavier with each passing moment. The trial wasn’t just a question of Cassinius’s fate—it was a powder keg, and every word spoken on that platform was a spark waiting to ignite it.
The herald’s staff struck the ground, demanding silence. The orator stepped forward, his commanding presence drawing every eye in the forum.
“Cassinius,” he began, his voice ringing with authority, “you stand before the people of Rome accused of treason of the highest order. You sought to assassinate the emperor, not in the heat of battle or the open forum, but under the cover of darkness, like the serpent who strikes from the shadows.”
The crowd’s anger swelled again, a cacophony of boos and curses. Cassinius flinched, his hands trembling against his chains. Lepidus sat frozen, every word the orator spoke tightening the noose around the platform—and by extension, himself.
“Your actions,” the orator continued, raising his voice above the crowd’s fury, “were not those of a soldier, not even those of an honorable enemy. They were the actions of a coward, driven by envy, greed, and the whispering promises of traitors.”
Lepidus’s grip on his armrest tightened. His breath caught at the orator’s carefully chosen words. They danced close to the edge of dangerous truths, yet remained vague enough to avoid outright accusations. For now.
“Have you anything to say for yourself?” the orator demanded, his gaze fixed on Cassinius.
The crowd stilled, their jeers fading into an expectant silence. Cassinius hesitated, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. “I... I was promised...” he stammered, his voice barely audible.
A sharp laugh rang out from the crowd, and the forum erupted into mocking cries.
“Promised what?” the orator pressed, his tone icy. “Promised that your treachery would go unnoticed? That your cowardice would succeed?”
Cassinius’s face flushed. “I—I was told... I would be protected! I—I am loyal to Rome!” he cried out, his voice cracking under the weight of the crowd’s scorn.
“Loyal?” The orator’s voice cut through like a blade. “You were caught with a blade in hand, steps from the emperor’s chamber. Your so-called loyalty is nothing but a mask for betrayal.”
The crowd roared in fury, their chants of “Traitor!” and “Death!” rising to a deafening crescendo. Lepidus forced himself to remain still, though his pulse thundered in his ears.
Pollio leaned in close, his voice a strained whisper. “He’s panicking. He won’t last much longer.”
And if he does? Lepidus thought grimly. Cassinius was a desperate man, and desperate men had nothing to lose.
The orator raised his hands, silencing the crowd once more. “This trial is not just about the crimes of Cassinius,” he declared. “It is a trial for all those who think themselves above Rome’s laws. A warning to those who would betray her sacred trust. Under Emperor Romulus Augustus, treachery will not be tolerated. Justice will be swift and merciless.”
Cassinius hesitated, his mouth trembling as he stared at the gathered crowd. Their fury weighed down on him like a tangible force, and his desperation clawed its way to the surface. His eyes darted once more toward Lepidus, searching for some signal, some reprieve, but found only the senator’s stony gaze.
“I was... I was promised safety!” Cassinius blurted, his voice cracking. The words tumbled out in a frantic rush, his composure fracturing before their eyes. “I was told—told I would be spared! This—this is not—”
The murmurs in the crowd surged, an undercurrent of suspicion and outrage rippling through the forum. Even Pollio stiffened beside Lepidus, his breath catching audibly. Lepidus’s jaw tightened as his mind raced, weighing the implications of Cassinius’s words.
Before the crowd could seize on the assassin’s half-formed plea, Lepidus stood abruptly. The movement caught the attention of the herald, the orator, and, finally, Romulus Augustus himself. The young emperor’s gaze settled on Lepidus, his expression unreadable.
Lepidus met his emperor’s eyes and inclined his head in deference. Romulus gave a slight nod, granting him permission to speak. Cassinius’s head jerked up at the gesture, a flicker of hope igniting in his panicked eyes.
Lepidus descended the steps of the senators’ dais with measured precision, his robes billowing slightly as he approached the center of the forum. The crowd hushed, their attention riveted on the stately senator. Cassinius’s chains rattled as he straightened, his body trembling with anticipation.
“People of Rome,” Lepidus began, his voice resonating with authority. “We stand here not merely to condemn one man, but to reaffirm the sacred traditions that have held our great empire together for centuries.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the crowd before locking onto Cassinius. “This man, Cassinius, is the antithesis of all that Rome stands for. He is no soldier, no patriot. He is a shadow-dweller, a venomous serpent whose actions have sullied the honor of our city.”
Cassinius’s flicker of hope faltered. He opened his mouth as if to protest, but Lepidus continued, his tone sharpening like a blade. “Rome is built on discipline, on loyalty, on the sacred bond between its citizens and its leaders. Cassinius has spat on these principles, choosing instead to serve his own cowardly greed.”
Lepidus began to circle the platform, his steps deliberate. The crowd followed his movements intently, their earlier murmurs now silenced by the weight of his words. “He has betrayed not only his emperor but every man, woman, and child who calls themselves Roman. His actions are a stain upon our city, upon our traditions, upon everything we hold sacred.”
Cassinius recoiled slightly as Lepidus approached, the senator’s voice growing louder with each step. “Such treachery cannot be tolerated. It cannot be forgiven. And it cannot be forgotten.”
