Andronikos walked slowly through the freshly constructed rural school, his sandaled feet crunching softly on the gravel path leading to the main entrance. The mid-morning sun bathed the building in warm light, casting long shadows across the modest but well-constructed structure. The walls, made of stone and timber, bore the subtle marks of care—smoothened edges, polished beams, and faint engravings of Roman motifs that lent the building a dignified presence despite its humble purpose.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of freshly cut wood and lime plaster. The school was simple but practical, designed to house forty children in the mornings and thirty adults in the afternoons. Andronikos’s keen eyes took in the benches arranged neatly in rows, the blackened slate boards mounted on the walls, and the stacks of wooden tablets prepared for use. To his right, a small alcove held basic tools for crafts training—chisels, hammers, and saws—while another corner was dedicated to rolls of parchment and wax tablets for writing exercises.
The Greek paused at the threshold of the first classroom, his gaze lingering on the empty benches. Soon, he thought, these would be filled with eager faces, each child clutching their simple writing tools, their eyes bright with the promise of learning. Yet the weight of his own thoughts dulled the optimism of the moment. He rested a hand on the doorframe, his shoulders sagging as though the burden of his responsibilities had followed him even here.
Andronikos lingered in the doorway, his hand pressing into the smooth wood of the frame as his thoughts churned. The school stood before him now, solid and complete, but the path to this moment had been anything but easy. He had underestimated the challenges—assumed that with the emperor’s backing and a carefully allocated budget, everything would fall into place. The reality, as it often was, had proven far more complicated.
The construction had been delayed by weeks, the rural school lagging almost two months behind schedule. Heavy rains had turned the ground into a mire, stalling progress and warping freshly laid timber. Local workers, stretched thin between the demands of their own fields and this imperial project, had struggled to keep pace despite their best efforts. Supplies had arrived late, the carts bogged down in muddy roads or diverted to other pressing concerns.
Andronikos had tried to maintain his composure, but the setbacks had worn on him. He could still recall the anxious faces of the foremen, their shoulders slumped as they explained yet another delay. Each passing week chipped away at his optimism, leaving him grappling with a growing sense of failure.
It was then, in a moment of desperation, that Andronikos had agreed to the Church’s proposal. The bishop’s emissary had arrived at the construction site with a gracious offer: until the school was ready, lessons could be held in local chapels and small temples. At first, Andronikos had hesitated. The Church’s involvement could complicate matters.
To his surprise, the arrangement had worked better than he anticipated. The chapels provided a temporary haven for learning, their quiet sanctity fostering focus and discipline. The priests and monks, eager to show their utility, had offered assistance in teaching basic literacy and numeracy. Parents, initially wary, became more willing to send their children when they saw the Church’s endorsement of the program. Andronikos had to admit, grudgingly, that it had lent legitimacy to the effort in the eyes of the community.
The most pressing issue was the teachers. The instructors who had been hired were, by and large, men accustomed to teaching the children of the wealthy elite. They had spent their careers imparting philosophy, rhetoric, and the finer points of classical literature to a handful of privileged students in shaded porticoes or private libraries. Teaching the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic to groups of common children—or worse, adults—was entirely outside their realm of experience.
Their frustrations quickly became apparent. Used to small classes where lessons could be tailored to the interests and capabilities of individual pupils, these teachers were now faced with larger, more chaotic groups. The simple demands of teaching dozens of students the same subject at the same time overwhelmed many of them. Discipline, which had rarely been an issue with the polite sons of senators, became a daily struggle. Some teachers grew increasingly impatient, their arrogance spilling over into their interactions with students. Others abandoned the curriculum entirely, deciding instead to teach whatever they felt was appropriate that day.
Andronikos could still feel the sting of yesterday’s debacle. One teacher, a man of considerable reputation in Ravenna, had taken it upon himself to begin charging fees for his lessons. “My instruction is too valuable to be wasted on these peasants,” the man had declared unapologetically when confronted. The report had reached Andronikos not from the students’ families, but from the priest who had been hosting the temporary classes in his chapel. The teacher’s arrogance had been a major blow to the school’s credibility, confirming the doubts of many skeptical parents. Several families had withdrawn their children, unwilling to risk further humiliation or expense.
Firing the teacher had been necessary, but it had left Andronikos deeply uneasy. It wasn’t just the damage to the school’s reputation—it was the fact that the priest himself had been the one to report the incident. While the Church’s involvement had helped gain the trust of the community, this incident had shifted the balance of power subtly but significantly. The priest had made it clear, in his carefully worded letter, that such improprieties would not be tolerated under his roof. The implication was unmistakable: the Church saw itself as the true guardian of these students, and any failure of the school would reflect on Andronikos, not on them.
