Romulus Augustus sat at his desk, his young face marked with a focus and intensity that belied his years. The flickering light of an oil lamp illuminated the clutter of parchment, wax tablets, and scattered reports that dominated the space. The room was thick with the smell of wax and ink, and the air felt heavy, stifling even. Romulus leaned forward, his sharp gaze fixed on the tax collector standing stiffly at the far end of the table.
Senator Quintus Marcellus sat to Romulus’s right, his expression strained. He tried to maintain his usual composed demeanor, but his fingers fidgeted with the edge of his toga, and a faint sheen of sweat betrayed his nervousness. His loyalty to the emperor had been a calculated decision, a wager on stability, but today’s meeting felt like a gamble gone awry.
On the emperor’s left sat Andronikos, the Greek advisor, his expression calm as he scribbled notes onto a wax tablet. His precision and detachment stood in stark contrast to the tension suffusing the room.
At the back of the room, Comes Lucius Varius shifted uncomfortably. A military man used to clear orders and tangible threats, he clearly did not understand why he had been summoned to a discussion about taxes. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his brow furrowed as he glanced between Romulus, Marcellus, and the pale-faced tax collector.
The tax collector, Gaius Felix, stood as rigid as a statue, though his sweat-dampened brow betrayed his apprehension. His toga was immaculate, his posture upright, but the weight of the boy emperor’s gaze seemed to crush him.
It was Marcellus who broke the silence, his voice uneven despite his best efforts to sound smooth. “Dominus,” he began, gesturing to the tax collector, “this is Gaius Felix. He is one of the few who passed the recent evaluations with distinction. Competent, yes, but also loyal—two qualities that are regrettably scarce.”
Romulus didn’t look away from Gaius Felix. “And you trust him to oversee the implementation of our reforms?”
“I do,” Marcellus replied quickly, though his tone carried the faintest tremor. He avoided Romulus’s eyes, instead focusing on the grain of the wooden desk. “He has demonstrated integrity and a willingness to challenge corruption, even at personal risk. Such a man is valuable—if guided properly.”
Lucius Varius coughed softly, earning a sharp glance from Marcellus. “Apologies, Dominus,” the Comes said, his deep voice uncertain. “But I fail to see why my presence is required here. This… tax matter seems far from my expertise.”
Romulus’s eyes darted toward Comes Lucius Varius, his expression sharp. “Comes, this matter touches everyone, even the soldiers you command. You may think taxes are a distant concern, but if we cannot collect what is owed, the legions will go unpaid. And what follows unpaid soldiers, as I’m sure you know, is not stability.”
Varius shifted uncomfortably but gave a stiff nod, understanding the veiled warning. “Of course, Dominus. I will listen.”
Romulus turned his attention back to Gaius Felix and Marcellus. His hand moved to a pile of parchment on the desk, searching methodically until he pulled one out. It was a report, its edges frayed from use. He unfolded it carefully, his young fingers brushing across the dense rows of figures.
“Let’s see what we are working with,” he said, his tone calm but with an edge that promised a storm. His eyes scanned the parchment, and as he read, the tension in the room thickened.
“The taxes collected last year,” Romulus began, his voice steady but low, “amounted to… approximately 75,000 solidi. Does that sound accurate, Gaius Felix?”
The tax collector shifted, his throat bobbing as he swallowed nervously. “Yes, Dominus,” he replied cautiously. “It is the figure reported.”
Romulus nodded once, then leaned back slightly in his chair. “Seventy-five thousand solidi,” he repeated, his voice growing harder. “But let’s consider what we should have collected.”
He placed the parchment down and picked up another. “Italy holds approximately 3 million iugera of imperial land. Taxable at a modest rate of one solidus per ten iugera, this alone should generate 300,000 solidi annually. Do you agree?”
Marcellus and Gaius Felix exchanged uneasy glances. “In theory, Dominus,” Gaius Felix stammered. “But—”
Romulus cut him off with a raised hand. “Then there are the smallholders—families farming 1–5 iugera on average, taxed at 10% of their produce. These smallholders number approximately 600,000 in Italy alone. Even assuming an annual yield of only ten modii per iugerum”—he paused, his tone growing sharper—“and taking 10% of that, we are looking at an additional 240,000 solidi.”
