Bishop Felix walked briskly through the marble halls of the Lateran Palace, the soft echo of his sandals accompanied by the rhythmic clinking of his golden crozier. The air was heavy with the scent of incense, mingling with the faint dampness of early spring that seeped through the ancient stone walls. The grand hall awaited him, filled with the gathered bishops from across Italy and beyond, their solemn faces and gilded robes a testament to the weight of their meeting.
The Lateran's vaulted ceilings rose high above, adorned with frescoes of saints and martyrs. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting multicolored patterns onto the polished floor. Around a crescent-shaped table, the bishops sat in their designated places, their expressions a mix of contemplation and restrained intensity. At the head of the assembly sat Pope Simplicius, his white robes gleaming like a beacon of spiritual authority.
Felix entered silently, nodding respectfully to his peers as he took his seat. The murmur of voices subsided as Pope Simplicius raised his hand, signaling the opening of the session.
"Brothers in Christ," the Pope began, his voice calm but firm, "we convene at a time when the trials of our world weigh heavily upon the Church. The faithful look to us for guidance, and we must answer with wisdom and courage. Let us begin."
The first topic was one that had long troubled the Western Church: the Vandals. Since the sack of Rome in 455, the Vandal kingdom in North Africa, led by King Genseric and his successors, had grown into a formidable power. Their adherence to Arian Christianity and their treatment of Nicene Christians had sparked both theological and practical concerns.
A bishop from Sicily spoke first, his voice tinged with both frustration and determination. "Holy Father, the Vandals continue to oppress our brethren in North Africa. Reports from Carthage tell of Nicene bishops being exiled, churches desecrated, and the faithful forced into heresy or silence. This cannot be allowed to continue unchallenged."
Another bishop, seated near Felix, nodded emphatically. "The suffering of our brothers is a stain on Christendom. Yet, with the empire's weakened state, who will protect them? The Church must find a way to intervene."
Bishop Felix sat quietly, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of his crozier as he absorbed the words of his peers. The plight of Nicene Christians under Vandal rule was a familiar tragedy, one that weighed heavily on all present. But Felix’s thoughts were not confined to the distant shores of Carthage. His focus, sharpened by recent conversations with Emperor Romulus Augustus, turned to threats closer to home.
When the murmurs of the bishops subsided, Felix rose to his feet. His tall frame, draped in gilded vestments, commanded attention, and the assembly grew silent.
"Brothers," he began, his voice steady and deliberate, "the oppression of our brethren in North Africa is a wound upon Christendom. The Vandals' adherence to Arianism and their brutal treatment of Nicene Christians remind us of the dangers posed by heresy, unchecked. Yet as we speak of Carthage, I must bring our attention back to the heart of the empire—to Italy itself."
He paused, letting his words settle over the gathered bishops. Their expressions ranged from curiosity to concern. Pope Simplicius regarded Felix with quiet intensity, signaling him to continue.
"Not long ago, I had the opportunity to speak with Emperor Romulus Augustus," Felix said, his voice low but resonant. "The young emperor, though burdened by the weight of his reign, shared with me a deep fear—a fear that the Vandals' actions in Carthage might serve as a grim foreshadowing of what could come to pass here, in Italy."
A ripple of unease passed through the room. Felix tightened his grip on his crozier, his expression grave.
"He spoke of Odoacer and his Germanic foederati," Felix continued. "They are, like the Vandals, adherents of Arian Christianity. Though they currently serve the empire, their growing power and influence cannot be ignored. The emperor fears that, should Odoacer rise unchecked, Italy might face the same horrors that our brothers in Africa endure. The sacking of churches, the exile of our clergy, and the desecration of the faithful could become our reality."
The grand hall had grown silent, the weight of Felix’s words hanging heavily in the air. The bishops exchanged furtive glances, some nodding in quiet agreement while others sat stiffly, their expressions guarded. Before Felix could continue, a bishop from Campania rose, his weathered face marked by lines of both age and experience. His eyes, sharp and swept the room before settling on Felix.