He clenched his jaw as he recalled the scene. The teacher’s indignant protests had echoed in his ears long after the man had stormed out, and the priest’s quiet rebuke still lingered like a faint sting. “Knowledge is a sacred gift,” the priest had said, his tone both gentle and firm. “It should not be sold like grain at the market.”
It was a sentiment Andronikos agreed with in principle, but it rankled him nonetheless. The Church’s increasing influence over the schools might lend them legitimacy, but it also undermined his ability to maintain control.
Andronikos sighed, letting the thought linger as he walked further into the school. The empty benches seemed to mock him, their silence a sharp contrast to the bustle of the chapels where lessons had been temporarily held. He should have felt relief that the school was finally complete, that they could leave the sanctuaries and return to the purpose-built classrooms. But that relief was dampened by frustration—there were so few students to fill these seats.
Even with the lessons being free, most parents had been reluctant. To them, the school was little more than a distraction from the immediate demands of survival. The labor of their children was needed in the fields, in the workshops, or at home, not wasted scratching symbols into wax tablets. What good was reading when a strong arm could lift a scythe or mend a wall? What use was writing when it wouldn’t bring in a single modius of grain? Only a handful of families, mostly veterans benefiting from imperial land grants, had seen the value in education and kept their children enrolled.
Andronikos didn’t want to lie to himself about how he felt. He was angry. Bitter, even. He had worked tirelessly to bring this knowledge to them—to give their children the tools that could one day elevate them from the constant toil of survival. And yet, so many parents had simply thrown the opportunity away. They had cast aside the gift he had labored to offer, as though it were a luxury they neither wanted nor understood. He clenched his fists at the thought, his fingers digging into his palms.
He had tried to explain it to them, speaking plainly in the village square about the importance of literacy and numeracy. “Your children will learn skills here,” he had said, “skills that will serve them and their families for the rest of their lives. With knowledge, they can calculate their taxes, read imperial edicts, even write letters to protect their rights.” But the words had fallen on skeptical ears. Knowledge was not a tangible thing, not like a plow or a loaf of bread. And to them, it was not worth the cost of losing a child’s labor for even a few hours a day.
Andronikos turned to the alcove where tools were neatly arranged, meant for the adult classes that would begin in the afternoons. He ran his hand over a polished plane, its surface cool and smooth beneath his fingers. The idea of teaching farmers to repair their tools or craft simple items of wood and metal had seemed straightforward, even noble. But convincing them to come had proven just as difficult as persuading the parents. Adults were even more set in their ways, their skepticism sharper, their patience thinner.
“At least the school in Ravenna works properly,” Andronikos muttered under his breath. The words brought little comfort. The urban school was a world apart, filled with the children of wealthier families who saw education not as a waste, but as a necessity. There, the benches were full, the students attentive. Their parents understood that knowledge was a tool of power, a way to climb higher in the social order. The contrast only deepened his sense of betrayal here.
He sighed heavily, the weight of his frustration settling deeper into his chest. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He had imagined the rural schools as places of transformation, where eager minds would embrace the gift of learning. Instead, he found himself locked in a battle of wills, trying to convince people to value something they had never seen as valuable.
The Greek paused at the window, staring out at the fields where the children were likely working alongside their parents even now. He couldn’t entirely blame them. They didn’t know what they were giving up—they couldn’t know. But that didn’t lessen the sting of their rejection.
Andronikos closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself to push the frustration aside. There was still work to do, still students who had chosen to stay. He would focus on them, on teaching them to read and write, even if it was slow and grueling. Perhaps, one day, their success would be proof enough to draw the others back.
By the time Andronikos reached Ravenna, the weariness that had clung to him for days began to dissipate. The sprawling city was alive with energy, its streets bustling with traders, craftsmen, and the chatter of citizens. In the distance, the construction site for the academy rose like an unfinished monument to the empire’s future. Andronikos allowed himself a moment to breathe deeply, inhaling the scent of the sea mingled with the earthy aroma of the stone and timber being worked into place.
The academy’s location had been chosen with care. It stood just beyond the city’s central district, near the road leading to the port. The plot of land was expansive, allowing for future expansion if needed, and close enough to the heart of Ravenna to remain accessible. As Andronikos approached, he saw workers bustling about—stonemasons shaping blocks, carpenters hammering beams into place, and laborers carting supplies across the site.
The foundation was complete, and much of the main building’s frame was already in place. A skeletal outline of arches and columns hinted at the library and workshops that would one day be the centerpieces of the academy. Andronikos could see the beginnings of the courtyard, where students would one day gather to study or discuss ideas under the open sky.
