The soft rustling of parchment stirred Romulus from his restless sleep. He blinked, disoriented, the golden light of morning spilling through the curtains. His neck ached from where he had slumped over his desk, his cheek resting on the edge of an unfinished sketch.
As his vision cleared, he saw Andronikos standing at the other side of the desk, one hand smoothing a scroll while the other held one of Romulus’s hastily drawn sketches. The old Greek’s expression was unreadable, his fingers lightly tracing the lines on the parchment.
“Andronikos?” Romulus’s voice was hoarse, caught between sleep and wariness. He sat upright, rubbing his eyes.
The tutor glanced up, his face a mixture of curiosity and something deeper—concern, perhaps, or faint amusement. “Good morning, Domine,” Andronikos said evenly. He held up the sketch, the faint lines illuminated by the morning sun. “I must admit, I did not expect to find my emperor designing farming implements in the dead of night.”
Romulus’s heart sank. “I—” he began, but Andronikos raised a hand to stop him.
“There’s no need to explain,” the Greek said, his tone softer now. He placed the sketch back on the desk and studied the boy with a careful gaze. “You’ve been busy.”
Romulus straightened, his fatigue forgotten as embarrassment and defiance warred within him. “It’s not just a farming tool,” he said, his voice firmer than he felt. “It’s an iron plow. It could help farmers grow more food, faster. The legions wouldn’t have to worry about shortages, and the cities—”
Andronikos held up the sketch again, scrutinizing the lines as if trying to imagine the finished product. He tilted his head slightly, tracing one of the more angular shapes with his finger. “It’s ingenious,” he admitted after a moment, “but these drawings need refinement. The proportions are inconsistent, and some of the mechanisms seem... overly ambitious.”
He placed the sketch back on the desk, tapping it lightly. “Yet there’s a spark of brilliance here, Romulus. I can see what you’re trying to achieve. The idea itself is sound, and that’s more important than the execution for now. After all, even the greatest inventions begin as imperfect scribbles.”
“Do you know why this intrigues me, Domine?”
Romulus shook his head.
“Because it’s not the work of a boy desperate for approval,” Andronikos continued. “It’s the work of someone who sees farther than the present. You could have drawn grand monuments to your reign, or designs for weapons to terrify your enemies. But instead, you thought of the land, of the people.”
Romulus swallowed, unsure whether the words were praise or something else. “Does that mean you think it’s a good idea?”
Andronikos’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I think it shows promise. But ideas are only as powerful as the deeds that bring them to life.”
Romulus’s shoulders sagged slightly, but the tutor’s next words brought him back.
“Tell me,” Andronikos said, gesturing to the pile of sketches and notes. “What else have you envisioned? What other seeds of change do you wish to plant?”
Romulus hesitated, then pushed a second sheet toward the Greek. “This,” he said, pointing to a diagram of a tool with interlocking gears. “It’s… it’s hard to explain, but it’s a mill. It could make grinding grain faster.”
Andronikos raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “And you believe these designs will work?”
“They worked in my visions,” Romulus said earnestly. “And if they worked there, why not here?”
The Greek leaned back, stroking his beard. “Visions,” he murmured, his voice tinged with skepticism. “Dreams are a strange thing, Domine. But sometimes, they are rooted in truths we do not yet understand.”
The boy emperor sat up straighter, his hands clasped tightly on the desk. “Then you think it’s possible? That we could build these things?”
Andronikos looked at him for a long moment, his gaze steady and thoughtful. “Anything is possible,” he said at last. “But possibility alone is not enough. You will need more than drawings, Domine. You will need allies—people who believe in your vision. People with the skill to make it a reality.”
Romulus nodded slowly, the weight of the task settling on him. “I’ll find them,” he said, his voice quiet but determined. “Whatever it takes.”
Andronikos reached out, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You are starting to see what it means to lead, Romulus. But remember, the road ahead will not be easy. Many will doubt you. Some will resist you. And some… some will betray you.”
Romulus met the old man’s eyes, his chest tightening at the weight of the words. “I know,” he said simply. “But I have to try.”
Andronikos inclined his head, a faint glimmer of pride in his gaze. “Then let us begin, Domine. One step at a time.”
Romulus nodded, his resolve hardening.
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The sun was high when Romulus arrived at the private training grounds, his legs still stiff from the previous day’s lessons. The faint scent of sweat and iron lingered in the air, and the rhythmic clatter of practice swords filled the space. Gaius Severus stood in the center, his arms crossed, his gaze sharp as a blade. His scarred face betrayed no emotion, but his stance radiated authority.