“Bishop Felix,” he began, his voice resonant but edged with restrained skepticism, “the concerns of the young emperor are understandable, given his tender years and limited experience. Yet I would caution against equating the Vandals of Carthage with the Germans under Odoacer.”
The bishops murmured softly as the Campanian bishop straightened his shoulders, his presence commanding. “Odoacer, unlike Genseric, has shown no inclination to turn against the empire or the Church. He has fought Rome’s enemies, held the loyalty of his foederati, and, despite his Arian faith, has not interfered with the practices of our congregations. Indeed, we must recognize the political reality: Odoacer relies on the Church as much as the Church relies on the stability he provides.”
Felix’s expression remained impassive, though his grip on his crozier tightened slightly. The bishop pressed on.
“Consider this, brothers: Odoacer commands the respect of his men, and his authority keeps his foederati from splintering into unchecked violence. If we are to cast suspicion upon him without cause, we risk alienating a stabilizing force in an already fractured empire.”
The Pope watched silently, his expression unreadable as the Campanian bishop continued, his tone shifting subtly.
“And while we deliberate on what might happen under Odoacer, perhaps we should turn our gaze to what is happening under the emperor’s reforms. These new imperial tax collectors, for instance, are far from the stabilizing force Romulus Augustus believes them to be. They prowl the lands of my dioceses—” he paused deliberately, his words carefully measured, “—lands which the Church has, in her wisdom, extended its stewardship to, ensuring stability and the well-being of the people.”
The room grew still, the tension palpable as the bishop’s words settled over the assembly. Felix’s sharp eyes narrowed slightly, noting the deliberate phrasing. He was no stranger to the unspoken complexities of land use and administration, particularly in regions where the Church’s reach had grown into areas traditionally held under imperial control.
The Campanian bishop’s voice softened, but his intent remained clear. “It is no secret, brothers, that the Church has stepped forward where the empire has faltered. When lawless lands and abandoned estates threaten chaos, we have provided governance, care, and order. If these efforts are now subject to audits and imperial scrutiny, I must question whether this is truly in the interest of stability, or if it stems from a desire to reclaim what has already been saved through our intervention.”
A bishop from northern Italy leaned forward, his voice tight with frustration. “Are you implying that these lands, stewarded by the Church, are beyond imperial oversight?”
The Campanian bishop gave a faint smile, his hands clasped before him. “Not beyond oversight, no. But the fruits of our stewardship should not be plucked without regard for the labor that made them flourish.”
The murmurs grew louder as several bishops exchanged uneasy glances. Felix noted their reactions carefully, discerning that the Campanian bishop was not alone in his concerns—or his actions. The expansion of Church influence into imperial lands had likely been repeated elsewhere, particularly in regions where local governance had collapsed.
A younger bishop from the south rose, his tone defensive. “We act only for the good of the people. In Calabria, we have brought stability to estates abandoned by their owners. Without the Church, these lands would be overrun by brigands or wasted entirely. Should we be penalized for preventing chaos?”
Another bishop, older and more measured, added, “And in Liguria, the Church has done much the same. Farms neglected by absentee landlords have been revitalized under our guidance. The imperial auditors do not see the lives saved and the order restored; they see only coin.”
The room buzzed with tension as more bishops voiced their concerns about the imperial audits, their words veiled in justification but laced with defensiveness. Felix remained seated, his expression a mask of calm, though his mind churned. He could sense that there was more beneath the surface—something unspoken yet deeply troubling.
The Campanian bishop, emboldened by the murmurs of agreement, clasped his hands and addressed the assembly again, his voice steady but carrying an edge. “Brothers, it is not merely the imperial audits that weigh upon us. The Church has long been a stabilizing force in this fractured empire, stepping in where the state has failed. But these recent actions by the emperor's agents—these intrusions into lands we have labored to restore—suggest a growing disregard for the Church's indispensable role.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the room. “It is not only the Church’s stewardship that is questioned but its very authority. And in such uncertain times, when imperial policy seems to shift with the wind, we have found it prudent to seek alliances beyond the immediate grasp of the imperial court.”
