The sun had barely risen over the city of Ravenna on April 1st, as Romulus Augustus stood at the gates of the imperial palace, overseeing the final preparations for a significant mission. Before him stood ten imperial tax collectors, their faces a mixture of determination and apprehension. Each was mounted on a sturdy horse, flanked by a contingent of fifty Palatini cavalry, their polished armor glinting in the early morning light.
Romulus took a step forward, his eyes scanning the group. The tax collectors were young but capable men, handpicked for their loyalty and skill. The Palatini cavalry, veterans of countless skirmishes, exuded a sense of quiet confidence, their presence a clear warning to any who might dare to interfere with their mission.
Standing tall, the emperor raised his hand to silence the murmurs among the assembled. His voice, firm and resonant, cut through the morning chill. “Today, you carry not only the authority of Rome but its justice. You are tasked with restoring fairness to an empire long burdened by greed and corruption. You will also carry my decree of partial debt relief: ten percent of all smallholders will be forgiven their imperial debts now and gradually every debt will be forgiven in due time. This is not charity—it is a restoration of balance. The smallholders are the backbone of this empire, and with this act, we secure their loyalty and their labor for generations to come.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping the group. “Remember this: only imperial tax collectors are sanctioned to gather Rome’s dues. Spread the word to every village and town. If anyone else dares to tax the people without my authority, they will answer with their lives.”
The collectors nodded solemnly, their resolve visibly bolstered by the emperor’s words. The Palatini, silent and imposing, shifted their horses into formation. The banners of Rome fluttered lightly in the breeze, catching the morning light.
Romulus watched as the party departed through the gates, their figures growing smaller with each step into the distance. His face, normally composed, was touched with a solemnity that spoke of the weight of his decisions.
As the last echo of hooves faded, Senator Quintus Marcellus, his toga marked by the narrow purple stripe of his rank, stepped closer. “A noble gesture, Caesar,” Marcellus remarked, his voice low but tinged with skepticism. “Debt relief will earn you goodwill among the smallholders, but it is costly.”
Romulus turned slightly, his face set in thought. “And how much can we realistically expect from this tax session, Senator?”
Marcellus hesitated, the lines on his face deepening as he calculated. “With entrenched elites and the curiales ready to resist at every turn? Perhaps 120,000 solidi, if fortune smiles upon us.”
Romulus frowned, his brow furrowed. “That little?”
Marcellus inclined his head. “Yes, Caesar. The curiales will obstruct at every opportunity, claiming the old ways, pocketing what they can, and hiding their tracks. They won’t stop until they’re made an example of.”
Romulus’s jaw tightened, his voice dropping into a measured tone. “They will have their reckoning, but now is not the time. For now, we must ensure our collectors return safely with what they can gather.”
Romulus turned from the palace gates, the clatter of hooves and banners receding into the distance. The air still carried a chill, but the warmth of the rising sun hinted at the promise of a new day. His Palatini guard, fifty strong, remained a silent presence around him, their watchful eyes scanning the streets as they fell in line behind their emperor.
“Prepare my horse,” Romulus commanded, his voice firm but calm. He turned to Marcellus, who had followed close behind. “There’s something else I must see today.”
Marcellus raised an eyebrow but said nothing, merely bowing his head in acknowledgment. Moments later, Romulus mounted his horse, the familiar weight of responsibility settling over him as he rode out with his escort.
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Romulus rode through the streets of Ravenna, the rhythm of hooves against the stone echoing faintly in the crisp morning air. The city was coming to life as traders set up their stalls and laborers began their day. His Palatini guard remained close, their presence a silent reassurance of security. Marcellus, after a brief exchange, had departed for other duties, leaving Romulus alone with his thoughts as he made his way to the training grounds outside the city.
As the walls of Ravenna faded into the distance, the sounds of the training grounds grew louder. The clash of metal, the barked commands of centurions, and the steady thud of marching feet filled the air. The sight before him as he approached was nothing short of remarkable. Hundreds of soldiers were spread across the open fields, moving in coordinated drills under the watchful eyes of their officers. Shields gleamed in the sunlight as pike formations practiced locking their weapons in unison, while another group of men tested their newly issued crossbows with focused precision.
Romulus dismounted, his gaze sweeping across the scene. Every soldier was now fully armed and equipped with the fruits of the state-owned workshops. The pikes, shields, and crossbows were standardized, crafted with care and precision. Their armor was polished but practical, made to withstand battle while allowing freedom of movement.
He stood there for a long moment, silently observing. The troops moved with a mix of eagerness and uncertainty. A shield formation struggled to maintain its cohesion under the instructions of a centurion, their movements awkward and hesitant. Yet, with each attempt, the gaps in their defense closed more quickly, their timing improving under the stern gaze of their leader. Nearby, a group of cavalrymen galloped in tight formations, their lances steady as they maneuvered through a course designed to simulate the chaos of battle.