He stepped onto the packed dirt of the construction site, nodding in acknowledgment to the foreman who hurried over to greet him. “Domine Andronikos,” the man said, bowing slightly. “Progress is steady. We should have the main hall roofed within the next month.”
Andronikos offered a rare smile, the sight of the rising walls filling him with a sense of purpose he had not felt in weeks. “You’ve done well,” he said, his gaze scanning the site.
As he walked through the site, careful to avoid stray tools and uneven ground, Andronikos reflected on how far they had come. He remembered the first fifty solidi he had been given—a modest sum that had felt immense at the time. With it, he had rented a small room in a dilapidated building near the public square, intending to teach a handful of students. The space had been cramped, the furniture mismatched, and the light dim, but he had been determined.
Before he could even enroll his first students, the emperor had stepped in. With Romulus’s larger vision came a much greater budget—and far more responsibility. The small classroom had been abandoned in favor of creating a proper school, and eventually, plans for the academy had taken shape. What had once seemed like a simple endeavor had grown into a monumental task, one that weighed on Andronikos heavily.
He stopped near a partially completed wall and ran his hand over the cool stone. The rough texture reminded him of the many challenges they had faced. Yet here, in this place where the future was being built brick by brick, he felt hope stirring again.
Andronikos turned his gaze toward the open land surrounding the academy. The plot had been larger than necessary, but he had insisted on it. He had the foresight to know that this place might grow beyond its current scope. One day, there could be more classrooms, larger libraries, perhaps even living quarters for students traveling from afar. For now, the space was empty, but it was full of potential.
His thoughts drifted to the students who would one day walk these halls. The academy was meant to train not only the children of the elite but also the brightest minds from the emperor’s new schools. Here, they would learn engineering, administration, and the principles of governance. They would become the leaders and builders of Rome’s future.
Andronikos entered the palace, his thoughts still lingering on the progress at the academy. The familiar murmur of activity filled the halls—the shuffle of courtiers, the clinking of guards’ armor, and the occasional bark of a commander issuing orders. He was just beginning to consider retreating to his quarters when a slave approached him hurriedly, bowing deeply.
“Dominus Andronikos,” the young man said, his tone deferential but urgent. “A delegation arrived two hours ago. They asked for you by name and are waiting near the atrium of the imperial library.”
Andronikos paused, curiosity and excitement flickering across his face. “Did they say who they were?” he asked, his voice calm but edged with anticipation.
The slave shook his head. “No, Dominus. Only that they have traveled far and must speak with you.”
A faint smile tugged at the corners of Andronikos’s lips. He had a suspicion, a hope, of who it might be. Without another word, he nodded and made his way toward the atrium, his pace quickening with every step. If his instincts were correct, it would be a reunion years in the making.
The atrium near the imperial library was bathed in soft afternoon light, the high windows casting long beams across the polished marble floor. The gentle trickle of a central fountain filled the air, mingling with the faint rustle of parchment from the adjoining study rooms. As Andronikos stepped into the space, his eyes immediately fell on a group of figures near the far end, their travel-worn cloaks and satchels marking them as men from distant lands.
One figure stood taller than the rest, his bearing unmistakable. Callimachus. Andronikos felt a rush of relief and joy as he crossed the room, his voice carrying with rare warmth.
“Callimachus!” he called out, his steps quickening.
The Alexandrian turned at the sound of his name, his expression softening into a broad smile. “Andronikos,” he replied, his voice rich with emotion, and he stepped forward without hesitation.
The two men embraced tightly, the years of separation melting away in an instant. When they finally pulled apart, Callimachus held Andronikos at arm’s length, his sharp eyes studying him. “The years have not been easy on you, my friend,” he said with a chuckle, though there was no mockery in his tone. “But it is good to see you again, alive and well.”
“And you, Callimachus. You haven’t changed a bit,” Andronikos replied, the rare smile lingering on his face. He turned his attention to the group behind his friend, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the scholars who had accompanied him. “And these are your companions?”
Callimachus nodded, gesturing to the four men who stood nearby. “Yes, scholars, scribes, and protectors of Alexandria’s light. We’ve brought manuscripts, instruments, and treasures to show your emperor. As you said in your letter, it was a risk worth taking.”
Andronikos’s gaze lingered on the satchels and small chests the men carried, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “You must be exhausted from your journey,” he said, his tone softening. “Have you had a chance to rest? Do you have a place to stay?”
Callimachus shook his head. “We came directly here, eager to see you. We’ve not yet had time to think of such things.”
Andronikos frowned slightly. “That won’t do. I’ll arrange for you to stay in the guest wing of the palace. You’ll have everything you need to recover from your travels.”
The scholars exchanged murmurs of gratitude, and Callimachus placed a hand on Andronikos’s shoulder. “Ever the generous host,” he said with a warm smile. “But before we rest, let us speak.
