The gray light of dawn broke over the docks of Ravenna, casting a pale glow on the restless waters of the Adriatic Sea. The sharp cries of gulls echoed against the early morning quiet, mingling with the muted clamor of soldiers preparing for departure. The sea breeze carried with it the mingled scents of salt, tar, and the faint sweetness of freshly baked bread from distant market stalls—a juxtaposition to the heavy tension that weighed on the gathered crowd.
Gaius Severus stood on the wooden pier, his broad shoulders cloaked in a simple military mantle, the weight of his spatha hanging at his side. His wife, Lavinia, stood beside him, her hands tightly clasping those of their two sons, Lucan and Marcus. Around them, other families crowded near the ships, exchanging tearful farewells with the soldiers embarking on the emperor’s expedition.
The soldiers moved with methodical efficiency, loading crates of supplies onto the waiting biremes and dromons. The vessels, though sturdy, bore the marks of age—patched sails, weathered hulls, and rigging that creaked with each gust of wind. Despite their condition, the ships were adorned with banners of deep crimson, the imperial eagle emblazoned in gold, fluttering proudly in the breeze.
Gaius’s gaze swept over the scene, his practiced eyes noting every detail. Officers barked orders, recruits struggled with the weight of their shields and spears, and veterans moved with the quiet assurance of experience. Yet, amidst the orderly chaos of military preparation, the pier was dominated by the families. Women wept openly, clutching the arms of husbands and sons. Children clung to their fathers, their young faces etched with confusion and fear. Older men, perhaps too proud to cry, offered stoic farewells, gripping the hands of departing soldiers with the firmness of unspoken prayers.
Lavinia’s voice broke through his thoughts. “It doesn’t feel real,” she said softly, her eyes fixed on the bustling scene. “Knowing you’re leaving... seeing all of this... it still doesn’t feel real.”
Gaius turned to her, his expression softening. He reached out, resting a hand gently on her shoulder. “It feels too real to me,” he said quietly. “Every time I look at you and the boys... every step I take closer to those ships... I feel the weight of it all.”
Lucan, his eldest, tugged at his father’s arm. “Will you fight elephants, Father? Like the ones in your stories?”
Gaius knelt down, his heavy leather boots creaking. He smiled faintly, though his eyes betrayed a hint of sadness. “Perhaps,” he said, ruffling Lucan’s dark hair. “But remember what I told you: battles aren’t like the stories. They’re dangerous, and they don’t always have happy endings.”
Marcus, the younger, clutched a wooden figurine of a soldier. “But you’ll win, right? You’re the best fighter in all of Rome!”
Gaius’s throat tightened, and he pulled both boys into a firm embrace. “I’ll do everything I can to come back to you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “That’s my promise.”
Lavinia knelt beside them, her arms encircling her family. Her face was a mask of composure, but her trembling hands betrayed her inner turmoil. “You have to come back, Gaius,” she murmured, her voice breaking. “Not just for them. For me.”
He met her gaze, his expression resolute. “I will. I swear it.”
Around them, the scene unfolded with the same intensity. A young soldier, barely out of his teenage years, held his mother tightly as she sobbed into his shoulder. Nearby, a grizzled veteran kissed the forehead of a toddler clinging to his leg, his voice soft as he murmured words of comfort. Some families stood in silence, their grief too raw for words, while others spoke hurriedly, as if trying to fit a lifetime of farewells into a single moment.
The crowd of onlookers—mostly citizens eager for a glimpse of the departing troops—watched from a respectful distance. Whispers carried through their ranks, some filled with admiration for the soldiers, others tinged with skepticism about the emperor’s bold plans.
“Look at them,” one older man said, shaking his head. “Fathers, sons, brothers... off to fight in lands they’ve never seen. And for what? To help an Eastern emperor who wouldn’t lift a finger to help us?”
A woman beside him clutched a child to her chest. “They’re fighting for Rome,” she said firmly. “For us. To show the world that we’re still strong.”
“Or to die for a boy emperor’s ambition,” the man muttered, though he kept his voice low.
Gaius rose to his feet, his sharp ears catching snippets of the conversations. He let the words pass without comment, focusing instead on his own duty. The final supplies were being loaded, and the officers were beginning to call for the troops to assemble.