Romulus allowed himself to feel pride, something he rarely indulged. These men were far from perfect, but they were learning. Each step they took, each drill they completed, was another step closer to building the army Rome needed. For too long, Rome’s forces had been fragmented, reliant on foederati and hastily conscripted levies. But now, here they were—Roman soldiers, properly equipped and training together as a unified force.
His eyes moved to the equipment glinting in the sunlight. The state-owned workshops had proven their worth. Every weapon, every piece of armor, every siege engine was a symbol of the empire’s resilience and its determination to rebuild. Rome’s strength was returning, not just in its armies but in its ability to produce, to organize, and to prepare for the future.
One of the centurions noticed Romulus and snapped to attention. His unit followed, their eyes filled with a mixture of pride and nervous energy. Romulus raised his hand in a gesture of acknowledgment, signaling them to continue. He didn’t need fanfare; he needed results. The men returned to their drill with renewed vigor, their movements sharper, their focus intensified.
Romulus stood silently, his guards forming a respectful perimeter around him. He thought of the sacrifices it had taken to reach this point—the reforms, the resistance, the weight of every decision he had made since ascending to the throne. These soldiers were the embodiment of his efforts, the living proof that Rome could still rise. They were far from perfect, but they were his, and they were getting better.
Romulus continued to watch the training grounds, the rhythmic clash of weapons and the shouts of centurions echoing across the open fields. As he stood there, the figure of Marcus Flavianus emerged from the far side of the grounds, his steps measured and deliberate. The centurion-turned-legion commander was dressed in his polished armor, the lines of his face sharper than Romulus remembered, but his bearing more confident than before. He approached the emperor with a purposeful stride, pausing a few paces away to salute sharply.
"Caesar," Flavianus said, his voice steady, though it carried the weight of a man who had found renewed confidence. "It is an honor to have you here."
Romulus acknowledged him with a slight nod, gesturing toward the soldiers on the field. "It seems the formations are improving," he remarked, his tone even but with a hint of pride. "I recall when you first voiced your concerns about this strategy. Has your view changed?"
Flavianus allowed himself a faint smile, his gaze shifting to a nearby pike formation. The soldiers were moving more fluidly now, their shields interlocking with precision, while a line of crossbowmen fired in steady volleys behind them. "It has, Caesar. At first, I struggled to see how such a formation could hold against a charge of heavy cavalry or a mass of charging germans. But now..." He paused, watching as another group practiced a quick pivot, the pikes bristling outward like a living wall. "Now I see its potential. The pikes can break even the heaviest charge if the line holds steady. And with the crossbows firing from behind, the enemy is constantly under pressure. It is a strategy that combines discipline with lethality. I underestimated it."
Romulus listened intently, his hands clasped behind his back. "And do you think the men believe in it as much as you do now?"
Flavianus turned his attention back to the soldiers, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered the question. "Not all of them but confidence is building, Caesar."
Romulus nodded, his gaze distant for a moment before he spoke again. "I am considering recruiting additional troops to strengthen our forces. What do you think, Flavianus?"
Flavianus’s brows knit together as he watched the formations in the field, his tone straightforward and grounded in practicality. "Caesar," he began, glancing at Romulus, "what we’ve got with the pike-and-shoot is solid, but it’s not enough on its own. If we’re talking about building up this force to maybe around 3,500, we’ve got to cover its weaknesses. A smaller army like ours has to do more than just hold its ground—it has to adapt, move, and hit back when the enemy overreaches."
He gestured toward the soldiers drilling below. "The pikes should stay at the core—more than half the army. They’re the backbone, no question, and the crossbowmen backing them give us the bite we need. But those formations are slow. If we don’t support them with something that can move fast or hit hard on the flanks, we’ll get outmaneuvered."
Romulus nodded, his expression inviting Flavianus to continue. Flavianus obliged, speaking plainly, his words sharp with the clarity of a soldier who’d seen battles up close. "We need heavy infantry to guard the sides of the pike line and step in when things get close. Men with shields, spathas, and the training to hold their ground or break an enemy formation if the opportunity comes. Call it around five hundred of them."
He turned his gaze to the far end of the field, where cavalrymen rode hard in tight formations. "And cavalry," he said firmly. "At least three hundred, maybe more. Heavy riders for smashing through weak points and light riders to harass and scout. Without them, we can’t control the battlefield—plain and simple."
He hesitated, then continued, "But … it could create weaknesses instead of strengths. The men we have now are improving because of the time and effort invested in them. To maintain that level of cohesion, the new recruits must receive the same." Romulus met his gaze, his tone calm but resolute. "Then they will. The state-owned workshops are producing enough equipment to arm every recruit properly, and I will not cut corners on their training. "These new troops must be ready for rebuilding Rome," Romulus said, his voice firm. He let the silence linger, his eyes following the movements of the soldiers in the field as they repeated their drills with increasing precision. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, his expression unreadable.