Andronikos nodded. “Not here. Come with me to the garden pavilion. It’s quieter, and the air will do us all some good.”
The group followed Andronikos through the winding corridors of the palace and out into the gardens, where the pavilion awaited. Surrounded by olive and cypress trees, the pavilion overlooked a tranquil pond that shimmered in the late afternoon sun. A stone table and benches sat beneath the shade of the structure, offering a peaceful retreat from the bustle of the palace.
As they settled around the stone table in the garden pavilion, Andronikos leaned forward, his hands clasped together. The tension in his shoulders eased as he looked at his old friend, his curiosity burning brighter now that the initial joy of reunion had passed.
“How was the journey?” Andronikos asked, his tone warm but tinged with concern. “The roads from Alexandria are long and treacherous. I hope you didn’t encounter too many difficulties.”
Callimachus smiled faintly, the lines on his face deepening with the memory of the journey. “Long, indeed, and not without its challenges,” he began. “The Nile was kind to us, as always, though the river grows quieter each year. The boats were crowded, and the ports were busier than I remember. Alexandria feels different now—heavier, as though the weight of its past has finally begun to suffocate it. We left before that feeling could settle too deeply in our bones.”
He paused, glancing at his companions, who nodded in silent agreement. “From there, the sea was merciful. We passed Crete, where the winds tested us briefly but never broke us. Reaching Italy, though...” He shook his head. “The roads near Brundisium were a mess, Andronikos. Mud and bandits, one after the other. Twice we had to pay guards to accompany us through the more treacherous stretches. But the gods smiled on us, and we arrived with only a few scratches.”
Andronikos’s lips pressed into a thin line. “The roads should not be in such disrepair, not when Rome still claims dominion over them. It’s disgraceful that men of learning must risk their lives just to travel here.”
Callimachus waved a hand dismissively. “We expected no less. What matters is that we are here, in one piece, and before you.”
The Greek’s gaze softened, and he nodded. “And I’m grateful for it. Your presence alone is worth any price, but tell me...” He leaned back slightly, his tone quieter now, almost reverent. “What have you brought with you? What treasures have you managed to save?”
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Callimachus straightened in his seat, his expression growing serious. He gestured toward one of the smaller chests at his feet. “Manuscripts,” he said, his voice heavy with both pride and sorrow. “Some are copies of texts that survived the great fires, painstakingly recreated by scribes over the decades. A few—only a precious few—are originals. Fragments of works by Eratosthenes, Callimachus of Cyrene, and even Aristotle. They are incomplete, but their value is immeasurable.”
Andronikos’s breath caught, and he reached toward the chest instinctively before stopping himself. “Eratosthenes? The true circumference of the earth?”
Callimachus nodded. “A copy of his calculations, yes. And diagrams from his work on the stars. The manuscripts are fragile, Andronikos. Time has been cruel, and the journey did them no favors, but they are here.”
Another scholar, a younger man with a scholar’s stooped shoulders, carefully lifted a bundle wrapped in oiled cloth. “Astrolabes,” he said, unwrapping the contents to reveal the intricate bronze instruments. “They were salvaged from Alexandria’s docks. The sailors claimed they were no use to them and sold them for almost nothing.”
Callimachus continued, his tone lightening slightly. “We also brought tools for measuring distances, weights, and angles—things that should not be forgotten as Rome shifts its gaze from wisdom to war. And there is this.” He motioned to a small wooden box, which another scholar opened to reveal a collection of glass vials and jars.
“Botanical samples,” Callimachus explained. “The remnants of a project cataloging the flora of the Mediterranean. They were stored in the library’s southern annex, abandoned but intact. I thought your emperor might appreciate their potential—both for study and for their practical uses.”
Andronikos’s eyes glistened as he took in the treasures before him. “You’ve done more than I could have hoped, Callimachus,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “To bring even one of these things here would have been a miracle, but this... this is a gift beyond measure.”
Callimachus smiled faintly at Andronikos's awe, though his eyes betrayed a quiet weariness. "A gift, perhaps, but one that carries a weight. These treasures are fragile, Andronikos, as fragile as the hope they represent. And now that we are here, I must ask—what of your emperor? Can he truly help restore what has been lost in Alexandria? Can he save the Grand Library?"
Andronikos leaned back slightly, his expression thoughtful. For a moment, he let his gaze drift over the garden, the soft rustle of leaves filling the silence between them. Then, he began to speak, his voice calm but laced with conviction.
“Romulus Augustus is not the man most would imagine when they think of an emperor,” Andronikos said, his tone measured. “He is young—too young, some might say—but he understands the power of knowledge, Callimachus, and he values it.”