The room was silent, save for the faint scratching of Andronikos’s stylus. Marcellus’s hand twitched at the edge of his toga, and Gaius Felix’s pallor deepened.
“And what of the urban population?” Romulus continued, his voice rising. “Italy’s cities house over 4 million souls, many of whom pay additional taxes on trade, crafts, and property. Even a modest levy of five solidi per urban household should yield another 100,000 solidi, at least.”
His gaze swept the room, fierce and unyielding. “So why,” he demanded, slamming the parchment onto the desk, “did we collect only seventy-five thousand?”
The echo of his words lingered, and the weight of the accusation fell heavily on Gaius Felix and Marcellus. Varius, silent and still, seemed almost grateful he wasn’t the one under scrutiny.
“Dominus,” Gaius Felix began, his voice cracking slightly, “the gap you describe is… substantial. But corruption, evasion, and inefficiency—”
“Do not explain this!” Romulus roared, his fist striking the desk. The lamp flickered from the force of the blow. “The imperial coffers bleed while the landowners grow fat on exemptions and bribes. The smallholders are crushed, and the cities are left to rot. This is theft! Theft on a scale so vast it threatens the very survival of Rome!”
Marcellus cleared his throat, his voice shaky. “Dominus, if I may—these issues are longstanding. The Senate has always—”
Romulus’s eyes narrowed as he turned his glare on Marcellus, cutting him off with a sharp gesture. “The Senate has always what, Senator? Looked the other way? Lined its coffers while the empire crumbled around it? Tell me this, Gaius Felix,” he said, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. His piercing gaze fell on the tax collector. “How much do the senators who lease imperial lands pay in taxes for them?”
Gaius Felix hesitated, his pale complexion growing even more as he licked his lips nervously. “Dominus… it is… difficult to determine an exact figure, as exemptions and arrangements vary. But I believe… on average… they pay around one solidus per hundred iugera per year.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Romulus stared at Gaius Felix, his youthful face darkened with fury. “One solidus per hundred iugera?” he repeated, his voice rising with incredulity. “While the imperial treasury bleeds dry, the wealthiest men in Rome pay a pittance—no, a mockery—of what they owe!”
Marcellus visibly flinched, his fidgeting hands betraying his discomfort. “Dominus, it is… complicated. Many of these arrangements were made decades ago—”
“Decades ago?” Romulus thundered, his voice echoing off the chamber walls. He stood abruptly, slamming his palms on the desk. “These ‘arrangements’ have allowed greed to choke the life from this empire. I thought there was corruption—yes, I expected it! I knew reform was needed! But this?” He gestured wildly at the reports on his desk. “This is absurd! Almost no one pays taxes anymore!”
Marcellus’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came. Gaius Felix looked like a man wishing the ground would swallow him whole.
Romulus’s fury turned to the Comes. “Lucius Varius, tell me this: how are we to pay the soldiers what they are worth? How are we to equip them? Do we offer them used armor scavenged from the dead? Or should we tell them that Rome has no need of their loyalty because our ‘distinguished senators’ prefer their luxuries to our survival?”
Varius stiffened, his military discipline keeping him composed under the young emperor’s wrath. “Dominus, the soldiers… they fight because they must, not for riches. But you are right. Without proper pay and equipment, their morale—and their loyalty—will crumble.”
Romulus’s fist came down on the desk again, the lamp flickering dangerously close to extinguishing. “And we are forced to rely on barbarians!” he spat. “Foederati who demand land and gold while we impoverish the citizens who built this empire! Because of these leeches, we cannot even field an army capable of defending Rome!”
He staggered back, slumping into his chair as though the weight of the empire itself had crashed upon him. He ran a hand through his hair, his youthful face etched with a weariness far beyond his years. “How far we have fallen,” he whispered, his voice trembling with anger and despair. “How far we have fallen.”
The room was deathly silent. No one dared speak. Gaius Felix stared at the floor, his fingers trembling at his sides. Marcellus sat frozen, his earlier confidence shattered, his mind racing for a way to salvage his position. Varius, for all his discomfort with politics, clenched his fists, feeling the bitter truth of the emperor’s words.