Then, without turning, Romulus asked quietly, “Flavianus, can I trust you?”
Flavianus froze for a fraction of a second, caught off guard by the sudden question. His hand instinctively adjusted the strap of his armor as he searched for the right words. “Caesar, Rome has my loyalty,” he said carefully, his voice steady but with a hint of suspicion at the emperor’s intent.
Romulus faintly smiled at the answer, his eyes still fixed on the training soldiers. “I am Rome,” he said, almost as though testing the words himself. He turned then, his gaze settling on Flavianus with a sharpness that seemed to pierce the centurion’s composure. “Or at least, the symbol of Rome. So, Marcus Flavianus, I ask again—do I have your loyalty?”
Flavianus hesitated, his mind working behind his measured expression. He straightened his stance and met the emperor’s gaze. “Rome has my loyalty,” he repeated, his tone firm but carefully neutral, leaving his words open to interpretation.
Romulus let the silence stretch between them, his faint smile deepening into something almost imperceptible, a quiet understanding. “Good,” he said simply, turning to one of his guards. “Bring me the scroll.”
The guard stepped forward, reaching into a leather satchel and producing a tightly wound parchment sealed with the imperial insignia. Romulus took it and turned back to Flavianus, holding the scroll out to him.
Flavianus accepted it with both hands, his expression flickering with curiosity and wariness. He broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, his eyes scanning the words. For a moment, he said nothing, his features betraying a mix of shock and realization.
“Dux,” he murmured, the title sounding unfamiliar on his tongue. He looked up at Romulus, his expression a blend of gratitude and uncertainty.
“Your loyalty, Flavianus,” Romulus said quietly, “is no longer to a rank or a centuria. It is to Rome itself. To its people. To me.” His voice hardened slightly. “This is not merely an honor; it is a responsibility. With this title comes the expectation that you will protect Rome with every breath, that you will lead its soldiers with wisdom and courage.”
Flavianus straightened further, the weight of the scroll heavy in his hands. “I will not fail you, Caesar,” he said, his voice carrying the certainty of a man who understood the gravity of the moment.
“I know,” Romulus replied, his tone softening. “That is why I chose you.”
For a moment, the two men stood in silence, the hum of the training grounds filling the air between them. Then Flavianus saluted sharply, his movements precise and deliberate. “For Rome, Caesar.”
Romulus returned the gesture with a nod. “For Rome.” He turned back to the soldiers, his gaze sweeping across the formations. In Flavianus’s hand, the scroll trembled slightly as he tightened his grip, the enormity of his new role settling over him like a cloak.
Flavianus accepted it with both hands, his expression flickering with curiosity and wariness. He broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, his eyes scanning the words. For a moment, he said nothing, his features betraying a mix of shock and realization.
“Dux,” he murmured, the title sounding unfamiliar on his tongue. He looked up at Romulus, his expression a blend of gratitude and uncertainty.
“Your loyalty, Flavianus,” Romulus said quietly, “is no longer to a rank or a centuria. It is to Rome itself. To its people. To me.” His voice hardened slightly, his gaze unyielding. “This is not merely an honor; it is a responsibility. With this title comes the expectation that you will protect Rome with every breath, that you will lead its soldiers with wisdom and courage.”
Flavianus straightened further, the weight of the scroll heavy in his hands. “I will not fail you, Caesar,” he said, his voice carrying the certainty of a man who understood the gravity of the moment.
“I know,” Romulus replied, his tone softening. “That is why I chose you.”
For a moment, the two men stood in silence, the hum of the training grounds filling the air between them. Then Flavianus saluted sharply, his movements precise and deliberate. “For Rome, Caesar.”
Romulus returned the gesture with a nod. “For Rome.” He turned back to the soldiers, his gaze sweeping across the formations. In Flavianus’s hand, the scroll trembled slightly as he tightened his grip, the enormity of his new role settling over him like a cloak.
Romulus let the silence linger, watching the soldiers drill with renewed vigor under the watchful eyes of their centurions. “And now,” he said at last, his voice steady and deliberate, “these men are yours to lead. They are more than soldiers—they are the foundation of Rome’s future. From this day forward, they will bear a name worthy of their purpose.”
He gestured toward the soldiers, their pikes glinting in the sunlight as they locked into formation, their movements a testament to the discipline they were beginning to master. “This legion,” Romulus continued, his voice rising slightly, “will be known as Legion II Italica. It is a name that carries the weight of our homeland, a name that binds these men to the defense and rebirth of Rome. As their Dux, you will guide them. You will mold them into an unbreakable force.”
Flavianus’s grip on the scroll tightened, his expression resolute. “Legion II Italica,” he repeated, as though testing the words. His voice grew stronger, the name resonating with purpose. “We will not fail you, Caesar.”
Romulus nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. “See that you don’t. For their strength is your strength. And their loyalty—like yours—must remain unshaken.”