The murmurs ceased, replaced by a heavy silence. The phrase alliances beyond the immediate grasp of the imperial court hung in the air like a blade. Felix’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly, and the Pope’s gaze sharpened.
The Campanian bishop continued, his tone measured but deliberate. “We have been approached by members of the Senate—men of stature and vision—who recognize the Church’s efforts and have expressed a desire to work in concert with us for the betterment of the empire. They understand, as we do, that stability cannot be achieved through audits and seizures but through the equitable distribution of resources and the strengthening of moral governance.”
He hesitated, his next words slower, more deliberate. “To this end, some of us have offered substantial assistance to these endeavors. Contributions made in the form of solidi—not for personal gain, but to support efforts that align with the Church’s mission and the needs of the people.”
The room froze. The implication was clear. Several bishops exchanged alarmed glances, their faces pale with shock. Others stiffened in their seats, their eyes darting toward the Pope. Felix’s grip on his crozier tightened, and his lips pressed into a thin line.
It was Pope Simplicius who broke the silence, his voice calm but laced with steel. “Bishop, are you suggesting that members of this sacred assembly have entered into financial arrangements with senators known to oppose the emperor’s rule?”
The Campanian bishop met the Pope’s gaze, his face a mask of piety. “Holy Father, I suggest only that the Church has a duty to ensure the welfare of the people and the preservation of Rome. If certain senators share this vision, should we not welcome their partnership?”
A younger bishop rose abruptly, his face flushed with anger. “This is treachery! The Senate conspires against the emperor, and you would align us with their schemes?”
The Campanian bishop raised a placating hand, though his expression betrayed no regret. “Treachery? Or pragmatism? If the emperor’s policies threaten the Church’s mission, should we not seek other avenues to protect our flock? The senators I speak of are not enemies of Rome; they are its stewards, seeking a path forward.”
Felix stood slowly, his tall frame commanding silence. The growing murmur in the room dissipated as he gripped his crozier firmly, his sharp gaze sweeping over the gathered bishops. His voice was calm but carried an unmistakable edge.
“Brothers, what has been spoken here is not merely troubling—it is dangerous. To involve the Church in schemes of this nature, whether through intentional collaboration or misguided charity, risks more than our reputation. It risks our sacred mission and the stability of Rome itself.”
He turned his gaze directly on the Campanian bishop. “You speak of alliances with the Senate as if they are a means to safeguard the empire. Yet those men are not the saviors of Rome. They are its wolves, circling for the kill. To join hands with them in this so-called ‘partnership’ is to endanger everything we have worked to preserve.”
The Campanian bishop opened his mouth to respond, but Felix raised a hand, cutting him off. “And let us not delude ourselves about the true intentions of these senators. Their coin is not offered out of love for the Church or the faithful. It is offered to secure our complicity in their designs—designs which threaten the emperor, the stability of the empire, and, ultimately, the unity of Christendom.”
Felix’s tone grew more fervent as he continued, his voice rising with conviction. “I have placed a priest in the service of Gaius Severus, who leads the Western expedition to aid Emperor Zeno in the East. Through this priest, I receive regular reports, and I tell you now: Basiliscus’s hold on power is cracking. Zeno advances through Asia Minor with newfound determination, and even Illus, Basiliscus’s staunchest ally, has begun secret negotiations with him.”
Gasps rippled through the hall. Felix pressed on, his voice unwavering. “Zeno understands the weight of the West’s assistance. Without it, his position would have been far weaker. He has made it known, through action if not yet word, that he feels indebted to Rome. Should the West find itself in peril, I believe Zeno will stand with us.”
His passionate words filled the room, the bishops leaning forward in rapt attention. Even Pope Simplicius appeared moved, his stern expression softening slightly as Felix continued.