Finally, Romulus raised his head, his eyes blazing with renewed determination. “This ends,” he said, his voice low but unyielding. “The Senate will pay its share. The landowners will pay their dues. And the imperial treasury will no longer be a feast for thieves.”
Marcellus swallowed hard. “Dominus, such reforms… they will meet resistance.”
“Let them resist,” Romulus said coldly. “We will root them out. We will rebuild Rome, or we will die trying.” He turned to Andronikos, who had been silently observing the outburst. “Write this down,” he commanded. “The reforms will be implemented immediately. I want audits of every imperial lease and every senator’s holdings. No exemptions.”
“Yes, Domine,” Andronikos replied calmly, his stylus already moving across the wax tablet.
Romulus’s gaze swept the room one final time. “If anyone here doubts the need for these measures, speak now,” he said, his voice cutting through the suffocating silence.
No one spoke.
“Good,” Romulus said, leaning forward, his voice a whisper of steel. “Because I will not tolerate failure. Not from you, not from myself. Rome deserves better—and I will see to it that she gets it.”
The silence stretched as Romulus’s words hung in the air, a solemn vow that left no room for doubt.
Romulus exhaled heavily and gestured sharply toward Gaius Felix. “You are dismissed. Return to your duties and prepare for these audits. And remember, Felix—your role is pivotal. Do not falter.”
The tax collector bowed deeply, his face ashen. “Yes, Dominus. At once.” He turned and exited swiftly, the sound of his sandals echoing in the tense silence that followed.
As the door closed, Romulus sank back into his chair, his shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of his fury. He stared at the parchment strewn before him, then spoke, his voice tired but cutting. “So that’s why I haven’t faced the resistance I expected from the senators and the wealthy landowners. Because the entire system is rigged against me.”
Marcellus shifted uncomfortably, his lips pressed into a thin line. He glanced at Andronikos, who continued to write, unperturbed. Finally, the senator cleared his throat, his voice quiet but strained. “Dominus… yes. That is, in part, why. They see you as a boy, inexperienced, unable to wield true power. They think… they think your efforts are symbolic gestures, nothing more. That you are incapable of forcing them to pay.”
Romulus’s fingers drummed on the desk, his anger simmering just below the surface. “So they’re laughing at me,” he said, his tone low and bitter. “Sitting in their villas, surrounded by their spoils, laughing at the ‘boy emperor’ who tries to change Rome.”
Marcellus swallowed hard, his gaze darting toward the door as if considering escape. “Dominus, you are not wrong. They do not believe you can enforce these reforms. And…” He hesitated, visibly struggling to choose his words carefully. “There are… whispers.”
Romulus’s gaze snapped to Marcellus, sharp as a blade. “Whispers?”
Marcellus’s nervous fingers twisted the fabric of his toga. “About the army, Dominus. Or rather, the lack of one. Three months have passed since the great announcement of reinforcements arriving in Ravenna. But no one has seen these extra soldiers. They are starting to believe…” He trailed off, his words faltering under Romulus’s cold stare.
Romulus’s voice was a quiet thunder. “What do they believe, Senator?”
Marcellus’s voice dropped to a whisper. “That they are not real. That the ‘new army’ was a ruse, an illusion.”
The silence in the room was suffocating. Even Andronikos stopped writing, his stylus poised in mid-air. Varius straightened, his fists clenched at his sides as he watched the young emperor closely.
Romulus exhaled slowly, his hands clasped tightly before him. His eyes flickered toward the faint glow of the oil lamp as if gathering strength from its steady flame. Then, with a voice quieter but no less commanding, he said, “Good.”
Marcellus and Varius exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions mirroring their shock. Romulus’s calm after his earlier fury was disarming, almost eerie. Before either could utter a word, Romulus leaned back in his chair and spoke again, his words sharp and deliberate.
“You’re right, Senator,” he said, his gaze falling heavily on Marcellus. “There is no new army.”
The room seemed to freeze in place. Marcellus’s mouth fell open, his pale face slack with disbelief. Varius, stiff and composed a moment before, now looked as though the air had been knocked from his chest.
“Dominus…?” Varius managed to say, his deep voice unsteady for the first time.
Marcellus flinched, his hands twisting his toga nervously. Before he could utter a reply, Romulus reached down, opened a drawer in his desk, and retrieved a sealed letter. He held it in his hand for a moment, studying it as if weighing its significance, then extended it to Marcellus without a word.