Andronikos smiled faintly. “And Romulus has not only spoken of knowledge; he has acted. He has funded the creation of schools, not just here in Ravenna but in the rural villages as well. Small, simple places, but they serve a purpose—to teach the children of soldiers, farmers, and craftsmen. To give them the skills they need to thrive in a world that is often cruel to those without learning.”
Callimachus’s expression softened slightly. “And these schools—how are they received?”
Andronikos’s smile faded, and he sighed deeply. “Not as well as I had hoped. Many parents see them as a distraction, a waste of time. But there are those who believe, those who send their children despite the sacrifices it demands.”
He leaned forward, his voice taking on a more urgent tone. “The emperor has also commissioned an academy here in Ravenna, one that is still under construction. It will be a place for advanced learning, for the brightest minds to study engineering, administration, and the sciences. It is a monument to his belief that Rome can rise again, not through swords, but through knowledge.”
The Alexandrian scholar nodded slowly, his skepticism giving way to cautious hope. “If he can see the value in preserving what remains of the library, we might yet protect the legacy of Alexandria.”
The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the garden as the two men spoke. Andronikos rose from his seat, gesturing for the others to follow. “It grows late, my friends. Let me escort you to the guest wing. You need rest after your journey.”
Callimachus stood, his expression thoughtful but calm. “Rest, yes. But tomorrow, Andronikos, I will need to meet this emperor of yours. If he is as you say, perhaps we can find a way forward.”
“You will,” Andronikos assured him. “I will arrange an audience with him first thing in the morning. He will want to meet you, Callimachus, and to see the treasures you have brought.”
The scholars followed Andronikos through the quiet halls of the palace, their steps echoing faintly in the growing stillness. As they reached the guest wing, Andronikos gestured to the prepared rooms. “Everything you need should be here. If there is anything else, let me know.”
Callimachus clasped Andronikos’s shoulder briefly, a rare smile crossing his face. “Thank you, my friend. For your hospitality and for your belief. Perhaps, together, we can remind the world that knowledge is worth fighting for.”
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The next morning, Andronikos stood with the Alexandrian delegation outside the doors to the emperor’s private council chamber. The hallway was quiet, save for the faint murmur of guards exchanging words further down the corridor. Magnus, ever watchful, stood beside the entrance, his imposing presence underscoring the importance of the meeting. The guards at the door, clad in polished armor, stepped forward to inspect the visitors, their eyes sharp and methodical.
Andronikos, his demeanor calm but purposeful, exchanged a few quiet words with them before they nodded and pushed open the heavy wooden doors. The delegation followed him inside, their steps echoing faintly against the marble floors.
The chamber was modest by imperial standards, its elegance understated. A long table dominated the room, flanked by chairs and illuminated by the soft morning light streaming through high, arched windows. Romulus Augustus stood near the far end, speaking quietly with Magnus, who lingered close, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. At the sight of the delegation, the boy emperor straightened, his youthful face breaking into a warm smile.
“Welcome,” Romulus said, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. His voice, though young, carried a clear tone of authority. “I’ve been told of your journey and the treasures you bring. It is an honor to receive you.”
Callimachus, ever composed, bowed deeply before the emperor, his companions following suit. “Your Majesty,” he began, his voice steady and respectful, “the honor is ours. We come as humble servants of knowledge, bearing what little remains of Alexandria’s legacy, in the hope that it might find refuge and purpose here.”
Romulus gestured for them to approach the table. “Please, show me what you have brought. And speak freely—I wish to know everything.”
As the scholars began to unpack their satchels and chests, Andronikos moved to the emperor’s side, his role shifting from host to silent observer. He watched as Callimachus carefully unwrapped a bundle of manuscripts, the delicate parchment almost luminous in the soft light.
“This, Your Majesty,” Callimachus said, his tone reverent, “is a fragment of Eratosthenes’ calculations on the earth’s circumference. Though incomplete, it represents one of the most profound achievements of human understanding.”
Romulus leaned forward, his eyes widening as he examined the faded script. “He measured the world,” he murmured, almost to himself. “With nothing but shadows and mathematics.”
Callimachus nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Indeed, Your Majesty. His work reminds us that even without conquest, there is greatness.”
Another scholar presented the astrolabes, their intricate designs catching the emperor’s attention. “Instruments for navigating the heavens,” the man explained. “With these, sailors can find their way across vast seas, guided by the stars.”
Romulus traced a finger lightly over the bronze surface, his expression thoughtful.
As more treasures were revealed—botanical samples, measuring tools, and fragments of lost texts—the emperor’s excitement grew. He asked questions, his youthful curiosity spilling over into rapid exchanges with the scholars. He wanted to know how the astrolabes were used, how the manuscripts had survived the fires, and what secrets the botanical samples might hold.