“We cannot abandon the emperor now, nor can we allow ourselves to be pulled into the conspiracies of those who would see him fall. Rome’s salvation will not come from schemes hatched in the shadows but from unity and faith. The East sees our worth, brothers. If we remain steadfast, if we uphold our sacred duty, we will find allies willing to aid us when the time comes.”
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Felix paused, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. His words had struck a chord with many in the room, but the Campanian bishop, unbowed, stood to speak. His tone was calm but carried an unmistakable note of skepticism.
“Bishop Felix,” he began, “your faith in the East is admirable, but I fear it is misplaced. Zeno may be advancing now, but the East has always been consumed by its own struggles. Did they not abandon Nepos when he was driven from power? Did they not leave us to fend for ourselves during the Vandal sack of Rome?”
The room grew tense as the bishop continued, his voice gaining momentum. “You speak of unity, but history tells us otherwise. The East is preoccupied with its own survival, its own ambitions. They will not cross the Adriatic to save us, no matter how much they claim to feel indebted to Romulus Augustus.”
Felix’s jaw tightened, but he held his composure. The Campanian bishop spread his hands, his expression almost sympathetic. “And while you place your hope in the East, the empire crumbles around us. The Senate offers resources, stability, and support. Should we not embrace their aid, even if it means navigating uneasy waters? To dismiss them outright is to ignore the reality of our plight.”
Felix’s composure remained firm, though his voice carried a sharp edge as he interrupted the Campanian bishop. “And when this plot fails, as it surely will, I hope to be able to petition the emperor to spare your lives. For if you cannot see the folly in allying with conspirators, perhaps you will at least understand the consequences of being tied to their treachery.”
The Campanian bishop’s lips curved into a dry, humorless smile. “And when your boy-emperor flees with his tail between his legs, Bishop Felix, I will ask the same mercy from the new emperor. Rome will still need a strong Church, untainted by loyalty to a failing child.”
A heavy silence descended on the hall. The tension was palpable, crackling in the air between Felix and the Campanian bishop. The other bishops exchanged uneasy glances, some visibly shaken while others stiffened in their seats. It was clear that the assembly was no longer united, that a rift was forming—one that could not be ignored.
Pope Simplicius rose slowly, his movements deliberate and calm. His white robes caught the light streaming through the stained glass, and his presence seemed to command quiet. The murmur of voices ceased, all eyes turning to him.
“Brothers,” he began, his voice even and measured, “this is a grave moment, not only for Rome but for the Church itself. It grieves me to see such division among us when unity is what we must most strive to preserve. We are shepherds of the faithful, and our duty is to guide them, not to quarrel amongst ourselves.”
He turned to Felix, his expression softening, though his tone remained steady. “Bishop Felix, your foresight in supporting the Eastern expedition has proven invaluable. Through your efforts, the Church now has a faithful servant in the closest circles around Emperor Zeno. This is a gift we must not squander. We must pray for Zeno’s victory, for it is not merely the East that stands to benefit, but all Christendom. Without a stable East, the West cannot endure.”
Felix inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the Pope’s words, though his sharp gaze remained fixed on the Campanian bishop.
Simplicius shifted his attention, addressing the assembly at large. His tone remained gentle, yet there was a quiet authority in his words. “But let us not lose sight of the broader picture. Each voice raised here speaks from a place of concern for the Church, for Rome, and for the faithful. It is clear that these concerns, though they diverge in method, stem from a shared desire to preserve the Church’s sacred mission. Let us not allow these differences to sow discord.”
He paused, his eyes sweeping across the gathered bishops. “The Church must not align itself with schemes that threaten to undermine our moral authority. Our mission is greater than any political maneuver, greater than the ambitions of any emperor or senator. If we allow ourselves to be drawn into such entanglements, we risk not only our reputation but the trust of those who look to us for guidance.”