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The senator hesitated, his trembling hands taking the parchment with great care. As he broke the seal and unfolded the letter, his eyes scanned the lines. With every passing second, his expression shifted—from curiosity to confusion, then to growing dread. His face turned pale, his mouth opening slightly as if to speak, but no words came.
By the time he finished, Marcellus was gaping like a fish out of water, his lips moving soundlessly. He clutched the letter with white-knuckled hands, his wide eyes darting from the parchment to Romulus and back again.
“Not a word of this leaves this room,” Romulus said, his voice dangerously quiet. “Do you understand, Senator?”
Marcellus nodded hastily, his head bobbing like a marionette on strings. “Y-yes, Dominus. I—I understand.”
Romulus’s eyes bored into him, unrelenting. “Good. You and your loyal senators, the ones who own those fine villas and vast estates, will comply with the new tax officers. Their earlier debts—” he paused for emphasis, letting the words hang in the air like a blade—“are forgiven. For now. But soon, Senator, we will sit down and discuss new arrangements.”
Marcellus stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, Dominus. Of course. I will… I will ensure compliance. I will make them see reason. If I must…” He swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat. “If I must, I will force them.”
Romulus tilted his head slightly, his gaze never leaving the senator. “Force them?” he repeated, his tone almost conversational. “That would be quite a change for you, Marcellus.”
Marcellus flinched again but managed to steady himself enough to nod. “Yes, Dominus. If that is what it takes.”
The boy emperor leaned back, his steely expression softening only slightly. “And what else, Senator? You seem hesitant to speak.”
Marcellus shifted nervously, glancing briefly at Varius and Andronikos before lowering his voice. “Dominus… there is something else. A whisper, a rumor… about a conspiracy.”
Romulus’s gaze sharpened again. “Conspiracy?” His voice was cold, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Marcellus nodded quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush. “Some senators… some of the wealthiest landowners… they grumble in private about your reforms, your decrees. There is… talk, though I do not know how serious it is, of resisting more forcefully.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Even Varius seemed momentarily stunned, his military instincts flickering to life as his jaw tightened. Andronikos, ever calm, resumed writing, his stylus scratching the wax with deliberate slowness.
“Do you count yourself among these conspirators, Marcellus?” Romulus asked, his voice as soft as it was deadly.
Marcellus shook his head violently, his words spilling over each other. “No, Dominus! Never! My loyalty is to you, to Rome. I only bring this to your attention because you must know of the discontent. I swear on my life, I have no part in such treachery.”
Romulus regarded him for a long moment, his young face unreadable. Then he gave a small nod. “I believe you, Senator. For now. But know this—should you fail to keep your friends in line, should whispers turn into actions, I will act swiftly. And no one, not even you, will be spared.”
Marcellus bowed deeply, sweat beading on his forehead. “Understood, Dominus. I will do all in my power to prevent such… treason.”
Romulus waved a hand, dismissing him. “Go, Senator. Do what you must. And remember—this conversation never happened.”
Marcellus all but stumbled to the door, his movements stiff and mechanical. As he exited, he cast one last glance at the young emperor, his expression a mix of awe and terror. The door closed behind him with a soft thud, leaving the room in heavy silence.
Romulus watched the door close behind Marcellus, his expression unreadable. Comes Lucius Varius, who had remained silent during the exchange, shifted slightly, clearing his throat. “May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the letter that Marcellus had just read.
Romulus’s gaze softened slightly as he gave a faint nod. “Be my guest.”
Varius stepped forward, taking the parchment from the desk with steady hands and unfolded the letter. His eyes moved across the lines, his stoic expression holding for a few moments before breaking into one of shock. His eyebrows raised, and then, to Romulus’s surprise, a deep, rumbling laugh erupted from him.
“That bastard Gaius!” Varius exclaimed between laughs. “He actually did it. He really made it happen!”
Romulus remained silent, his lips pressed into a thin line. Varius looked up from the letter, one of his brows arched in incredulity. “But… is it true?” Varius asked, his laughter subsiding as he gestured with the parchment. “Sorry to ask, Dominus, but you know, just to be sure.”