The low murmur of the crowd was suddenly broken by the sound of hoofbeats on cobblestones, growing louder as they approached the docks. Gaius turned, his practiced gaze settling on the small but unmistakable entourage of the emperor. Romulus Augustus rode at the center, flanked by his Palatini guards. Their polished armor gleamed in the morning sun, the imperial eagle embossed on their shields catching the light. The soldiers moved with disciplined precision, a sharp contrast to the heavy emotions of the families gathered at the pier.
Romulus dismounted smoothly, his young face set in a calm, composed expression. Despite his youthful appearance, there was a weight in his demeanor that spoke of the burdens he carried. His eyes met Gaius’s, and for a moment, the noise of the dock seemed to fade.
“Your Majesty,” Gaius said, stepping forward and saluting sharply. “Your presence honors us.”
Romulus nodded, his gaze briefly sweeping over the gathered families and troops. “I thought it only right to see the men off myself,” he said, his voice steady. “And to thank you, Gaius, for leading this expedition.”
Gaius inclined his head, his expression respectful but concerned. “How are you, Your Majesty? Yesterday... it was not an easy day.”
For a brief moment, a flicker of something—perhaps weariness or pain—passed across Romulus’s face. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the mask of an emperor. “I am fine, Gaius,” he said firmly. “The events of the trial were necessary for Rome’s stability. But I would ask you the same question—this must be hard on you, leaving your family, leaving Ravenna.”
Gaius’s gaze shifted momentarily to Lavinia and their sons, who stood a short distance away, watching silently. He exhaled slowly, his shoulders straightening. “It is hard,” he admitted. “Harder than I care to show. But I know it is my duty, and I know the stakes. Ravenna must be secured, and the East must be stabilized. This is the only way.”
Romulus’s expression softened slightly as he followed Gaius’s gaze. “Your family is strong, Gaius, because they have you. And while you are away, I promise they will have me as well. They will be safe in the palace.”
The words, spoken with quiet sincerity, seemed to strike a chord. Gaius turned back to Romulus, his expression unreadable for a moment before he nodded deeply. “Thank you, Your Majesty. Knowing they’ll be under your care... it means more to me than I can say.”
Romulus placed a hand briefly on Gaius’s shoulder, his grip firm. “We all fight for the same thing, Gaius—a future worth leaving to those we love. You lead our men with that same hope, and I will guard Ravenna with it.”
The low hum of the crowd seemed to quiet further as Romulus Augustus and his entourage stood at the center of the pier. The emperor's Palatini guards formed a protective semi-circle behind him, their disciplined silence adding to the weight of his presence. The soft clinking of their armor was the only sound as the emperor turned to address Gaius again.
Romulus’s gaze swept over the assembled troops, their families, and the bustling ships. His voice carried over the docks with a calm but authoritative tone. “Before you embark, Gaius, there is something else you should know. I have made arrangements to bolster your forces in ways that go beyond swords and shields.”
Gaius arched a brow, curious but cautious. “Your Majesty?”
Romulus turned to one of his attendants, who stepped forward with a small scroll. The emperor gestured for Gaius to approach, speaking as the centurion unfolded the document. “Your troops will not face this journey with the standard medical provisions of a legion. I have attached a medical contingent three times the usual size to accompany you.”
The significance of the announcement rippled through Gaius’s mind. His eyes scanned the scroll, which detailed the personnel and resources now allocated to his force:
* Twelve medici—trained doctors skilled in treating wounds, illnesses, and battlefield injuries.
* Forty capsarii—first responders assigned to each cohort to provide immediate aid during combat.
* Six chirurgi—specialized surgeons equipped for handling the more severe injuries, such as amputations and projectile extractions.
* Support auxiliaries—dozens of attendants to assist with sanitation, preparation of medical supplies, and basic care for the wounded.
In addition to the personnel, the scroll noted an increased stockpile of medical supplies, including bandages, honey, wine for disinfecting wounds, herbal salves, and surgical instruments.
Gaius exhaled slowly, his expression betraying his surprise. “Your Majesty, this is... beyond anything I expected. Such support could mean the difference between life and death for my men.”