He turned back toward his horse, his guards falling into step around him. As he mounted, the soldiers resumed their drills with a renewed sense of purpose, their movements sharper, their focus unwavering. The name of their legion echoed quietly in Flavianus’s mind, a declaration of identity and duty: Legion II Italica.
Romulus paused for a moment before riding away, his voice low but filled with resolve. “Rome will rise again.”
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Odoacer sat alone in his chamber, the faint crackle of a dying fire the only sound in the dimly lit room. The letter from Crassus lay open on the desk before him, its contents swirling in his mind like the embers in the hearth. Weeks had passed since it had arrived, but the weight of its offer lingered heavily: 15,000 solidi to support Crassus in removing Romulus from the throne and to crown him emperor. It was a tempting offer, yet every time Odoacer thought of it, a bitter taste filled his mouth.
He leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his weathered face. The firelight flickered across his features, deepening the lines etched by years of battle and leadership. He gazed at the letter, then turned his eyes toward the window. Beyond the glass, he could see his people tending the fields—men and women who had carved out lives from the lands they had fought to claim. Their faces bore the same weathered determination he had seen in his own reflection.
“They are the future,” he muttered under his breath. “Not the Romans. Not their endless decrees, their coin, their scraps of land offered as if we should beg for what is rightfully ours.”
His jaw tightened, and he spat onto the floor, disgusted by the thought. The Romans—once the masters of the world—were now reduced to hollow gestures and desperate bargains. They relied on men like him and his warriors to defend their borders, yet treated them as mercenaries, outsiders who could be bought or discarded as needed. He thought of the countless promises made to his people, promises of land, citizenship, respect—none of which had been fulfilled.
His mind drifted to the past, to the fields of battle where his people had bled for Rome. He remembered the foederati camps, where his warriors had waited for grain that never came, their families starving while Roman officials pocketed the spoils. He remembered the broken treaties, the land grants that were always too small, too barren, too far from where his people needed to be.
“Enough,” he whispered, his voice hardening. His gaze returned to the people outside the window. They were sowing seeds, their movements deliberate and measured. Every grain they planted, every furrow they plowed, was a testament to their resilience. They deserved more than this—more than being tools in someone else’s empire, more than begging for land or coin from a dying state. They deserved a future where they answered to no one but themselves.
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The fire crackled again, pulling his thoughts back to the letter. 15,000 solidi. It was no small sum, enough to equip and feed his warriors for months, even years. But the cost? To support another Roman, another would-be emperor who would promise the world and deliver nothing? The thought filled him with disdain. Crassus’s offer was a reminder of everything he despised about Rome—its arrogance, its decadence, its refusal to accept that its time had passed.
Odoacer rose from his chair and walked to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. The evening air was cool, carrying the faint scent of tilled earth and smoke from the village fires. He watched his people for a long time, their silhouettes moving against the fading light. They were his responsibility, his burden. Every decision he made, every battle he fought, was for them. For their survival. For their dignity.
“They deserve better,” he said aloud, his voice firm. “Better than begging. Better than serving.”
He thought of the Roman senate, the petty squabbles over taxes and land, the endless politics that achieved nothing. He thought of Romulus, the boy-emperor who sat on the throne, issuing decrees as if words alone could rebuild a broken empire. And he thought of Crassus, scheming for power while men like Odoacer bled and died.
Odoacer turned from the window, his hands resting on the worn wood of his desk. His gaze fell again to the letter from Crassus, the words on the parchment illuminated faintly by the fire’s glow. 15,000 solidi. When he had first read it, his pride had flared—an offer from yet another Roman schemer expecting him to play the role of a mercenary, a tool. But now, as the embers in the hearth reflected his simmering thoughts, the bitterness he had felt twisted into something sharper. Something useful.
He picked up the letter, holding it lightly in his calloused hands. It wasn’t the gold itself that intrigued him, though it was a considerable sum. It was what the gold represented: a chance to outplay the Romans at their own game. A chance to turn their ceaseless intrigues into a weapon for his people. To let them destroy each other while he positioned himself as the one figure strong enough to restore stability.
A low, humorless laugh escaped his lips. “Let them tear each other apart,” he muttered. “It’s what they’ve always been best at.”
He thought back to the months of winter and early spring. The calls to action, the pressure to march against Ravenna, had been strong. He had stood poised to lead his men into battle, to break the boy-emperor and claim the prize that was within reach. But then came the reports—columns of troops marching in and out of Ravenna, banners flying, camps swelling with reinforcements. Romulus’s illusion of strength had been masterfully orchestrated. For weeks, Odoacer had watched, convinced that Rome had somehow rebuilt its once-mighty legions.
It had been enough to make him hesitate, enough to persuade him to release his men back to their lands. Better to let them plant and prepare for the months ahead than to throw them against a force that might crush them. But now, the truth was clear. Romulus’s “grand army” was nothing more than a carefully constructed façade—a trick played by a desperate boy grasping at time.