The crowd erupted in approval, their cries echoing through the forum. Lepidus raised his hand, silencing them once more as he stopped directly in front of Cassinius. The senator’s eyes bore into the trembling assassin, his voice now a low, seething hiss.
“It is the duty of every loyal Roman to root out filth such as this,” Lepidus spat, his voice trembling with an emotion that bordered on fury. “To ensure that Rome remains pure, uncorrupted by the likes of you.”
In one swift motion, Lepidus drew a dagger from within his robes. Cassinius’s eyes widened in horror, and the crowd gasped collectively as the blade gleamed in the sunlight.
“This is for Rome,” Lepidus growled. He plunged the dagger into Cassinius’s chest with brutal force. The assassin let out a strangled cry, his body convulsing as the blade struck again and again.
The crowd erupted into chaos, some cheering, others shouting in shock. Guards rushed forward, grabbing Lepidus’s arms and wrestling him away from Cassinius’s collapsing form. Blood pooled beneath the platform, staining the wood as the assassin’s lifeless body slumped forward.
Lepidus struggled briefly against the guards’ grip, his breathing ragged, his eyes wild. But he quickly stilled, regaining his composure as he turned to face the crowd.
“Let this be a lesson,” he declared, his voice cutting through the uproar. “Rome does not tolerate betrayal. Justice is not a spectacle—it is a duty. And today, that duty has been fulfilled.”
The crowd roared in approval, their chants of “Rome! Rome!” drowning out the protests of a few stunned senators. Lepidus glanced up at the emperor’s dais, meeting Romulus’s gaze once more.
Romulus Augustus’s face remained an unreadable mask as his eyes locked with Lepidus’s. The senator inclined his bloodied head slightly in acknowledgment, a faint sheen of sweat visible on his brow. As the guards released him, Lepidus turned and made his way back toward the senators’ benches. Each step felt heavier than the last, his mind a whirlwind of rationalizations, fear, and regret.
His crimson-streaked robes swayed around him, the vivid stain of Cassinius’s blood drawing murmurs from those he passed. By the time he reached his seat, his hands were trembling, but he quickly folded them in his lap, attempting to disguise his unease. Pollio, seated beside him, leaned closer, his face pale and his eyes darting nervously.
“That was...” Pollio hesitated, his voice barely above a whisper. “Necessary. It had to be done.”
Lepidus nodded stiffly, his gaze fixed straight ahead. “Yes. It was justice. Nothing more.”
Pollio glanced toward the emperor’s dais, where Romulus Augustus sat flanked by his advisors, his expression as inscrutable as ever. “The people bought it,” Pollio murmured. “They’re calling you a hero. But the emperor... did you see how he looked at you?”
Lepidus exhaled slowly, forcing his voice to steady. “The emperor may think what he wishes. My actions were righteous and unassailable. No one can fault me for acting in Rome’s best interest.”
Pollio fidgeted, his fingers drumming against the armrest. “Perhaps. But things have changed. That army, Lepidus... it wasn’t a bluff. Those soldiers were disciplined. Armed. Where did he find them? And the Church... they’re backing him now, too. This isn’t the boy we thought we were dealing with.”
Lepidus turned to Pollio, his voice low and urgent. “You’re right. Romulus is no longer a puppet. He’s solidified his position in a way we did not anticipate. We underestimated him, and now Nepos’s return will be far more difficult.”
Pollio’s brow furrowed deeply. “So what do we tell Nepos? He’ll expect progress.”
Lepidus leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You will meet with his agent. Tell him what you saw today. Make it clear that Romulus has gained more than we expected—troops, public favor, and Church support. If Nepos still desires the throne, he must recognize that the path will not be easy or swift.”
Pollio hesitated, his face pale. “And what if Nepos abandons the plan altogether? He might see this as too risky.”
Lepidus straightened, his tone cold. “Then remind him of his claim to the throne. He cannot afford to delay forever. The longer the boy consolidates his power, the harder it will be to unseat him. We must bide our time, but Nepos must begin laying the groundwork for his return now—alliances, resources, and a strategy to counter the boy’s growing influence.”
Pollio nodded reluctantly, his gaze flicking back to the emperor. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
As Pollio rose and began weaving his way through the dispersing crowd, Lepidus leaned back in his seat, folding his trembling hands together tightly to hide the lingering tremors. His gaze drifted to the bloodstained platform where Cassinius’s body still lay, a stark reminder of how their carefully laid plans had unraveled.
What had once seemed like a simple endeavor—supporting a swift assassination, paving the way for Nepos’s return, and securing Dalmatia as his reward—had become a tangled web of complications. The boy emperor had not only survived but had used the moment to his advantage, rallying support from every corner of Rome’s fractured society.
Lepidus’s lips pressed into a thin line. It will take more than an assassin to topple this new Romulus, he thought grimly. But Nepos must persevere. The prize is still within reach—if we play this carefully.
He cast a final glance at the emperor, who was now rising from his seat to address his advisors. The young ruler’s composure and quiet command sent a chill down Lepidus’s spine.