Andronikos, standing just behind the emperor, felt a deep sense of pride. Romulus was not simply performing the role of an interested ruler—he was genuinely engaged, his passion for knowledge as evident as the light in his eyes. This, Andronikos thought, was the hope he had spoken of to Callimachus the night before.
Finally, as the last of the treasures was placed on the table, Romulus turned to Callimachus, his expression earnest. “These are extraordinary gifts. I see now why Andronikos spoke so highly of Alexandria and its library.”
Callimachus stepped forward, his composure steady but his voice carrying a weight that filled the room. “Your Majesty,” he began, “I thank you for your words, and for the respect you have shown to these humble remnants of Alexandria’s glory. But I must speak plainly. The Grand Library, as it once was, is no more. Its halls have grown silent, its shelves emptied by fire, neglect, and theft. Those who once tended to its treasures are scattered or gone, and the few of us who remain guard fragments, no more.”
He gestured toward the manuscripts and tools laid out before them. “This is but a fraction of what was lost. Alexandria’s light, once visible to all corners of the known world, has dimmed to a flicker. My companions and I have done what we could, hiding manuscripts from those who would destroy them, copying what could be salvaged, even smuggling them across seas at great peril. But we cannot do this alone. Without support, without resources, that flicker will vanish entirely.”
Callimachus turned his gaze directly to Romulus. “Your Majesty, I come to you not merely as a bearer of gifts but as a supplicant. Alexandria’s legacy is not just Egypt’s—it belongs to all of humanity. With your help, we can begin to restore it to its former glory. Let this be a place where the knowledge of the past meets the aspirations of the future.”
For a moment, the room fell silent, the weight of Callimachus’s words pressing on everyone present. Andronikos, standing slightly behind Romulus, felt his stomach tighten. He knew what was coming. He had discussed this very topic with the emperor the previous night, and Romulus’s excitement, now so evident, would soon give way to the cold calculus of reality.
Romulus straightened, his youthful energy tempered as he folded his hands in front of him. “Callimachus,” he began, his voice measured, “your plea is not lost on me. What you speak of—the restoration of the Grand Library—is a noble goal. It stirs my heart, as I know it does for Andronikos and for all who value knowledge. But…”
Andronikos closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose. Here it was.
“But I must ask,” Romulus continued, “what happens after I give you the money? Imagine that I find the funds to rebuild the halls, to restock the shelves with manuscripts and tools. Imagine the library restored to some semblance of its former self. What then? How long before the Church sees it as a threat? How long before they brand the works within as heretical, confiscate them, and burn them in public squares?”
The room remained silent, the weight of the emperor’s words sinking in.
Romulus stepped closer to the table, his expression now serious. “You speak of light, Callimachus, but to many, that light is dangerous. The Church holds sway in Alexandria and throughout the empire. I have no authority there. My influence does not extend to the Patriarch, who sees such collections as breeding grounds for paganism, heresy, and rebellion. If I fund this restoration, I would be setting you up for persecution, not success.”
Callimachus frowned, his lips tightening. “Surely, Your Majesty, there are ways to protect the library. With imperial backing, could we not negotiate with the Church?”
Romulus shook his head. “The Church is not a monolith. Even if the Patriarch of Alexandria were to accept the library, there would be others who would not. Bishops in Constantinople, Antioch—they would see this as a challenge to their authority. The manuscripts you hold, the knowledge you cherish—they would be condemned as remnants of a pagan past. The Church would not merely ignore the library—they would seek to destroy it.”
He paused, his gaze meeting Callimachus’s directly. “And let us not forget the political reality. My empire teeters on the brink. Every solidus I spend is scrutinized by my enemies, both within and without. If I am seen supporting a project that the Church opposes, it could fracture what little unity remains.”
Romulus let his words settle for a moment before continuing, his tone softening. “But,” he said, and Andronikos felt the room shift. Here comes the carrot, the Greek thought as he observed the emperor's calculated pause.
Romulus turned to Magnus and gestured subtly. “Leave us,” he said. The captain hesitated briefly, his eyes scanning the room before giving a slight nod. He stepped out silently, the heavy doors closing behind him. The Alexandrian delegation exchanged uncertain glances, their tension palpable.
Romulus raised a calming hand. “There is no need for concern,” he assured them. “What I am about to share with you requires discretion.”
The young emperor moved toward a tall cabinet at the side of the room, unlocking a drawer with deliberate care. From within, he retrieved several scrolls tied with plain ribbons. Returning to the table, he laid them out, his movements deliberate, as though unveiling something both fragile and significant.