Odoacer spat on the ground, his disgust mingling with grudging respect. He had been fooled. He could admit it. Romulus had bought himself the spring, but he would not have the autumn.
He began to pace, his boots heavy against the stone floor. His thoughts turned to the chiefs who would gather in a week’s time. He would convince them, as he always did, that his path was the right one. He would tell them of the gold, though only a fraction of it. 5,000 solidi was a fair amount to reveal, enough to secure their loyalty and enthusiasm without exposing the full extent of Crassus’s bribe. The rest he would hold in reserve—for weapons, for supplies, for the plans that would follow.
Because Odoacer’s ambitions did not end with supporting Crassus. No, this was merely the beginning. Crassus wanted his help to depose Romulus and seize the purple for himself. Odoacer would give it, just enough to ensure the Romans descended into their usual chaos. Let Crassus and Romulus bleed each other dry, let their intrigues and betrayals weaken them further. And when the moment was right, when both sides had exhausted themselves, Odoacer would act.
He would crush whoever remained, step into the power vacuum, and declare himself the stabilizer Rome so desperately needed. He would not need to beg for legitimacy; the Romans would welcome him as their savior, the only man capable of restoring order. And his people—they would no longer scrape for land or coin, no longer beg for grain that never came. They would stand tall, the true masters of what remained of this fractured empire.
His lips curled into a grim smile. The irony was not lost on him. Rome, the once-great empire, reduced to squabbling factions and desperate bargains. It deserved no pity. His people deserved more. They would take what was theirs.
Odoacer moved back to the window, his hand resting on the sill. Outside, the faint hum of his people’s work carried on the cool night air. They sowed the seeds that would feed them in the coming months, their resilience unwavering. Every movement they made was a reminder of why he did this—not for gold, not for power, but for them.
“Let them think they’ve won,” he said softly, his voice steady and resolute. “Let them believe their schemes can buy me. When the time comes, they’ll see the truth.”
The fire crackled again, casting long shadows across the room. Odoacer’s gaze hardened, his resolve sharpening like a blade. Autumn would come, and with it, the reckoning. This time, there would be no illusions. Only victory.
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Orestes rode through the narrow, dimly lit streets of Ravenna under the cover of night. The city was quiet, save for the faint echoes of distant voices and the occasional bark of a stray dog. His cloak concealed his face, and his horse moved at a steady but deliberate pace. The air was thick with the scent of marshes and smoke, mingling with the faint saltiness of the nearby sea. He had planned this return meticulously, sending word ahead to ensure his son would expect him.
As he approached the palace gates, two sentries stepped forward, their torches casting flickering light over the polished steel of their armor. They raised their hands to halt him, but there was no alarm in their movements. They were calm, prepared.
“Your name and purpose, traveler?” one of the guards demanded, his tone firm but respectful.
Orestes lifted his hood slightly, just enough for the firelight to reveal his face. “You already know who I am,” he said quietly. “I sent word.”
The guards exchanged brief glances, then nodded. “We’ve been expecting you,” one said, stepping aside. “You may pass. Follow the corridor to the emperor’s chamber. He’s waiting.”
Without another word, Orestes nudged his horse forward, the gates creaking open to admit him. The palace loomed ahead, its silhouette stark against the starry sky. He dismounted near the main entrance, handing the reins to a waiting stable hand, and adjusted his cloak before stepping inside.
The hallways were dim, lit only by scattered oil lamps that cast long shadows along the walls. His boots echoed faintly against the stone floors as he made his way deeper into the palace. Two Palatini guards awaited him outside the emperor’s chamber. They stood at attention, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords.
Orestes stopped before them, his hands clasped behind his back. One of the guards nodded and pushed open the heavy wooden door, revealing the room within.
Romulus Augustus stood near the center, illuminated by the golden glow of a lantern on the table beside him. Maps and scrolls were spread out across the surface, their edges held down by small weights. His head lifted at the sound of the door opening, and his sharp gaze fixed on Orestes.
The guards followed Orestes into the room but stopped just inside the threshold. Romulus’s eyes flicked to them, and with a subtle nod, he dismissed them. They hesitated for only a moment before retreating and closing the doors behind them.
For a long moment, father and son stood in silence, the weight of unspoken words filling the space between them. Orestes finally stepped forward, lowering his hood to reveal his weathered face, etched with the lines of age and battle.
The silence broke as Romulus Augustus, still standing by the table, took a step forward. His stern expression softened, and for a moment, he was no longer an emperor, but a boy greeting his father. “Father!” he exclaimed, a genuine smile spreading across his face. His eyes lit up with excitement as he moved toward Orestes. “You’re here! I’ve been waiting.”
Orestes let the faintest of smiles cross his face, watching his son with quiet pride. He didn’t speak, letting Romulus’s enthusiasm spill forth unchecked.