The tension in the room began to ease slightly, though the air was still heavy with unspoken disagreements. Simplicius’s voice softened further, taking on the tone of a shepherd speaking to his flock. “I urge you, my brothers, to take this matter to prayer. Reflection and humility will guide us to the path that best serves the faithful. But I also ask—no, I implore—that we keep silence about these disputes beyond these walls. To reveal our division to the world would weaken the Church and sow doubt among those who rely on us.”
His gaze lingered on both Felix and the Campanian bishop. “The Church must remain above reproach, her intentions guided by faith rather than corroded by open intervention or the appearance of partisanship. Each of us carries a heavy responsibility, and I trust you will reflect on this in your hearts.”
The room remained silent as the Pope resumed his seat. Felix sat back slowly, his hands resting on the crozier as he surveyed the assembly. The division was unmistakable now. Some bishops seemed to side with Felix, their expressions resolute, while others gravitated toward the Campanian bishop, their postures stiff with defiance or wary hesitation. The rift was clear, and its implications loomed over them all.
The session was adjourned shortly after, the bishops filing out in silence or in hushed whispers. Small groups formed in the corridors, their conversations subdued but fraught with tension. Felix lingered near the exit, watching as the assembly fractured further with each passing moment. The Campanian bishop passed by, offering Felix a brief glance.
Felix stepped out into the open air, the faint scent of incense still clinging to his robes. He stared out across the city, his mind racing. The Church was at a crossroads, its unity threatened not only by external pressures but by the ambitions and fears within its own walls.
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Odoacer clasped the forearm of each arriving foederati chief, his wide smile and firm grip exuding confidence. His greetings were overly warm, his words laden with camaraderie, as though he sought to draw each man closer to his orbit. Visimar of the Rugii was the first to arrive, his stern face showing little reaction to Odoacer’s hearty welcome. Next came Thrasaric of the Sciri, whose booming laughter echoed through the hall as Odoacer commented on his reputation as a fearless warrior. Onulf of the Heruli followed, his wary eyes darting about the room even as he accepted Odoacer’s greetings.
The great hall, adorned with faded Roman banners and simple torches, began to fill with the low hum of conversation as the chiefs took their places around the heavy wooden table. Each man carried with him the weight of his tribe’s hopes and ambitions, though their expressions revealed varying degrees of trust—or lack thereof—for their host. Odoacer’s demeanor remained impeccably warm, his enthusiasm masking hidden intentions.
When all were seated, Odoacer rose from his chair, his commanding presence drawing the room to silence. His voice, rich and confident, filled the space.
"My friends," he began, spreading his arms wide, "I am honored by your presence. In these times of uncertainty, it is heartening to see such strength and unity gathered in one place. Each of you has proven your loyalty, your courage, and your commitment to the future of our peoples."
He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the assembled chiefs. "I have called you here not only to share important news but to forge a plan that will secure a future for our tribes. For too long, we have been bound by the limitations of this crumbling empire. It is time to think beyond survival—it is time to thrive."
The chiefs exchanged glances, some nodding in cautious agreement. Odoacer’s words hung in the air, their weight undeniable.
But before he could continue, a commotion arose outside the chamber. The muffled sound of voices grew louder, accompanied by the hurried shuffle of boots. The door opened abruptly, and Orestes strode in with the air of a man who owned the room.
"My friends!" Orestes exclaimed, his arms spread in greeting. "It warms my heart to see you all gathered here, safe and sound in these... treacherous times."
The emphasis on treacherous was deliberate, and it landed with a subtle but unmistakable weight. Odoacer’s expression shifted slightly, his smile remaining fixed, though its warmth had cooled. The chiefs turned their attention to Orestes, some visibly surprised by his presence, others quietly intrigued.
Orestes moved further into the room, his pace unhurried as he met the gaze of each chief in turn. "I could not let such an important gathering go unacknowledged. To see the leaders of Rome’s most valiant allies united under one roof—it is truly a sight to behold."
He stopped near the table, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. "I trust I am not interrupting, Odoacer? Surely there is room for one more voice at this table."
Odoacer’s smile remained, though the edges of his patience frayed. "You are always welcome, Orestes. Your presence is... unexpected, but not unwelcome. Please, join us. I am certain you will find our discussions of great interest."