Romulus gave a faint nod, his youthful face serious. “The expedition you lead is vital, Gaius, but it is also perilous. I cannot risk the lives of our soldiers without giving them every advantage I can provide. They will face unfamiliar terrain, new enemies, and diseases we may not yet understand. These medici and their teams will not only heal but protect against the unseen dangers that could claim as many lives as the sword.”
Gaius’s gaze shifted to the emperor, his respect deepening. “You’ve thought of everything. My men will owe their lives to your foresight.”
Romulus held Gaius's gaze, but instead of stepping back, he straightened his shoulders and raised his voice so that it carried over the gathered soldiers and their families.
“I am not done,” he announced, his tone commanding and resolute. The crowd quieted even further, sensing the weight of his words. “Gaius Severus, you are entrusted with the command of one thousand men—veterans, recruits, and militia. To lead such a force effectively requires more than the rank of centurion.”
Gaius’s eyes widened slightly, though he quickly masked his surprise, standing tall as Romulus continued.
“By the authority vested in me as Emperor of the Western Roman Empire, I hereby promote you to the rank of dux militum. From this moment forward, you will hold the title of Dux Severus, with the corresponding authority and responsibility to lead this expedition in my name.”
The announcement drew a ripple of murmurs from the gathered crowd and soldiers. Among the troops, the veterans nodded in approval, recognizing the practicality of the decision, while some of the younger recruits exchanged glances, awed by the significance of the rank.
Romulus gestured to one of his attendants, who stepped forward carrying a ceremonial torques—a gold neckpiece signifying the rank of a dux militum. The emperor took the torques himself and turned to Gaius. “Kneel, Dux Severus.”
Gaius hesitated only a moment before dropping to one knee, his head bowed. The cool morning breeze stirred his mantle as Romulus placed the torques around his neck with deliberate care. The metal was heavy, a symbol not only of rank but of the immense burden of leadership.
“Rise, Dux Severus,” Romulus said, his voice firm yet solemn.
Gaius rose to his feet, the weight of the torques around his neck a tangible reminder of the responsibility now placed upon him. The murmurs of the crowd faded into an expectant silence as Romulus Augustus stepped back, his hands clasped behind his back, and surveyed the scene before him. The gathered soldiers, the families, the ships—this was more than an expedition. This was the symbol of a Rome striving to rise again.
Romulus's gaze lingered on the assembled troops, his expression contemplative. Then, turning slightly to his attendants, he spoke, though his voice carried loud enough for Gaius and those nearby to hear. “This force we send today is more than a contingent of soldiers. It represents hope and renewal—a Rome that refuses to fade.”
He turned back to Gaius, his young face now bearing the gravity of leadership. “Dux Severus, your force must not remain an anonymous assembly of men. It must be forged into something enduring. Effective immediately, this expeditionary force will be organized and recognized as the Legio I Italica Renovata—the First Reformed Italian Legion.”
The announcement sent a ripple of reaction through the crowd and soldiers alike. Veterans, some of whom had served in legions long disbanded, exchanged glances of pride and surprise. A few among the families began murmuring prayers, invoking the gods and saints to protect this newly christened legion.
Gaius stepped forward, bowing his head in acknowledgment. “Your Majesty, I am honored beyond words. To command the Legio I Italica Renovata is a privilege I will carry with utmost dedication. We will make Rome proud.”
Romulus nodded, his expression softening slightly. “You lead this legion not only for the empire but for every citizen who looks to us for strength. Carry its name with honor, Dux Severus, and let it be known across the seas and in the East that Rome still marches under the eagle.”
The emperor turned to address the soldiers directly, his voice rising with conviction. “Soldiers of the Legio I Italica Renovata! You are the vanguard of our renewed Rome. Let the world see in you the discipline, courage, and unity that made our ancestors great. Serve your commander with loyalty, fight with valor, and return to us as heroes!”
The soldiers responded with a resounding cheer, striking their shields with their spears in unison. The sound reverberated across the docks, a stark contrast to the quiet sobs and whispered prayers of the families standing nearby.