“There’s so much to tell you,” Romulus continued eagerly, gesturing toward the table covered in maps and scrolls. “Things are finally starting to come together. The state-owned workshops—Father, they’re incredible! We’ve standardized production for pikes, shields, crossbows, and even the stirrups for the cavalry. The smiths are working tirelessly, and they’ve never been more productive.”
He moved to the table, picking up a finely crafted crossbow. “Look at this! Every soldier in the pike-and-shoot formations is being trained with these. They’re simple to use but devastating in battle. Flavianus was skeptical at first, but even he’s come around. He says the formations are starting to feel natural to the men.”
Romulus set the crossbow down and glanced back at his father, his voice tinged with pride. “The stirrups too—we’ve adapted them across the cavalry. They make such a difference, Father. The riders are more stable, more effective. It’s like we’ve given them a whole new weapon without changing anything else.”
Orestes remained silent, his arms folded as he listened. His face was calm, but his eyes never left his son. The boy’s enthusiasm filled the room, and for a moment, Orestes saw not the burdened emperor but the bright, determined child he had once known.
“And the tax reform,” Romulus continued, his tone shifting slightly as he grew more serious. “It hasn’t been easy, but we’re making progress. The new imperial tax collectors are out in the provinces now. Marcellus thinks we’ll recover at least 120,000 solidi this season.”
He paused, his brow furrowing. “The curiales... they’re resisting. They don’t want to give up their hold on the system. But I’ve made it clear—only imperial collectors are authorized to gather taxes. If anyone defies that order...” He let the thought trail off, his voice steady. “I won’t let corruption rule Rome anymore.”
Romulus stepped back from the table, his hands clasping behind him as he turned to face Orestes fully. “And the debt relief program—it’s already building goodwill among the smallholders. They’re beginning to trust the empire again. I’m trying, Father. I’m trying to rebuild what we’ve lost.”
For the first time since entering, Orestes spoke, his voice low but warm. “You’ve done well, Romulus.”
The younger man’s shoulders straightened slightly, his eyes searching his father’s face for more. “You think so?” he asked, his voice softer, almost hesitant.
Orestes stood silent for a moment longer, his gaze fixed on Romulus. The pride in his son’s voice, the gleam in his eyes as he spoke of his achievements—it struck something deep within him. He took a slow step toward the table, his hand brushing the edge of a map.
“You’ve done more than well,” Orestes said quietly, his voice steady but tinged with emotion. He gestured to the table and the room around them. “You’ve done what I didn’t think possible.”
Romulus’s expression flickered with a mix of relief and uncertainty, as though unsure how to respond to the rare praise. “Father, I only—”
Orestes held up a hand, silencing him gently. “Let me speak,” he said, his tone soft but firm. He exhaled deeply, his shoulders sagging slightly as he moved to one of the chairs near the table. Sitting down slowly, he placed his hands on his knees and stared at the floor for a moment before looking up at his son.
“When I left Ravenna,” he began, his voice quieter now, “I told myself it was temporary. A week, maybe two, before I’d return to take the reins back. I thought you wouldn’t handle the pressure, that the boy I left behind wasn’t ready for the crown. I expected to receive word—desperate letters begging me to come back, telling me the Senate wouldn’t listen, the Church was hostile, or the army was collapsing.”
Romulus stood still, his expression guarded, but the slight quiver in his hands betrayed his feelings.
“But those letters never came,” Orestes continued, his voice thickening with emotion. “Instead, I heard rumors. First, that you’d forged an alliance with the Church. I thought, ‘Impossible.’ Then, I learned you’d won over some of the senators, even those I couldn’t bend. I dismissed it as exaggeration. And then came word of your reforms—your military initiatives, your tax policies, the workshops.” He paused, his eyes meeting his son’s. “I couldn’t ignore it anymore. You weren’t just surviving. You were ruling.”
Orestes looked away briefly, his jaw tightening as he collected himself. “Do you know what that realization did to me, Romulus? I had to face the truth about myself. I’ve spent my life climbing, scheming, mastering the art of power. But governing?” He shook his head, a bitter smile touching his lips. “Governing was never my strength. I thought it was, but I see now that I never built anything. Not like you.”
Romulus stepped closer, his voice hesitant. “Father, you—”
“No,” Orestes interrupted, looking up at him sharply, though his expression softened almost immediately. “Let me finish. When I sat in Mediolanum, hearing all of this, I realized something I hadn’t allowed myself to admit. I couldn’t have done what you’ve done. You’ve proven yourself stronger, wiser than I ever expected. You’ve proven me wrong, Romulus. And I’ve never been more glad to be wrong.”
Romulus blinked, clearly taken aback. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, he nodded, his lips pressing into a tight line as he fought to keep his composure.