The chiefs shifted in their seats, their unease evident as Orestes took a place at the table. His calm confidence contrasted with Odoacer’s faked enthusiasm, creating an undercurrent of tension that rippled through the room.
"I would not dream of distracting from your plans," Orestes said smoothly, his hands clasped before him.
Orestes leaned back slightly in his seat, a broad smile crossing his face as his gaze swept across the assembled chiefs. His voice was rich with cheer, almost jovial, as he began to speak.
"My friends," he said, his tone carrying the weight of a well-rehearsed oration, "I come bearing good news. No, great news. News that I believe will warm your hearts and ignite the hope of your tribes."
The chiefs leaned forward slightly, their attention drawn to the warmth and promise in his voice. Odoacer’s smile, however, began to tighten, the lines around his eyes hardening as Orestes continued.
"I know," Orestes said, his voice growing more conspiratorial, "that Rome has long promised you lands and riches in return for your loyalty, for your courage, and for the sacrifices you and your people have made. And I know," he added, with a pointed glance at Odoacer, "that many of you have grown... impatient in recent times. Wondering when these promises will be fulfilled."
He let the words hang in the air, his gaze briefly locking with Odoacer’s. The room remained silent, the chiefs now wholly focused on Orestes.
"But today," Orestes continued, spreading his hands wide, "I am here to announce that the time for waiting is over. Rome is ready—we are ready—to fulfill our promises and settle the first two thousand of your warriors and their families on lands of five iugera each. Not just any lands, my friends, but rich, fat lands—fertile fields that will yield bountiful harvests, lands that your people can finally call their own."
Odoacer’s expression began to darken, his eyes narrowing as his composure faltered. The chiefs, however, were visibly intrigued. A few leaned toward one another, exchanging quiet murmurs, while others simply nodded in approval.
Orestes pressed on, his voice growing more animated, his enthusiasm seemingly boundless. "Imagine, my friends! Your people thriving, your warriors rewarded for their years of loyalty. No more wandering, no more uncertainty. These lands will not only sustain your tribes but also enrich them, giving your children a future worth fighting for."
The chiefs exchanged glances, the promise of tangible rewards clearly resonating. Visimar of the Rugii nodded slightly, his stern demeanor softening. Thrasaric of the Sciri grinned, his booming laughter breaking the silence. "Fat lands indeed!" he said. "Perhaps Rome does keep its promises after all!"
Orestes laughed along, spreading his arms. "That is exactly what I am here to prove, my friends. Rome keeps her word. And I, as her representative, will personally oversee the arrangements to ensure your people receive the rewards they so richly deserve."
Odoacer’s face, by now, was like stone. The warmth and charm he had exuded earlier had evaporated, replaced by a cold, simmering fury that he barely managed to contain. His fingers drummed lightly against the armrest of his chair, his jaw tight as he watched Orestes seize control of the room.
"And where," Odoacer said finally, his voice calm but icy, "might these... rich, fat lands be located, Orestes? Surely such fertile territories must come at great expense to the empire."
Orestes turned to him, his smile unwavering but his eyes sharp. "Ah, Odoacer, ever the strategist. These lands are being drawn from the empire’s reserves, territories that have long been underutilized or neglected. It is a testament to Rome’s commitment that we have spared no effort to ensure the best lands are made available for our most valiant allies."
Orestes let his words linger for a moment, his smile growing even broader as he surveyed the chiefs. The murmurs among them grew louder, excitement sparking in their eyes. Then, he raised a hand, commanding their attention once more.
"But this," he said, his voice brimming with enthusiasm, "is not the end of it! No, my friends, this is merely the beginning. This autumn, Rome will settle an additional four thousand of your warriors and their families. Their lands won’t be quite as rich and fat as those given to the first two thousand—let’s be honest, nothing could match the best of the best—but these lands will still be fertile and abundant. Good lands, where your people can prosper."