Romulus allowed the moment to settle before stepping closer to Gaius once more. Lowering his voice so only the dux could hear, he added, “I trust you to turn this force into a true legion, Gaius. Train them, lead them, and ensure their survival. They carry not only the hopes of an empire but the bonds we both hold dear—your family and mine.”
Gaius met the emperor’s gaze, his voice steady despite the weight of the moment. “I will not fail, Your Majesty. On my honor, the Legio I Italica Renovata will rise to meet the challenges ahead.”
Romulus placed a hand briefly on Gaius’s shoulder. “Go with Rome’s blessing, Dux Severus. May the winds favor your journey and the gods guide your hand.”
With that, the emperor stepped back, signaling to his Palatini guards. As he mounted his horse and prepared to depart, the newly christened dux turned to face his soldiers, his family, and the gathered citizens. For the first time, he raised his voice as the leader of a legion.
“Legio I Italica Renovata! To the ships! Today we sail for Rome, for honor, and for the future!”
The soldiers roared their approval, moving with renewed purpose toward the waiting vessels. Gaius cast one last glance toward Lavinia and his sons. Their faces were filled with a mixture of pride and sorrow, and he etched the image into his memory as he turned to lead his men.
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As Romulus Augustus rode away from the docks, his Palatini guards forming a protective escort around him, the cheers of the soldiers and families faded into the background. The weight of his public display—every word, every gesture—seemed to settle heavily on his shoulders. He kept his expression composed, his posture regal, but his hands betrayed him. Beneath the folds of his cloak, his fingers trembled slightly, an unbidden reaction to the immense strain of the past few days.
The rhythmic clatter of hooves on the cobblestones echoed through the waking streets of Ravenna. Citizens along the way paused to bow or cheer faintly as the emperor passed, their faces a mixture of hope and uncertainty. Romulus acknowledged them with a nod, careful to maintain his façade of calm authority. Inside, however, a storm raged. The trial, the speeches, the farewell to Gaius—all of it had chipped away at the reserves of strength he’d meticulously built.
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As they neared the palace gates, Romulus turned to Magnus, his captain of the guard, riding alongside him. “Ensure that reports from the docks reach me promptly,” he said, his voice steady but quieter now. “I want to know when the ships are safely underway.”
Magnus inclined his head. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
The towering gates of the imperial palace loomed ahead, their iron-banded wood opening slowly to admit the emperor and his retinue. The familiar surroundings of the palace courtyard, with its well-tended gardens and orderly columns, should have brought a measure of comfort, but Romulus felt only exhaustion. The strain of the past days weighed on him like an anchor, each decision made and word spoken tightening its grip.
Dismounting from his horse, Romulus handed the reins to a waiting stable attendant. His legs felt heavier than usual, though he moved with deliberate purpose. The guards saluted crisply as he passed, their discipline a small but welcome reassurance in an uncertain world.
Inside the palace, Andronikos was waiting near the base of the grand staircase. The Greek advisor’s sharp eyes scanned the emperor’s face, noting the subtle signs of fatigue that Romulus worked so hard to conceal from others.
“Your Majesty,” Andronikos said, bowing slightly. “The treasury has compiled the final tax revenue reports, along with approximate projections for current and forthcoming expenditures. They will be ready for your review first thing in the morning.”
Romulus raised a hand to stop him, his voice softer than usual. “Tomorrow, Andronikos. We’ll address it all tomorrow. Tonight... I need to rest.”
Andronikos hesitated, his sharp features softening slightly in understanding. “Of course, Your Majesty. Shall I arrange for anything?”
Romulus shook his head as he began ascending the staircase. “No, thank you. Just ensure that I am not disturbed unless it is urgent.”
“As you wish,” Andronikos said, bowing again before stepping back into the shadows.
Reaching his private chambers, Romulus dismissed the servants with a tired wave of his hand. Alone at last, he exhaled deeply and leaned against the heavy wooden door. The tension in his body seemed to release all at once, and his trembling hands came into view. He clenched them into fists, as if willing himself to regain control.
Moving to the small table by the window, he poured himself a goblet of watered wine. The view of Ravenna’s rooftops stretched before him, their tiles catching the faint golden hues of the rising sun. In the distance, he could still see the masts of the ships at the docks, now faint silhouettes against the shimmering water.
