The Cathedral of Ravenna rose before Romulus like a fortress of faith, its towering spires and vaulted ceilings a testament to the Church’s dominion. Stained-glass windows bathed the vast space in fragmented light, casting saints and martyrs into spectral hues. The air was thick with incense, its cloying sweetness clinging to the skin, and the chants of the clergy echoed like an endless tide, crashing against the marble walls. It was a display meant to inspire awe—and submission.
Romulus stood near the altar, draped in ceremonial robes of imperial purple and gold. The fabric scratched against his skin, and the crown on his brow pressed down like the weight of a thousand expectations. At ten years old, he was small for the grandeur of the moment, but his bearing was resolute, his gaze fixed on the massive crucifix that loomed above. He had learned not to betray his thoughts, though they churned as heavily as the incense-laden air.
Beside him stood Bishop Felix, his imposing figure wrapped in vestments of silk and gold thread. The crozier in his hand, carved with intricate scenes of divine judgment, gleamed in the flickering light of countless candles. His expression was one of polished serenity, but the intensity of his gaze belied the facade.
“My young emperor,” Felix intoned, his voice resonant, rich with the practiced cadence of a man used to commanding attention. “It is a joy to see you here today, a child of God as well as a servant of Rome.”
Romulus inclined his head with the precision Andronikos had drilled into him. His hands remained clasped before him, a picture of deference, though his thoughts were far from reverent. His tutor’s warnings echoed in his mind: Be courteous, but do not trust them. Their honeyed words often hide sharp daggers.
“I am here to serve, Your Grace,” Romulus replied, his tone steady, carefully devoid of enthusiasm. Though the crown rested on his brow, he understood that true power rested in the hands of men like Felix, who wielded influence over the hearts and souls of the people.
Felix’s lips curved into a smile, practiced yet predatory, as polished as the golden chalice that rested on the altar. “Ah, such humility in one so young,” he said, leaning ever so slightly closer. “It bodes well for your reign, I think.”
The boy emperor’s posture stiffened as Felix’s sharp eyes lingered on him, their gleam one of calculation. The bishop’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. “The Church stands ready to guide you, Dominus, as it has guided Rome through her darkest days. Together, we can ensure that your rule is both blessed and enduring.”
Romulus resisted the urge to step back, though every instinct screamed at him to put distance between himself and Felix’s overbearing presence. Even as a child, he could see through the man’s gilded assurances. Felix spoke of blessings and guidance, but what he sought was land, influence, and the continued ascendancy of the Church over his father’s fragile empire.
“Your Grace,” Romulus replied carefully, his gaze shifting to the towering crucifix, “I hope to lead with wisdom and strength. For now, I seek only to learn.”
Felix chuckled softly, the sound as saccharine as the incense that clung to the boy’s skin. “And learn you shall, my emperor,” he said, his tone thick with self-assurance. “The Church will see to it.”
The prayers began then, Felix’s sonorous voice rising to join the harmonious chant of the clergy. Latin phrases rolled through the cathedral like waves, their hypnotic rhythm consuming the vast space. Romulus knelt and rose in unison with the congregation, his movements precise but mechanical, a boy lost in a ritual that felt as distant as the heavens it was meant to invoke. The words blurred into an endless drone, their meaning lost beneath the weight of ceremony.
The Cathedral of Ravenna was awash in the golden glow of candlelight as the ceremony neared its end. Romulus stood near the altar, his ceremonial robes feeling heavier with each passing moment. Beside him, Bishop Felix presided with practiced grandeur, his resonant voice leading the gathered clergy in the final prayers. The towering crucifix above the altar seemed to loom ever closer, its shadow stretching long and imposing over the boy emperor.
At the back of the cathedral, Orestes sat among the dignitaries, his posture straight but betraying an edge of impatience. Romulus had glanced at his father a few times during the ceremony, hoping for reassurance, but Orestes’s expression remained unreadable, as though carved from stone.
As the final words of the prayer echoed through the vast chamber, Felix turned to Romulus, his crozier gleaming in the flickering light. The bishop’s movements were deliberate as he stepped closer, a faint smile curling his lips. “My young emperor,” he said warmly, though his tone carried the weight of expectation. “The ceremony has shown your devotion most clearly. It is a rare and precious thing to see such faith in one so young.”