Orestes gestured expansively, as though already envisioning the scene. "And next year, my friends, we will settle the rest of your tribes. Every loyal warrior, every family, will have their place. No one will be left wanting. Rome’s promise will be fulfilled, and your people will have the futures they deserve."
The chiefs nodded eagerly, their interest now fully captured. Even the most skeptical among them seemed moved by the vividness of Orestes’s words. Odoacer, however, remained utterly still, his cold, calculating gaze fixed on Orestes as the cheerfulness of the room began to grow.
"But," Orestes continued, lowering his tone to one of thoughtful seriousness, "there is still an important question to consider. Who will receive these first, most coveted lands? The best of the best? Neither I nor the emperor could decide, for all of you have proven yourselves loyal to Rome, your courage beyond question."
The chiefs sat up straighter, sensing the shift in tone. Orestes let his gaze linger on them for a moment before breaking into a wide grin. "Perhaps," he said, his voice light but deliberate, "it would be best if you, the chiefs gathered here, decided among yourselves. After all, who knows better than you where these rewards would be most justly and wisely placed?"
The room fell into silence, the chiefs exchanging cautious glances. Orestes, seemingly oblivious to the tension brewing beneath the surface, leaned back in his chair and, as if to himself but loud enough for all to hear, murmured, "What rich and fat lands they are, indeed... Damn, perhaps I should join the ranks myself to claim a piece of such bounty."
A ripple of laughter broke out among some of the chiefs, though others remained silent, their expressions guarded. Orestes rose from his seat, his demeanor still radiating cheerfulness. "My friends, I leave this in your capable hands. May your discussions be fruitful, and may Rome’s generosity bring lasting peace and prosperity to your tribes."
With that, he strode toward the door. But as soon as he stepped into the corridor and the door closed behind him, his cheerful mask dropped. His face hardened, his jaw clenched, and his steps quickened. The air around him seemed colder now, a stark contrast to the warmth he had projected moments before.
Back in the hall, the chiefs sat in silence for a moment before the murmurs began. Odoacer, with a fake smile on his face, leaned forward slightly. "Well," he said, his voice low and even, "it seems we have much to discuss."
The chiefs nodded, some already leaning toward one another to speak in hushed tones. At first, the conversation was measured, reasonable. They spoke of fairness, of loyalty, of the needs of their people. But soon, the tensions that had long simmered beneath the surface began to bubble up. Old grudges and rivalries surfaced, their voices growing louder and sharper.
Visimar of the Rugii leaned forward, his tone clipped. "The Rugii have shed blood for Rome in every campaign. If anyone deserves these lands, it is us."
Thrasaric of the Sciri barked a laugh. "Every campaign? Don’t flatter yourself, Visimar. It is the Sciri who have stood at the forefront of every battle, taking the brunt of every charge. If anyone deserves the best lands, it is us!"
Onulf of the Heruli slammed a fist on the table. "And where were the Sciri when the Heruli drove back the Goths at Ravenna? Do not forget who held the line while others fled!"
The room descended into chaos, voices overlapping in heated argument. Odoacer remained silent, watching carefully as the chiefs turned on one another.
He cursed Orestes silently, his mind burning with fury. That conniving snake had known exactly what he was doing. The carefully crafted unity Odoacer had been nurturing was unraveling before his eyes. And for what? A handful of promises, a scattering of lands designed to sow discord rather than peace.
The argument reached a fever pitch, with chiefs shouting over one another, each trying to drown out the others. Odoacer’s thoughts turned to Crassus and his offer. As he approached him weeks ago with an offer for his support.
I’ll need more solidi, he thought bitterly, his mind racing. Much more than Crassus offered before. If I am to hold this coalition together and outmaneuver Orestes, I’ll need resources to sway the chiefs, to buy loyalty if I must. Crassus will pay. He has no choice.
His fingers stopped drumming as a plan began to take shape in his mind. Orestes might have played his hand, but Odoacer would not be outmaneuvered so easily.