“Late again, Dominus,” Gaius said, his tone a blend of mockery and disapproval. “A good soldier knows the value of discipline. A great emperor should value it even more.”
Romulus bit back a retort and instead bowed his head slightly. “My apologies, Gaius. It won’t happen again.”
The centurion snorted, his lips twitching in what might have been amusement. “We’ll see. Now, pick up a sword.”
Romulus moved to the rack of wooden practice weapons, selecting one that felt manageable in his small hands. He turned back to Gaius, who had already begun pacing in slow, deliberate circles.
“Before you swing that thing around like a drunken recruit,” Gaius began, “tell me—what do you think a sword is for?”
“To fight,” Romulus replied instinctively.
Gaius stopped, raising an eyebrow. “A fine answer for a child. Now give me the real one.”
Romulus frowned, his grip tightening on the wooden hilt. “To protect. To win.”
Gaius shook his head, stepping closer. “Wrong again. A sword is a tool, Dominus. Nothing more. It’s not the sword that wins battles—it’s the mind that wields it. Strategy, discipline, courage. Without those, you might as well be swinging a stick.”
The boy nodded, his mind racing. He raised the sword, mimicking the stance Gaius had shown him the day before. The centurion observed him for a moment, then struck the sword down with a quick motion, forcing Romulus to stumble.
“Sloppy,” Gaius said. “Try again.”
Romulus adjusted his stance, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. As Gaius circled him again, he took a deep breath and decided to take a different approach.
“Gaius,” he said, his tone cautious, “how do you fight an enemy with better weapons?”
The centurion paused, his head tilting slightly. “An interesting question. Are you asking out of curiosity, or do you have someone in mind?”
Romulus hesitated, then said, “Curiosity.”
Gaius smirked, motioning for Romulus to raise his sword again. “The answer depends on the situation. Better weapons don’t guarantee victory. Terrain, morale, discipline—those can tip the scales. A well-trained force with spears can destroy an undisciplined army with swords if they hold the high ground. But…” His eyes glinted. “If the enemy has better weapons and better training, you’d better pray to God for a miracle.”
Romulus absorbed the words, his mind flickering to his visions of future technologies. “What if… what if you had weapons that could strike from a distance? Farther than arrows?”
Gaius stopped abruptly, turning to look at him. “What kind of distance are we talking about?”
Romulus shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “Far enough that the enemy can’t reach you. Machines, maybe, that could throw stones or fire.”
Gaius’s expression darkened. “You’re speaking of siege engines. Ballistae, onagers, scorpions. All valuable tools—but they take time, resources, and skilled engineers to build. And they’re useless without protection. The enemy doesn’t just sit around while you set them up.”
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Romulus nodded, filing away the information. “But what if they could be moved easily? Like… smaller versions of siege engines?”
The centurion’s eyes narrowed. “You have an odd imagination for a boy, Dominus. Smaller siege engines? If you could build something like that, you’d change how battles are fought. But that’s easier said than done.”
Romulus pressed further. “What about armor? What’s the best kind for a soldier?”
Gaius Severus smirked slightly, though his tone remained direct. “The kind that keeps you breathing.” He tapped the chainmail lorica hamata covering his torso. “This. It’s flexible, strong, and doesn’t slow you down like heavier plate might. The old lorica segmentata—those iron bands from centuries ago—offered solid protection, but it was a pain to maintain and could leave you vulnerable at the joints. Mail like this,” he gestured to his own, “protects the most vital parts and lets you move. A man needs to move, Dominus. Armor that makes you slower or stiffer kills as surely as an enemy’s blade.”
Romulus absorbed the information, remembering the iron plates from his visions, designed with intricate hinges and underlays to avoid those flaws. Perhaps there was a way to improve on even this armor, something both strong and mobile. He tucked the thought away.
“What about shields?” he asked, eager to probe further.
“Shields are like friends,” Gaius said with a hint of sarcasm. “Get one you trust and that won’t fail when you need it.” He gestured toward the training yard where oval shields leaned against racks. “We’ve moved on from the big rectangular ones—those old scuta. Those were great for the legions of the past, tight formations, testudo maneuvers. But times change. Barbarians don’t fight like the Greeks or Carthaginians. Battles aren’t always in perfect ranks anymore. An oval shield is lighter, easier to maneuver, better for mixed fighting.”