“These,” Romulus began, unrolling the first scroll, “are schematics and notes I have acquired through certain channels. They represent ideas and advancements that I believe could shape the future.”
Romulus let the scrolls rest on the table for a moment, his hands clasped lightly before him as the Alexandrian scholars exchanged wary glances. The tension in the room was palpable, and Andronikos noted how Callimachus hesitated before reaching for the first scroll. The Greek scholar’s hand hovered for a moment, as if the weight of what lay within was almost too much to bear.
Finally, Callimachus untied the ribbon and unrolled the parchment with care. His sharp eyes scanned the intricate sketches and annotations, his brow furrowing as he absorbed the details. Slowly, the other scholars leaned in, their initial skepticism giving way to curiosity.
“This…” Callimachus began, his tone cautious. He did not finish the sentence but instead gestured for one of his companions, a younger man with ink-stained fingers, to join him. The two bent over the scroll, their whispers growing louder as they pointed to various aspects of the design.
“Unconventional,” one murmured, his tone tinged with surprise. “But… intriguing.”
“Look here,” Callimachus said softly, tracing a line on the parchment. “This alteration—if it works—could improve efficiency significantly. But there are gaps. It’s not clear how some of these elements would interact.”
Another scholar leaned closer, shaking his head. “The concept is sound, but the details are rushed, incomplete. This would require significant testing before we could determine its feasibility.”
Romulus watched them closely but remained silent, his expression unreadable. Andronikos, standing just behind the emperor, studied the delegation’s growing agitation with interest. As each scroll was unrolled, the pattern repeated. Initial skepticism gave way to animated discussion, the scholars debating amongst themselves as they tried to reconcile the ideas on the parchment with the knowledge they already possessed.
“This material…” one of them began, gesturing to a brief note scrawled in the margin of another scroll. “It’s difficult to obtain in sufficient quantities. And here—this mechanism. It’s ingenious, but the precision required would be extraordinary. Who would even be able to construct such a thing?”
Callimachus frowned, nodding slowly. “These designs… they are bold, but they feel incomplete, as though the creator was racing ahead of themselves. They skim over the finer details, assuming too much.”
“They would need to be studied further,” another scholar interjected, his voice firm. “These are not fully formed concepts.”
Andronikos noted the shift in the room. While the scholars’ initial reserve had melted into lively discussion, there was still an undercurrent of unease. They were intrigued, yes, but also wary. These were ideas on the edge of plausibility, requiring refinement, expertise, and significant resources to bring to fruition.
Callimachus finally looked up from the last scroll, his expression thoughtful but measured. “Your Majesty,” he said carefully, “these designs are…, they touch upon fields as diverse as metallurgy, mechanics, and construction. The concepts are fascinating, but they are far from complete. To fully understand them would require time, resources, and expertise.”
Romulus stepped forward, his presence commanding yet tempered with a deliberate calm. His gaze swept across the delegation of scholars, settling on Callimachus. The young emperor's voice, steady and measured, broke the tense silence.
“I understand your skepticism,” Romulus began, gesturing toward the scrolls now scattered across the table. “These designs are imperfect, their concepts incomplete. They lack the precision and refinement that only true masters of knowledge can provide.”
The scholars exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of doubt and cautious intrigue. Andronikos, standing just behind Romulus, observed the room closely. He could see the flicker of curiosity in their eyes, even as they hesitated.
Romulus continued, his tone softening, almost confiding. “You have devoted your lives to safeguarding the knowledge of the past, preserving the fragments of Alexandria’s glory in the face of destruction and neglect. Now, I ask you to turn that dedication to the future. Help me bring these ideas to life—not for my sake, but for Rome’s.”
He stepped closer to Callimachus, his movements deliberate, his words carrying a quiet intensity. “Until mid-summer, I ask you to focus all your efforts on these designs and I entrust you ten thousand solidi for these projects. Refine them. Improve them. Test their feasibility. Create the foundation upon which we can build something extraordinary. If you succeed, I will allocate ten thousand solidi to establish a Taberna Scientiae—a Workshop for Knowledge.”
The scholars stirred at the term, their murmurs filling the chamber. Romulus raised a hand, quieting them.
“This Workshop will not be a mere repository or workshop, but an institution dedicated to innovation and discovery. It will be a place where the knowledge you refine today will shape the Rome of tomorrow. But you must tread carefully. In these times, progress is viewed with suspicion, innovation with fear. That is why we must frame this work not as new, but as rediscovered wisdom—knowledge saved from the ruins of Alexandria, now offered as a gift to Rome in its time of need.”
His voice rose slightly, his passion breaking through his composed demeanor. “If you can prove the value of these designs by mid-summer, I will not only fund further research but will send you more ideas, more challenges. With each success, your resources will grow, and your influence will spread. Together, we will reclaim Rome’s legacy as a beacon of knowledge and progress.”