Romulus sipped the wine slowly, his gaze distant. He thought of Gaius and the soldiers of the Legio I Italica Renovata, sailing into the unknown. He thought of the trial, the blood, and the cheers that had followed. Every decision felt like a gamble, each one carrying the weight of an empire’s fragile future.
He set the goblet down, his reflection in the polished surface of the bronze mirror catching his eye. The dark circles under his eyes and the pallor of his skin betrayed the toll the days had taken.
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In Mediolanum, Orestes sat in the dimly lit confines of his office, staring out the arched window at the rain-soaked streets. Darkness cloaked the city, the steady drumming of rain on stone a somber accompaniment to his thoughts. The room was sparsely furnished, its walls lined with shelves of scrolls and ledgers, but the flickering light of a single oil lamp cast long shadows that made the space feel cavernous and cold.
Orestes’s fingers drummed absently on the wooden desk. His sharp eyes followed the rivulets of rain cascading down the glass, but his mind was elsewhere—on Rome, on the emperor, and on the precarious game of power that seemed to tighten around him like a noose.
A quiet knock at the door broke his reverie.
“Enter,” Orestes called, his voice steady but low.
The door creaked open, and Paulus stepped in, shaking droplets of rain from his heavy cloak. His younger brother bore the same dark hair and angular features, though his expression was lighter, more prone to wry amusement. Tonight, however, he looked serious as he approached the desk, holding a sealed letter.
“This arrived just now,” Paulus said, placing the letter carefully before Orestes. “From Crassus. He’s labeled it urgent.”
Orestes took the letter from Crassus, its urgent seal a stark reminder of the many fires he was trying to contain. He set it aside for a moment, his thoughts drifting to another letter—one he’d received from Romulus barely a week ago. Its contents had been maddeningly brief, so cryptic they had left him stunned.
It had read:
To Flavius Orestes, Magister Militum of the Western Empire,
Father,
By the time you read this, you will have learned of my plans for the Eastern expedition. I can only imagine your reaction—anger, confusion, perhaps even disbelief. I do not ask for your forgiveness, nor do I seek to excuse myself. Instead, I ask for five days before you judge me. Allow me this time to show you the merit of my actions.
The Eastern expedition is not a rash gamble, nor is it merely to support Emperor Zeno. It is a strategic move designed to restore Rome’s influence and secure its survival. Basiliscus’s usurpation threatens Constantinople’s stability, and by aiding Zeno, we position ourselves as a key player in the fate of the Eastern Empire. Our involvement demonstrates that Rome is still capable of shaping events, that we are not a relic waiting to crumble into dust.
You will hear of my “great trick” in the coming days. The force I have presented is not as large as it appears. Through careful planning—rotating troops, reusing banners and armor, and orchestrating disciplined displays—I have created the illusion of a far greater army. This illusion serves a purpose beyond mere theatrics. It is a tool to project strength, deter dissent, and inspire confidence among our people and allies. It is a weapon in its own right.
The Legio I Italica Renovata, under the command of Gaius Severus, is the cornerstone of this endeavor. Though their numbers are modest, their discipline and leadership will make them a formidable force. The expedition will proceed with the full backing of the Church, whose support I have secured through careful negotiation.
Father, I know you will see this as defiance, as a son stepping beyond his place. But I assure you, every step I have taken is for Rome. I do not act out of pride or ambition, but from a deep conviction that we must adapt to survive.
Five days. That is all I ask. Judge me after those days have passed, when the truth of my actions begins to unfold.
– Romulus
Orestes had stared at Romulus’s letter for what felt like an eternity, his emotions swinging between disbelief and fury. The audacity of the boy to act with such autonomy, to devise and execute a plan of this magnitude without consulting him, was almost beyond comprehension. And yet, as he read and reread the letter, a thread of something more unsettling began to unravel in his mind—respect.
The words were calm, measured, and disturbingly persuasive. Romulus hadn’t pleaded for leniency; he had demanded time—five days—to prove himself. It was a bold move, calculated and deliberate, just like the actions he described in the letter. An Eastern expedition, a great trick, and the formation of a new legion? It sounded like the work of a seasoned ruler, not a boy barely out of adolescence.