Orestes leaned back in the chair, his eyes glistening faintly in the warm glow of the lantern. “You’ve grown into your role, son. Into something far more than I ever imagined. And for the first time, I see what Rome truly needs. It doesn’t need me. It needs you.”
Romulus’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Father... that means more than you know.”
Orestes stood, his movements deliberate, and placed both hands on his son’s shoulders. “You’ve earned it, Romulus. Every bit of it. And you’ve earned my trust, my support—not just as your father, but as your subject.”
The two stood there for a moment, the unspoken bond between them stronger than words.
Orestes’s grip on Romulus’s shoulders lingered for a moment longer before he stepped back, his gaze softening even as his expression darkened with a more somber weight. His voice, though quieter now, carried a deep resonance. “It’s moments like these I wish your mother could be here,” he said, the words catching in his throat for a moment. He looked away, his jaw tightening as he collected himself. “She would have been so proud of you, Romulus. I know she would.”
Romulus’s composure faltered at the mention of his mother. The boyish enthusiasm that had filled him moments ago dimmed as a solemn silence settled over the room. Neither of them spoke, both lost in their own thoughts. The faint crackle of the lantern flame was the only sound, filling the space like an unspoken acknowledgment of their shared grief.
After a moment, Orestes straightened, visibly regaining his composure. He drew in a deep breath and folded his arms across his chest, his voice steady once more. “But I didn’t come here tonight just to reflect on the past. There are pressing matters we must discuss—matters that cannot wait.”
Orestes took a deep breath, his hand lingering on the edge of the map spread across the table. His gaze hardened, and for a moment, the pride he felt for his son gave way to the weight of the present danger. He motioned for Romulus to sit across from him, his own movements deliberate as he lowered himself into the chair, folding his hands before him.
“Odoacer,” he began, his voice steady but laced with tension. “His betrayal is no longer just a suspicion. It’s becoming a certainty. I didn’t want to believe it—not at first—but the signs are there. My sources tell me the foederati chiefs are holding a ‘secret’ meeting in a few days. Odoacer will be there, no doubt steering the conversation.”
Romulus remained silent, his attention fixed on his father. The boy-emperor’s youthful enthusiasm had given way to a quiet focus, his hands clasped tightly in his lap as he listened.
Orestes continued, his fingers tracing the lines of the map before him. “Your forces here in Ravenna number 4,500, give or take. They’re well-equipped and experienced, and your new Dux, Flavianus, is training them with your new tactics. As for the foederati—those still loyal to me—I can call on around 2,500. That gives us a total of 7,000. Respectable, but not enough.”
He sat back, his eyes narrowing as he calculated. “Odoacer commands at least 12,000, and that’s a conservative estimate. If he solidifies his alliances at this meeting, that number could grow. We can’t match him in a direct confrontation—not now.”
Orestes leaned forward, his tone sharpening. “So we divide them. Odoacer’s strength isn’t just in his numbers—it’s in the unity of the chiefs who follow him. That unity is fragile. Ambition, greed, old rivalries—these are things we can exploit. We need to sow doubt among them, remind them that Odoacer’s rise comes at their expense.”
Orestes tapped his fingers against the table, his voice calm but firm. “We make offers. Promises of land, wealth, autonomy—whatever it takes to pull the weaker chiefs away from him. Not all of them trust Odoacer completely. Some of them already resent him for his ambition, for the way he consolidates power. We exploit that.”
He sat back again, his expression growing darker. “At the same time, we need to strengthen our position here. Consolidate your forces, tighten your alliances with the Church and the senators who still support us. If we can hold Ravenna and the surrounding territories, we deny Odoacer the heart of Italy. Let him rage in the north if he wants—we’ll starve him of resources.”
Romulus listened intently, absorbing his father’s words. “You’ve thought this through.”
“I’ve had to,” Orestes said quietly, pausing as if weighing his next words. “Romulus, I... I’ve never been a great general. Politics, alliances, scheming—yes, those I can manage. But leading armies? Winning wars?” He shook his head, his voice dropping. “That’s never been my strength.”
Orestes allowed himself a faint smile, though his voice remained firm. “We’ll need to move carefully. I’ll leave Paulus in Mediolanum to keep up appearances while I work to sway the chiefs closest to me. You, meanwhile, must focus on consolidating your forces here. Flavianus will need more men, more training, and—above all—more discipline. If Odoacer does march, we need this army ready.”
Romulus leaned forward slightly, his fingers tracing the edge of the map as he spoke, a flicker of uncertainty in his voice. “How much do we owe the foederati as part of their obligations, Father? For the spring season?”
Orestes sighed deeply, his expression hardening. “Thirty thousand solidi,” he said flatly, the absurdity of the number hanging heavily in the air.
Romulus’s jaw tightened, and he shook his head, his brow furrowing. “That’s... impossible. Absurd. We pay them thirty thousand solidi just to keep them from turning against us, and they still plot behind our backs?”