Romulus inclined his head slightly, a gesture drilled into him by Andronikos. “Thank you, Your Grace. It is my duty to serve.”
Felix nodded approvingly, though his sharp eyes lingered on the boy for a moment longer than necessary. “Indeed. And as your duties grow, so too will the burdens upon your soul. It is for this reason that the Church, in its wisdom, seeks to ease your path. A young emperor needs spiritual guidance, especially in times such as these.”
Romulus tensed, sensing where this was going. He kept his face composed as the bishop continued.
“To that end,” Felix said smoothly, “I have chosen a most learned and devout priest to serve as your spiritual advisor. He will remain by your side, offering counsel and comfort as you navigate the challenges of your reign.”
Romulus’s heart sank. He glanced instinctively toward the back of the cathedral, where his father remained seated. Orestes’s gaze was fixed on him now, sharp and unyielding.
“Your Grace,” Romulus began cautiously, choosing his words with care. “I am grateful for the Church’s concern and your generosity. However, I already have my tutor, Andronikos, who has provided me with much-needed guidance.”
Felix’s smile did not falter, but the glint in his eyes grew sharper. “Andronikos, while a man of considerable intellect, lacks the spiritual authority necessary for such a role. The empire, and indeed your reign, cannot thrive without the blessings and wisdom of the Church.”
Romulus’s fingers tightened around the edge of his robes. “I do not doubt the Church’s wisdom, Your Grace, but I believe my father has matters of my education well in hand.”
Felix leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice as if imparting a great truth. “It is precisely because of your father’s wisdom that he would see the value in such an arrangement. The Church does not interfere lightly, Dominus. Our intentions are always for the good of Rome—and for you.”
Romulus opened his mouth to respond but faltered. How could he push back without overstepping? His youth and inexperience were weapons others could wield against him, and Felix was no fool. The bishop’s offer was not a suggestion but a maneuver—a subtle assertion of the Church’s growing influence over imperial matters.
The tension stretched unbearably thin when Orestes rose from his seat at the back of the cathedral. His boots struck the marble floor with deliberate force as he made his way forward, his crimson cloak trailing behind him. The gathered clergy and senators parted instinctively, their murmurs falling silent.
“Bishop Felix,” Orestes said, his voice cutting through the heavy air. “It seems my son has handled the ceremony admirably, as expected. But I am curious—what is this discussion that has so captivated you both?”
Felix turned smoothly, his expression unchanged. “Magister Militarum,” he greeted, inclining his head slightly. “I was merely informing our young emperor of the Church’s decision to assign him a spiritual advisor. Such guidance is crucial for one so young and burdened.”
Orestes’s gaze flicked to Romulus, then back to Felix. His expression was calm, but the hard edge in his tone betrayed his displeasure. “The emperor is well cared for. His education, spiritual and otherwise, has been arranged to my satisfaction.”
Felix’s smile tightened, though his voice remained cordial. “Of course, Magister Militarum. But surely, you agree that—”
“I agree,” Orestes interrupted smoothly, “that the Church’s support is invaluable to Rome. But let us not forget that the emperor is also a child. He must be allowed to grow into his role without undue interference.”
The bishop’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but he inclined his head. “As you say, Magister. The Church exists only to serve the empire and its emperor.”
“Then I trust this matter is settled,” Orestes said with finality. He placed a firm hand on Romulus’s shoulder, steering the boy toward the grand doors. “The emperor has much to prepare for.”
Felix stepped aside, his polished smile hiding the sting of defeat. “Of course. Go with God, young emperor.”
Romulus glanced back as he was guided away, meeting Felix’s eyes for a fleeting moment. The bishop’s expression, though composed, carried a warning: this would not be the last move he made.
Outside, the crisp air was a relief after the oppressive incense of the cathedral. Orestes’s hand remained on Romulus’s shoulder as they walked in silence, flanked by guards. Finally, his father spoke, his voice low but firm.