Romulus stepped back, his gaze sweeping across the room, resting on each scholar in turn. “And if you dedicate yourselves to this cause, if you prove your worth and your vision, I will create for you a new sanctuary—not in Alexandria, where the Church’s shadow looms, but here in Rome. A new Grand Library, where knowledge can flourish without fear of persecution. A place where the ideals of learning and discovery will be honored for generations to come.”
The chamber fell silent, the air charged with anticipation. Andronikos could see the shift in the scholars’ expressions—their initial skepticism giving way to ambition.
Callimachus broke the silence with a long sigh, his shoulders sagging slightly as he glanced toward Andronikos. The Greek stood behind the emperor, his expression uncharacteristically bright, a broad grin spreading across his face as he observed the scholars. Callimachus shook his head, amusement flickering in his eyes despite the weight of the moment.
“I have been here mere hours,” Callimachus said, his tone laced with mock accusation, “and already they want me to plant roots in this foreign soil. What have you done to me, Andronikos?”
Andronikos chuckled softly but said nothing, his grin widening as he inclined his head in mock innocence. Callimachus let out a low laugh, tinged with a sadness that underscored the camaraderie between the two men.
“And they say mathematicians lack charm,” he muttered, his voice tinged with resignation.
At the mention of mathematics, Romulus straightened, his sharp gaze locking onto Callimachus. “You’re a mathematician?” he asked, his voice carrying a note of keen interest.
Callimachus raised an eyebrow, surprised by the emperor’s sudden intensity. “Among other things,” he replied cautiously. “I studied under the masters of Alexandria. My knowledge spans geometry, arithmetic, and the practical applications of numbers. Enough, I suppose, to satisfy my curiosity.”
Romulus leaned forward slightly, his youthful excitement barely concealed. “Geometry, arithmetic—fascinating. Tell me, how deeply have you explored the nature of numbers?”
Callimachus blinked, taken aback by the question. “As deeply as any Alexandrian scholar might,” he said carefully. “We calculated, we measured, and we sought patterns in the natural world. Numbers are the language of order, Your Majesty.”
Romulus nodded, clearly impressed. Without a word, he turned back to the cabinet where the scrolls had been stored. Opening another drawer, he retrieved a scroll bound with a simple ribbon. He returned to the table and handed it to Callimachus with a measured gesture.
Callimachus took the scroll, his earlier amusement returning as he studied the emperor. “How much knowledge lingers in these drawers, I wonder,” he quipped, untying the ribbon with deliberate care.
When he unfurled the parchment, however, the humor drained from his face. His eyes widened, his brow furrowing as he scanned the contents. The silence in the room grew heavier as the other scholars craned their necks to glimpse the scroll. Callimachus’s hand trembled slightly as he traced a finger along the symbols drawn on the parchment.
“These…,” he began, his voice faltering. He cleared his throat and looked up at Romulus, his expression one of grave determination. “Your Majesty, I will give you your designs and maybe even basic prototypes by mid-summer. And we will bring others—colleagues, scribes, craftsmen—with all the knowledge and treasures we can carry. This is a calling that cannot be ignored.”
Without waiting for a reply, Callimachus rolled the scroll carefully, clutching it as though it were a sacred relic. He turned to his companions and gave a curt nod. “We must prepare,” he said simply, striding toward the door with the scroll still in hand. The scholars, though visibly confused, followed him without hesitation, casting puzzled glances at one another.
As the doors closed behind them, Andronikos raised a curious eyebrow at Romulus, his grin giving way to a look of intrigue. “What did you show him?”
Romulus shrugged nonchalantly, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just an idea. It’s a method of numerical notation—Arabic numbers, though that’s not what they will call them here.”
Andronikos’s eyes narrowed, skepticism creeping into his voice. “Arabic numbers? What could possibly be so extraordinary about numbers?”
Romulus leaned against the table, his tone turning thoughtful as he explained. “The system replaces the cumbersome Roman numerals with symbols for each digit, including a placeholder—zero. It simplifies calculation, makes multiplication and division easier, and allows for concepts like algebra to flourish. It is centuries ahead of anything we know now.”
Andronikos stared at the emperor, his composure faltering for a rare moment. “A placeholder for nothing? A concept of zero? You’re serious.”
“Completely,” Romulus replied. “It will revolutionize everything from commerce to astronomy. It’s the foundation of advancements we cannot even begin to imagine.”
The Greek exhaled slowly, shaking his head in disbelief. “Then I had better start organizing permanent residences for them,” he said, a trace of dry humor returning to his tone.
Romulus smiled faintly. “I suspect you should.”