“Yes,” Orestes said with a grim smile. “Welcome to the reality of dealing with the foederati.”
Romulus exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. He was quiet for a moment, his mind clearly racing. Then, slowly, he straightened, his expression sharpening. “What if we didn’t pay them in coin?”
Orestes raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
Romulus tapped the map with his finger, his voice steady but growing more confident. “We give them land—fertile land. Not as a bribe, but as a settlement. We offer, say, five iugera per family for two thousand of the foederati. Enough to secure their loyalty and stability.
And we make it competitive. Let them decide who among their ranks receives the land. Offer the best land, promise security, and let them fight among themselves over it. It will force divisions—some will align with us to secure these benefits, while others will resent those who claim the land.”
Orestes sat back, his lips curling into an impressed smile. “That’s clever. You’re not just offering a settlement—you’re sowing discord among them.”
Romulus nodded. “Exactly. And once they’re settled, we integrate them. Around the settled foederati, we place four thousand Roman veterans. Mix them together, force cooperation, and over time, assimilation.”
Orestes’s smile widened, and he drummed his fingers on the table thoughtfully. “It could work. The foederati are restless because they feel unrooted, unvalued. Give them something tangible—land, a future for their families—and they’ll turn against Odoacer, who offers them only blood and war.”
Romulus added, “And the veterans strengthen the regions they’re settled in. It’s a twofold benefit—stability and security.”
Orestes nodded, clearly impressed. “It’s a clever plan, but it’ll take resources. Luckily, with the reforms, the tax revenue from spring will give us some room to maneuver.”
“We have to make this decision carefully,” Romulus said, his voice growing steadier. “We need to identify the right lands—fertile, prosperous, but not vital to imperial operations. Enough to entice them, but not enough to weaken us.”
Orestes leaned forward again, his tone more animated now. “And while you work on this settlement plan, I’ll approach the chiefs directly. I can promise autonomy in their regions for those who side with us. Maybe even the illusion of independence. Not true independence, of course, but something that makes them feel powerful while keeping them under our control.”
Romulus nodded slowly, his confidence growing. “Divide and conquer. We don’t need to destroy Odoacer outright—we just need to take enough from him that he can’t stand against us.”
The conversation between father and son stretched into the late hours of the night. Their voices rose and fell in quiet determination as they refined their plans, weighing every possibility and considering every risk. The glow of the lantern cast long shadows over the room, mirroring the weight of their deliberations.
Finally, Orestes leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “We’ve done enough for tonight,” he said, his tone firm but carrying a hint of weariness. “I’ll return to Mediolanum in a few days for this ‘secret’ meeting. With what we’ve discussed, I have a clearer idea of how to approach it. Dividing Odoacer’s support is the only way forward.”
Romulus nodded, standing and stretching his stiff limbs. “I’ll begin preparations here. The land grants, the veterans’ settlements—it’ll take time to organize, but we’ll make it work. When Odoacer moves, we’ll be ready.”
Orestes gave a small smile, pride flickering in his eyes once more. As he stood, he reached into his cloak and withdrew a small, ornate wooden box. He hesitated for a moment, his expression softening as he held it out to Romulus.
“I won’t be here for your birthday,” Orestes said, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “The thirteenth is only days away, and... well, I wanted to give you this now.”
Romulus looked at the box in surprise, taking it carefully from his father’s hands. The wood was dark and smooth, intricately carved with patterns of laurel leaves. He opened it slowly, his breath catching as he saw what lay inside.
A simple bulla—a golden amulet suspended on a finely crafted leather cord. It gleamed faintly in the lantern light, its polished surface reflecting the care with which it had been made.
Romulus stared at it for a moment, his throat tightening. “Father...” he began, his voice faltering.
Orestes stepped closer, his hand resting gently on Romulus’s shoulder. “Every boy in Rome receives a bulla when he comes of age,” he said softly. “It’s a tradition, a symbol of stepping into adulthood. I couldn’t let you go without one, not even as emperor.”
Romulus swallowed hard, his fingers brushing the smooth surface of the amulet. “I don’t know what to say,” he admitted, his voice thick with emotion.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Orestes replied, his voice steadier now. “Just know that I’m proud of you. More than I can put into words. You’ve grown into something far greater than I ever imagined.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the gesture settling between them. Romulus closed the box carefully and held it close to his chest, his gaze meeting his father’s. “Thank you,” he said finally, his voice quiet but filled with sincerity.
Orestes smiled faintly, squeezing his son’s shoulder. “Happy birthday, Romulus. And remember—you’re not just my son. You’re the emperor. Rome’s future depends on you.”
Romulus nodded, his composure returning as he straightened his shoulders. “I won’t let you down.”
“I know,” Orestes said simply. “You’ve already proven that.”
With that, he turned toward the door, his steps deliberate. As he reached the threshold, he paused and glanced back. “Take care of yourself, Romulus. I’ll return soon.”