Romulus tilted his head. “But wouldn’t a bigger shield still protect more?”
“It might,” Gaius admitted. “But every pound you add to a soldier’s gear makes them slower. And a slow soldier is a dead one. You carry what you need to survive—not a slab of wood and metal that weighs you down. If a man can’t use his shield quickly, what’s the point?”
Romulus nodded again, his mind turning. Gaius’s words made sense, yet he wondered if the shields he’d seen in his visions—lighter but just as strong, reinforced with better materials—could find their place in the future of warfare.
Gaius shifted his stance, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re asking the right questions, Dominus. But remember, war is as much about men as it is about tools. You can arm a soldier with the best shield, the strongest armor, the sharpest blade—and he’ll still die if his head isn’t in the fight.”
The boy emperor stepped back, digesting the centurion’s insights. His young mind churned with possibilities: could lighter shields, stronger armor, or more versatile equipment be developed? And how would it change the battlefield?
After a moment’s thought, Romulus decided to probe deeper. “What about crossbows?” he asked, his tone cautious but curious. “Are they better than bows?”
Gaius’s brow furrowed, the question clearly catching him by surprise. “Crossbows? Useful, yes. Powerful, certainly. But slow. They fire a bolt with deadly force, but in the time it takes to wind the string and set another bolt, a man with a bow can loose three arrows.”
Romulus frowned. “But the bolts penetrate armor better, don’t they?”
“Aye,” Gaius admitted, his tone thoughtful now. “They’re good for sieges, for holding a line against cavalry or heavy infantry. A trained crossbowman is worth his weight in gold when used right. But in the heat of battle, when speed and rhythm matter, they’re not a soldier’s first choice.”
Romulus considered this, his thoughts racing ahead. Crossbows, pikes, and muskets had been the foundation of armies in his visions—systems where coordinated volleys of projectiles kept enemies at bay. What if crossbows could be made faster to load, more reliable? He wanted to ask about gunpowder and firearms but held his tongue; the leap would be too great, too unbelievable for now.
Instead, he shifted his question. “What about formations? Have you ever seen soldiers use long spears and crossbows together, like... protecting each other while advancing?”
Gaius tilted his head, intrigued. “A pike and crossbow formation?” He rubbed his chin, his expression turning pensive. “Not exactly, but it’s not unheard of to mix weapon types. Pikemen are great for holding cavalry at bay, and archers or slingers behind them can keep the enemy off balance. But combining crossbows with pikes... that’s interesting. Crossbowmen would need to be trained to move and shoot in sync with the spearmen. And spearmen would have to trust the crossbows to cover their flanks.”
He shook his head, though there was no derision in his tone. “It could work—if the soldiers were disciplined enough, drilled enough. But soldiers aren’t machines, Dominus. Too many moving parts in a formation like that, and it falls apart when things get messy.”
Romulus’s heart raced, despite Gaius’s skepticism. He could see it clearly in his mind’s eye: rows of disciplined infantry, shields interlocked, pikes thrusting outward while crossbowmen fired volleys from behind. It could work. It would work. It had worked in the visions he’d seen of later armies.
But how could he bring it to life here, now, without overwhelming the men or betraying the source of his ideas? He glanced up at Gaius, who watched him carefully.
“Keep asking questions,” the centurion said finally, breaking the silence. “Keep thinking. That’s the mark of a leader, Dominus. But remember—plans and ideas are only as good as the men who carry them out. And war...” He tapped the training sword in his hand. “War is rarely neat. It’s chaos. Never forget that.”
Romulus nodded, his thoughts spinning. He had much to learn and even more to plan, but the seeds were planted. And as Gaius resumed the drills, the boy emperor resolved to continue probing, learning, and testing his ideas.
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The day had been long, filled with sweat, questions, and relentless expectations. By the time Romulus was summoned to his father’s private office, exhaustion weighed heavily on him. Yet the summons stirred unease more than curiosity. Orestes did not summon people without purpose, and Romulus knew better than to expect a gentle conversation.
The office was as imposing as its occupant. Maps of the empire stretched across the walls, detailing its shrinking borders and the encroachments of its enemies. Scrolls and ledgers spilled across a central desk, an unspoken reminder of the fragile state of Rome. Orestes sat behind the desk, his cloak draped over one shoulder, his piercing eyes fixed on Romulus as he entered.