Romulus leaned forward slightly, gesturing toward the seal on the document. “Look at the seal,” he said simply.
Varius tilted the letter to the light, inspecting the embossed purple wax. His sharp eyes widened further as he recognized the emblem—the unmistakable mark of Emperor Zeno of the Eastern Roman Empire. He chuckled again, shaking his head in disbelief. “Three more months …,” he muttered, but before he could continue, Romulus held up a hand to cut him off.
“Enough,” Romulus said firmly. “I have a task for you, Comes.”
Varius straightened immediately, his laughter fading as he assumed his professional demeanor. “Of course, Dominus.”
Romulus placed his hands on the desk, leaning forward slightly as he spoke. “There are ten tax collectors we believe we can trust. They will be elevated to the status of imperial tax collectors, carrying my mandate directly. They will have the authority to enforce the new tax reforms across the provinces.”
Romulus’s expression hardened. “I want fifty riders assigned to each of these imperial tax collectors. They are to ensure that everyone complies—senators, landowners, village heads, and governors alike. No exceptions.”
Varius blinked at the sheer scale of the operation but quickly nodded. “Understood. It will be done.”
Romulus leaned back in his chair, his tone growing sharper. “You will also deliver this decree to every magistrate and governor: from this moment forward, only imperial tax collectors have the authority to collect taxes. The curiales are no longer to perform this function.”
Varius’s brows furrowed slightly at the boldness of the decision but said nothing. He simply inclined his head. “And the curiales themselves, Dominus? They will resist. Many rely on their positions for what little remains of their influence.”
Romulus’s voice was icy. “They will adapt, or they will fall. The system is too broken to preserve. These new measures will ensure that taxes are collected fairly, without the interference of local corruption.”
Varius saluted crisply, his face now devoid of the earlier humor. “It will be done as you command, Dominus.”
Romulus nodded, his expression softening slightly. “Good. And Varius,” he added, his tone almost thoughtful, “make sure the men you assign to these escorts are the best we have. This will not be an easy task.”
Varius gave a small smile, one that carried a hint of respect. “You can count on it, Dominus.”
With that, the Comes turned sharply and left the room, the sound of his boots echoing against the marble floors. Romulus sat back in his chair, his gaze lingering on the faintly flickering lamp. He had dismantled an entrenched system in a single decision, and though the challenges ahead were immense, a faint sense of resolve steadied him.
Romulus exhaled as Varius’s footsteps faded into silence, and he turned his weary gaze to Andronikos, who had finally placed his stylus on the desk. The Greek leaned back slightly, his calm demeanor unwavering but his eyes glinting with thought.
“I hope you have a lighter topic for me,” Romulus said, his voice tinged with exhaustion, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
“Someone becomes so observant,” Andronikos replied softly, a faint smile of his own crossing his face. There was a pause as the advisor seemed to gather his thoughts, his brow furrowing slightly. “Dominus, there is something I must share with you.”
Romulus straightened in his chair, the faint smile fading. “Go on,” he said, his interest piqued by the Greek’s rare hesitation.
Andronikos shifted slightly, his hands resting on the table as he began, his voice quiet but steady. “I received a letter from Alexandria. In thirty days, a delegation of scholars will arrive in Ravenna. They bring with them valuable texts, scrolls, and parchments—treasures salvaged from the Grand Library of Alexandria, or what remains of it.”
Romulus’s eyes lit up, the weight of the day momentarily forgotten. “The Grand Library?” he repeated, leaning forward. “Tell me more.”
Andronikos leaned forward, his usually steady hands clasped tightly before him. His gaze, for the first time since he had entered the emperor’s service, seemed weighed down not by logic but by emotion. He inhaled deeply, gathering his thoughts, and began in a voice heavy with both sorrow and anger.
“Dominus, the story of the Grand Library is one of tragedy. Once, it was the greatest repository of knowledge in the world. Texts from across the known lands—Egypt, Greece, Persia, India—were housed there. Wisdom from centuries of scholars, philosophers, and engineers was preserved. But all that… all that was undone.”
Romulus watched him intently, his own features growing darker as Andronikos continued.