But the arrogance grated on Orestes. Romulus had taken steps that should have been his to decide. Orestes was the Magister Militum, not Romulus. The boy’s overreach felt like a challenge to his authority, a calculated risk to bypass his father entirely. It infuriated him.
And yet...
Romulus’s reasoning gnawed at him. The letter was not the rambling of a reckless youth but a strategy meticulously planned. The great trick, as described, was audacious. Using the illusion of a larger army to project strength was a tactic that might succeed, but it was also fraught with danger. If exposed, it could destroy their credibility. And the alliance with the Church, though a pragmatic move, tied their fortunes to an institution that could just as easily turn against them.
Orestes paced his office, the sound of his boots echoing against the stone floor. The rain outside mirrored his mood, relentless and unyielding. The letter had unsettled him in ways he hadn’t anticipated. His son was not only acting independently—he was acting with a confidence that Orestes himself had underestimated.
Then came Crassus’s first report. Delivered the next day, it confirmed what the letter had hinted at: troops were assembling in Ravenna, the Church was actively supporting Romulus, and the Eastern expedition was proceeding at a pace that defied Orestes’s expectations. The boy wasn’t just dreaming—he was doing.
Orestes’s first reaction was rage. He had slammed his fist onto the desk, the echo reverberating through the room. “The insolence!” he had roared, pacing furiously. “He thinks he can dictate terms to me? To Rome?”
Paulus, sitting calmly in the corner, had watched his brother’s tirade with a thoughtful expression. “And yet,” he said quietly, “it seems to be working.”
Orestes had turned on him, eyes blazing. “Working? This boy risks everything we’ve fought for! He gambles with Rome’s survival as if it were a game!”
“Perhaps,” Paulus had replied, “but the foederati are moving.”
Those words stopped Orestes cold. The reports of Odoacer’s troops repositioning, consolidating power, and reinforcing supply lines had trickled in sporadically over the past weeks. Orestes had dismissed them as routine maneuvers, but Paulus had been paying closer attention. And now, with Romulus’s letter and Crassus’s report in hand, a picture began to form—a picture Orestes hadn’t wanted to see.
Romulus had seen it. Or at least suspected it. The boy had acted preemptively, preparing for a potential conflict with Odoacer while simultaneously securing Rome’s standing in the East. It was audacious, yes, but it was also pragmatic.
Orestes’s rage cooled into something more calculating. He couldn’t ignore the signs any longer. The foederati’s movements, the whispers of alliances among barbarian leaders, the subtle shifts in power dynamics—all of it pointed to a storm on the horizon. Romulus, reckless as he might be, had recognized the storm before Orestes had.
For five days, Orestes waited. He read and reread Romulus’s letter, replayed Crassus’s initial report in his mind, and wrestled with the implications. When Paulus finally handed him the next report from Crassus, unopened and sealed with urgency, Orestes’s hands lingered over the wax.
The boy had demanded five days. Now, the five days were up. With a sharp breath, Orestes broke the seal.
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To Orestes, Magister Militum of the Western Empire,
The trial of the assassin Cassinius has concluded. It ended in chaos—a senator, Lepidus, took it upon himself to deliver justice, killing the accused in a fit of rage during the proceedings. The emperor, though visibly shaken, has used the event to consolidate his position. The people, surprisingly, seem to rally behind him, their loyalty bolstered by the spectacle and the sense of order he projects.
The expedition to the East was embarked under the command of Dux Gaius Severus, a newly appointed officer who now leads the Legio I Italica Renovata. While this force comprises one thousand men, the parade revealed a startling truth: Romulus commands a much larger force overall. The troops displayed in Ravenna were disciplined and well-equipped, numbering at least ten thousand Roman soldiers, including veterans, trained recruits, and militia.
The Church continues to back the emperor’s endeavors, contributing both finances and moral support. The alliance between the emperor and the clergy has grown stronger, and his decisions—though audacious—seem calculated to build a foundation of both faith and power.
I await further instructions. What course should I take?