“Sit,” Orestes commanded, his tone clipped and leaving no room for hesitation.
Romulus obeyed quickly, lowering himself onto the chair opposite his father. His back was straight, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, betraying the nervous energy he tried to hide.
Orestes leaned forward, his expression unreadable but his presence as commanding as ever. “You have taken your first steps as emperor, but there is far more to this role than wearing a crown and enduring ceremonies. If we are to hold this empire together, we need influence. Alliances. Visibility.”
Romulus nodded, avoiding his father’s intense gaze. “What do you need me to do, Magister Militarum?”
Orestes’s tone grew sharper. “What I need is for you to act like an emperor. You will attend public ceremonies and prayers at the cathedral. In three days, you will oversee the formal handover of lands around the cathedral to the Church.”
Romulus’s brow furrowed, but he quickly schooled his expression. “The handover of lands?”
“Yes,” Orestes replied curtly. “The Church has demanded it, and we cannot afford to alienate them. They are powerful, and their support is essential.”
Romulus hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. “But the Church… doesn’t it already have enough? They seem to grow stronger while the empire grows weaker.”
Orestes’s gaze hardened, his voice low and sharp. “Watch your tongue, boy.”
“I only meant—” Romulus began quickly, his voice faltering. “I meant no disrespect, Magister Militarum. I just… I worry they may take more than they give.”
Orestes rose abruptly, his imposing figure towering over Romulus. “You worry?” His tone was biting, his frustration clear. “You know nothing of what it takes to hold this empire together. Do you think I want to give them more? Do you think I enjoy seeing Rome diminished piece by piece?”
Romulus’s chest tightened, and he looked down at his lap. “No, Father,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to question you.”
“You didn’t mean to, but you did,” Orestes said, his voice a low growl. “The Church wields power that even the legions cannot match. Their influence reaches every village, every town, every heart. If we lose their favor, we lose the empire.”
Romulus swallowed hard, his mind racing. He didn’t dare argue further, but his thoughts burned with questions. Was his father right? Was appeasement truly the only option?
“I understand,” Romulus said softly, though the words felt hollow.
Orestes leaned over the desk, his sharp gaze locking onto his son’s. “Do you? Because from where I stand, it seems you question every decision I make.”
Romulus shook his head quickly. “No, Father. I don’t question you. I only want to understand.”
Orestes’s expression softened slightly, though his tone remained firm. “You want to understand? Then understand this: Survival comes first. This empire teeters on the edge of collapse, and every choice I make is to buy us more time. Time to rebuild. Time to strengthen. Do you think I don’t see the Church’s ambitions? I see them clearly. But I also see what will happen if we oppose them outright.”
Romulus nodded slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I see, Father.”
Orestes sat back down, his expression grim. “Good. Then you will do your duty. Attend the prayers. Smile at the bishops. Give them their land. That is how we hold the empire together.”
Romulus hesitated, the words catching in his throat. He wanted to say more, to voice his doubts, but fear and exhaustion held him back. Finally, he said, “I will, Magister Militarum.”
For a long moment, Orestes simply stared at him, his stern gaze searching for something in his son’s face. “Good,” he said at last, though the word carried more weight than satisfaction. “You are dismissed.”
Romulus rose quickly, bowing his head before turning to leave. As his hand touched the door, Orestes spoke again.
“Romulus.”
The boy froze, turning back to face his father. “Yes, Father?”
Orestes’s voice was quieter now, almost contemplative. “Remember, my loyalty is to Rome. Every decision I make is for its survival. Keep that in mind before you question me again.”
Romulus nodded. “Yes, Father. I will.”
As he left the office, his mind swirled with conflicting thoughts. He had avoided confrontation, but the doubts lingered. Could survival at any cost truly save the empire? Or was Rome being bled dry by the very forces meant to preserve it?
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Back in his chambers, Romulus sat at his desk, staring at the sketches and notes he had left earlier. He picked up his quill, but his hands were unsteady. His father’s words echoed in his mind, clashing with the doubts that refused to be silenced.
The Church, the land, the survival of Rome—were they all pieces of the same puzzle, or were they pulling the empire apart? Could he find a way to balance survival and integrity, to protect what Rome stood for without sacrificing it to the whims of others?
He sighed deeply, leaning back in his chair. Sleep tugged at the edges of his mind, but he resisted. There was too much to think about, too much to do. One day, he would need answers to the questions his father refused to consider.