“The destruction of the library did not happen all at once. Fires were set during Julius Caesar’s siege of Alexandria—though those flames were but the beginning. Over the centuries, rulers neglected it, others plundered its treasures, and the changing tides of religion brought even greater destruction. When Christianity rose to power, the Church saw the texts of the old world—works of Greek philosophy, Egyptian science, Persian astronomy—as dangerous. They called them pagan, heretical. And so…” Andronikos paused, his voice cracking slightly before he continued in a low tone, “they burned them.”
Romulus’s expression hardened. “The Church did this?”
Andronikos hesitated, his eyes flickering toward the door, as if even speaking the truth might summon those who would silence him. “Not entirely, Dominus. There were many factors—greed, war, neglect. But yes, in the later years, it was the Church that bore much of the blame. Bishops ordered the destruction of works they deemed contrary to Christian doctrine. They saw the Library as a den of heathen knowledge, a remnant of a pagan world they sought to erase.”
Romulus’s fists clenched on the desk. “And now?”
“Now,” Andronikos said bitterly, “what remains of the Library is a shadow of its former self. The Church uses its space but keeps only those texts that align with its teachings. Manuscripts of theology, some history, and select sciences survive, but the rest… The rest were burned, hidden, or stolen. Texts on philosophy, medicine, mathematics, and engineering—the wisdom of centuries—are gone or scattered across the world.”
Andronikos leaned closer, his voice dropping. “This is why my friend and his group have worked in secrecy. They have salvaged what they could, hiding these scrolls from both the flames of zealots and the hands of plunderers. But their efforts cannot last forever. They need protection. They need… a patron.”
Romulus’s gaze did not waver. “To prevent the Church from destroying what remains.”
“Yes,” Andronikos said bluntly. “The Church views much of this knowledge as a threat. Even now, there are bishops who would see the works of the old world destroyed entirely—works of Plato, Aristotle, Archimedes. They call them pagan distractions. And without a powerful patron to shield these scholars, the Church will succeed.”
The room fell silent for a long moment, the weight of Andronikos’s words settling heavily in the air. Romulus stared at the flickering lamp, his young face grave and thoughtful.
“These scholars,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm, “have risked everything for the sake of preserving what was lost. They seek not just to save these texts but to restore them to the world.”
Andronikos nodded. “They dream of rebuilding the Library, Dominus. A place where knowledge is not hidden but shared. Where the wisdom of the past can guide the future. They do not seek conflict with the Church but know that without your protection, they will be seen as enemies.”
Romulus’s mind was alight with possibilities. His fingers tapped rhythmically on the desk as Andronikos’s words lingered in the air. He stared at the flame of the oil lamp, its flickering light reflecting the sparks of an idea forming in his mind.
Romulus leaned forward, his youthful face glowing with a mix of excitement and determination. “I have been thinking,” he said. “I have sketches, drawings, ideas—things that could improve our military, our agriculture, even our tools. The stirrup, the crossbow, the iron plow… these have been straightforward enough to introduce because they are logical extensions of what Rome already knows. But other ideas—ideas that seem beyond our time—they are harder to present.”
Andronikos watched him carefully. “Such as?”
Romulus gestured to a pile of rolled parchments on his desk. “For example, how to produce steel in larger quantities or refine its quality. Or methods to improve the range and accuracy of the crossbow. I even have ideas for advanced siege engines. But these are… dreams without validation. My advisors, the artisans, even the legions—many dismiss them as the idle thoughts of a boy.”
Andronikos’s expression softened. “Dominus, your ideas carry merit. But I see your struggle. Without a foundation of credibility, they are too easily dismissed.”
“Exactly,” Romulus said, his voice gaining energy. “But if these ideas could be framed as knowledge from the Grand Library of Alexandria—if they were presented as rediscovered wisdom from the past—then they would not just be my ideas. They would be ideas that Rome’s greatest scholars and inventors once knew. That would make them harder to refute.”
Andronikos’s eyes widened slightly as the full weight of the emperor’s plan dawned on him. “You want the scholars to help you refine and validate your ideas, to cloak them in the authority of ancient knowledge.”
Romulus nodded, his enthusiasm building. “Yes. If these scholars are as wise and skilled as you say, they can help me refine these concepts, ground them in the language of antiquity. We can present them as innovations born of the old world, preserved by the Library’s guardians.”