Crassus
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Orestes sat back in his chair, the letter from Crassus trembling slightly in his hands. His sharp mind, so often capable of outmaneuvering generals and senators alike, now wrestled with a torrent of emotions. Stupor. Rage. Pride. How could a boy barely into manhood achieve what Romulus had seemingly accomplished? The magnitude of his son’s success, combined with the audacity of his methods, left Orestes reeling.
The oil lamp flickered, shadows dancing on the cold stone walls of his office as Orestes reread the key points: the assassin’s trial turned spectacle, the formation of a new legion under Gaius Severus, and the revelation of the far larger, disciplined force commanded by his son. Ten thousand men. An expedition backed by the Church. And all of it orchestrated without so much as a whisper of consultation.
He slammed the letter onto the desk, the sharp crack of parchment breaking the room’s tense silence. Paulus, still seated across from him, leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable.
“Romulus...” Orestes began, his voice a low growl. He struggled for words, his anger mingling with something deeper, something unspoken. “He did it. The arrogant fool actually did it.”
Paulus arched an eyebrow. “It seems your son has a knack for the impossible.”
Orestes shot him a sharp glance, but the usual venom of his retorts was absent. Instead, he turned back to the letter, his hand running through his dark hair. “He succeeded, yes,” Orestes said, his voice softening. “But he did it without consulting me, without permission. He took what wasn’t his to take—authority, resources, risk—and made it his own.”
Paulus smirked faintly. “And yet, here we are. Rome looks stronger than it has in years. The foederati will think twice before testing us now.”
Orestes paused, the words sinking in. As much as he hated to admit it, Paulus was right. The sheer spectacle of Romulus’s moves—the trial, the troops, the Church’s support—had shifted perceptions. Where once Rome might have seemed vulnerable, now it appeared revitalized, its young emperor a figure of calculated resolve.
“We have breathing room,” Orestes murmured, almost to himself. His mind began to work, calculating the implications. “The foederati won’t see weakness when they look south. They’ll see strength, discipline. That buys us time.”
Paulus leaned back in his chair, regarding his brother thoughtfully. “Does that mean you’ll return to Ravenna? Perhaps see this newfound strength for yourself?”
Orestes’s fingers drummed on the desk, his gaze fixed on the rain-soaked window. For a long moment, he said nothing, the weight of the decision evident in his silence. Finally, he shook his head. “No.”
Paulus tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “No?”
“No,” Orestes repeated, his voice firm now. “Romulus has proven he can handle himself—at least for the time being. If I return, it will appear as though I’m undermining him. The last thing we need is for the foederati to sense division between father and son.”
“And Odoacer?” Paulus pressed.
Orestes’s jaw tightened. “I stay here because Odoacer is the greater threat. His movements are deliberate. He’s waiting for the right moment to strike, and I need to ensure he doesn’t get it.”
Paulus nodded slowly, a flicker of approval in his expression. “Pragmatic as always.”
Orestes leaned forward, his hands steepled on the desk. “Romulus may have bought us time, but this game is far from over. His success doesn’t erase the risks he’s taken. If he falters, if this illusion of strength crumbles, everything could collapse.”
The rain continued its relentless drumming outside, but inside the office, a quiet determination filled the space. Orestes rose from his chair, slipping Crassus’s letter into the folds of his robe. His expression was one of grim resolve, but somewhere beneath the surface, a faint glimmer of pride remained.
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Odoacer leaned back in his heavy, ornately carved wooden chair, the dim light of the chamber casting flickering shadows across the faces of his companions. The room was thick with the smell of smoke from the central brazier and the lingering aroma of roasted meat from their earlier feast. His two trusted captains, Thrasamund and Vidimir, lounged nearby, their laughter echoing off the stone walls as they recounted past glories.
The atmosphere was light, carefree. Vidimir slapped his knee, grinning broadly. "And when it’s done, Thrasamund, I’ll take Mediolanum for myself. A fine city for a fine man. The markets alone could keep my coffers full for years!"
Thrasamund chuckled, raising his goblet. "Then I claim Ravenna. A port city suits me better—easy access to plunder and trade."
Odoacer smirked, swirling his own drink as he listened. The joking didn’t bother him; in truth, he enjoyed the camaraderie. It was a momentary reprieve from the constant weight of leadership. "Careful, my friends," he said, his deep voice rumbling with amusement. "Divide Italy too quickly, and you’ll forget who grants you such spoils."