The Greek advisor hesitated, his mind racing. “It is… bold, Dominus. But you must understand, these scholars come not to deceive but to preserve. If they agree, it will be because they see merit in your ideas, not because they wish to manipulate history.”
“Of course,” Romulus said quickly. “I do not ask them to lie. I ask them to look at my designs, my plans, and see if they align with what might have been. If they can refine them, improve them, and lend their authority to them, then we all benefit. Knowledge will not just be preserved; it will be reborn.”
Romulus stood, propelled by inspiration, and moved to a small, concealed drawer in his desk. Unlocking it with a hidden key, he retrieved several tightly rolled parchments. Their edges were slightly frayed, showing how often he had revisited these ideas in moments of quiet ambition.
Andronikos watched silently, curiosity flickering in his otherwise composed expression, as Romulus laid the scrolls out across the desk. The young emperor unrolled the first with care, revealing a detailed drawing of what appeared to be a bloomery furnace, though with notable alterations.
“This,” Romulus began, his voice steady but filled with energy, “is an improved design for the bloomery. By increasing the height of the shaft and adding additional bellows at these points here”—he tapped at specific areas on the drawing—“we can increase airflow and temperature. This would allow for better carburization of the iron, producing a higher yield of steel.”
Andronikos leaned in slightly, studying the design with interest but also a hint of hesitation. “I understand the principles of airflow and heat, Dominus,” he said carefully, “but metallurgy is far from my area of expertise. This would need validation from those who know the workings of a bloomery firsthand.”
Romulus nodded, unbothered. “Precisely why we need the scholars to refine these concepts. Their knowledge could lend credibility and refinement.”
He moved on to the next scroll, unfurling a detailed schematic of a crossbow. “Here,” he said, “is an improvement to the crossbow. By constructing the bow from a composite material—wood, horn, and sinew—we could create a weapon both stronger and more flexible. And this mechanism,” he pointed to a small trigger-like addition, “could make it easier to reload, improving accuracy and efficiency.”
Andronikos regarded the drawing, his expression thoughtful. “The logic seems sound, but such materials might be challenging to procure in the quantities needed. The scholars, especially those versed in engineering or mechanics, could advise on feasibility.”
Romulus moved to the third scroll, this one showing an intricate depiction of cement mixture techniques. “This,” he said, “is an improvement to opus caementicium, our Roman concrete. By incorporating more precisely measured volcanic ash into the mix, we can create a material that resists water and erosion even better. It could revolutionize our ports, aqueducts, and fortifications.”
Andronikos hesitated before speaking. “I have heard of the durability of volcanic ash in cement, Dominus, but the exact methods of preparation and scaling would need scrutiny. If these scholars include architects or builders, they might offer the expertise to develop this further.”
Finally, Romulus unrolled the last scroll, revealing an advanced design for a water mill. “And here,” he said, “an upgraded mill. By using a horizontal waterwheel instead of the more common vertical one, we can harness faster-moving streams more efficiently. This could transform milling grain, but also provide power for other machinery.”
Andronikos studied the plans briefly, then folded his arms. “Dominus, these ideas are… impressive. Though I cannot speak to their practicality, I can see how their potential could reshape industries and armies alike. If the scholars arriving from Alexandria are as learned as I believe, they might refine these designs or confirm their feasibility.”
Romulus smiled, his enthusiasm undeterred. “That is precisely the point, Andronikos. I have the ideas, the vision, but vision alone is not enough. These designs need to be validated, improved, and introduced with authority. If these scholars are willing to work with us, we can frame these advancements as rediscovered wisdom—ideas born of the Grand Library itself.”
The Greek advisor hesitated for a moment before nodding slowly. “It is a bold plan, Dominus. The scholars may not be experts in these specific fields, but their credibility and access to ancient texts could lend your innovations the legitimacy they need.”
“Exactly,” Romulus said, his voice resolute. “Let us start with these. They will serve as a test— of the scholars.”
Andronikos inclined his head, his expression thoughtful. “I will ensure these plans are ready for the scholars’ review when they arrive. Their input could make all the difference.”
Romulus leaned back in his chair, a faint smile softening his features. As he gazed at the parchments, the weight of the day began to lift. “This day,” he said softly, almost to himself, “may not be so bad afterall.”