The three men burst into laughter again, their tones light and jovial. A fourth figure, Arbogast, leader of a loyal contingent of foederati, leaned in from the corner. "Don’t forget me, Odoacer. I’ve my eye on Verona—close enough to your Mediolanum, Vidimir, so I can visit and borrow a few barrels of your wine."
Vidimir waved him off playfully. "Borrow? You’d drain my cellars in a week!"
The laughter continued until a knock at the chamber door cut through the noise. The sound was sharp, urgent. Odoacer frowned slightly, his thick brows knitting together. "Enter," he called, his deep voice immediately silencing the room.
A messenger stepped in, his face pale and rain dripping from his cloak. In his hands was a sealed letter. He approached with a cautious gait, bowing deeply before holding the letter out to Odoacer.
"From Ravenna, my lord," the messenger said, his voice steady but low.
The room grew quiet. Odoacer took the letter, his expression darkening as he broke the wax seal. The brazier’s glow illuminated the parchment as he began to read.
For a moment, the flicker of firelight played across Odoacer’s face, highlighting the subtle shifts in his expression. His sharp eyes scanned the lines swiftly, and his features, so recently alight with mirth, hardened. His mouth pressed into a grim line, and a shadow seemed to settle over him.
The other men exchanged uneasy glances. Vidimir, always the boldest, broke the silence. "What is it, Odoacer?"
Odoacer didn’t answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the letter, his large hands gripping the edges of the parchment tightly. When he finally looked up, his eyes were cold, his jaw set.
Odoacer leaned back in his chair, the tension in his expression softening slightly but not disappearing. He stared into the brazier, the flickering flames reflected in his sharp eyes. After a long pause, he spoke again, his voice low and deliberate.
"I must visit Orestes."
The declaration hung in the air, and Gundobad frowned, his arms still crossed. "Orestes?" he echoed. "To what end, my lord?"
"To keep up appearances," Odoacer replied, his tone heavy with disdain. "I must assure him of my loyalty, pretend to align with his vision of the empire. It’s a tiresome act, but necessary."
Wulfgar’s brow furrowed in thought. "Do you think he’ll believe you? He must already suspect you, or why would he come here in the first place?"
Odoacer’s lips curled into a bitter smile. "He does suspect. He’s not a fool. But until he is certain—until he has proof—he will not act against us. That is why we must keep him guessing. Uncertainty is our ally."
Gundobad nodded slowly, his face thoughtful. "So we make him wait. Keep him in the dark while we prepare."
"Exactly," Odoacer said, his tone sharpening. "Orestes is a cautious man. He won’t move unless he’s sure of his advantage. Until then, we must project loyalty while biding our time."
Wulfgar leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And when we have the upper hand?"
Odoacer’s eyes turned cold, the firelight casting harsh shadows on his face. "When we have the upper hand," he said, his voice like steel, "we will take everything. Orestes, Ravenna, Rome—they will all fall into our grasp. But not before we are ready."
The room fell silent as his words sank in. Gundobad and Wulfgar exchanged a glance, a shared understanding passing between them. Their leader’s resolve was clear, and the weight of their shared purpose pressed down on them like the storm raging outside.
"Ensure the troops are paid and satisfied," Odoacer continued, his tone commanding. "Send word to our allies that we will need their support in the coming months. And keep our movements discreet. The last thing we need is Orestes catching wind of our true intentions."
Both captains nodded, their expressions grim but resolute. Gundobad rose from his seat, adjusting the belt of his sword. "It will be done, my lord."
Wulfgar followed, his usual bravado tempered by the seriousness of the moment. "I’ll see to it personally," he said, his voice unusually measured.
As the two men left the chamber, Odoacer remained seated, his gaze fixed on the flames. His mind churned with plans and contingencies, each one hinging on the delicate balance of power he now faced. The boy-emperor’s unexpected strength had thrown a wrench into his designs, but Odoacer knew the game was far from over.
He would play his part with Orestes, weaving a web of lies and half-truths to keep the Magister Militum in check. And when the time came, he would strike with the full might of his forces, leaving no room for doubt or resistance.