“Do not let them push you,” Orestes said. “The Church has its uses, but they will take what they can unless you stand your ground.”
Romulus hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, Magister Militarum.”
His father’s hand tightened briefly before releasing him. “Good. Learn to navigate their games, but never forget—your loyalty is to Rome, not to men in robes.”
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The procession back to the palace was subdued, the heavy silence between father and son broken only by the clatter of hooves on cobblestones and the rhythmic tread of the guards flanking their carriage. The streets of Ravenna bustled with life as merchants called out their wares and citizens craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the emperor and his father. Yet within the gilded confines of the carriage, the air was thick with unspoken words.
Romulus sat across from Orestes, his small frame dwarfed by the ornate cushions. The crown still rested on his brow, but its weight felt oppressive now, its cold metal pressing against his temples. Orestes, clad in his crimson cloak and military regalia, stared out of the window, his profile sharp and unyielding.
“Father,” Romulus ventured cautiously, breaking the silence, “why did the Church try to assign a priest to me?”
Orestes turned his gaze to the boy, his expression unreadable. “Because they see an opportunity,” he said simply, his voice low. “Felix and his ilk are no different from senators or generals. They move their pieces on the board, always seeking to advance their position.”
Romulus frowned, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. “But why now? Why me?”
Orestes sighed, the sound heavy with weariness. He leaned back, his hand running through his graying hair. “Because you are young. They see you as malleable, a figure they can mold into an ally—or a puppet. Today was just the start. They will push harder in the days to come.”
Romulus looked down, his fingers knotting together. “And what should I do?”
“Stand firm,” Orestes said, his tone sharpening. “Show them that you are not to be trifled with. Use their faith against them if you must. They crave the image of unity—give them that, but no more.”
For a moment, the weight of Orestes’s words hung in the air. Then, something shifted in his demeanor. The commanding presence he always exuded seemed to falter, just slightly. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his piercing eyes softened by an uncharacteristic vulnerability.
“This empire,” he began quietly, almost to himself, “is like a crumbling wall. Every day, I patch a crack, only for two more to appear. The Church, the Senate, the foederati—they all pull at the seams, each demanding a piece while I try to hold the whole damn thing together.”
Romulus’s chest tightened at the sight of his father—this man who was always a tower of strength—suddenly seeming fragile, human. “Father,” he said softly, “why do you do it? Why not—”
“Why not let it fall?” Orestes interrupted, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “Because it is Rome. Because it is all we have. And because if I don’t, no one else will.” He looked away, his gaze distant. “I’ve fought too long, sacrificed too much, to let it slip through my fingers now.”
The boy emperor remained silent, the enormity of his father’s burden pressing down on him like a physical weight. He wanted to offer comfort, to promise that he would help, but the words caught in his throat. What could he, a child, say to a man who carried the empire on his shoulders?
The moment passed as swiftly as it had come. The mask of the Magister Militarum returned, and Orestes straightened, his eyes regaining their familiar sharpness. Just as he did, the carriage slowed, and one of Orestes’s close advisers, Crassus Longinus, approached on horseback. The man’s weathered face bore the marks of a seasoned diplomat, his gray hair tied back in a neat queue.
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“Magister Militarum,” Crassus said, his tone urgent, “a delegation from the Senate awaits your audience at the palace. They are eager to discuss the land grants.”
Orestes’s expression hardened. “They can wait,” he said curtly, though the weariness in his voice was gone, replaced by iron resolve. “See to it that they are given refreshment and kept occupied until I arrive.”
Crassus inclined his head. “As you wish.”
As the adviser rode ahead, Orestes turned back to Romulus, his voice low but firm. “Remember this, boy. The empire is a beast with many masters, and none of them will show you mercy if you falter. You must learn to navigate their games and make them believe you are stronger than you are.”
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The following days were a relentless tide of faces, words, and expectations, each more demanding than the last. The imperial palace became a hub of activity, filled with the comings and goings of senators, clergy, and the empire’s wealthiest landowners and merchants. Each sought the same thing: a foothold in the heart and mind of the young emperor.
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It began with the senators. One by one, they arranged for private audiences under the guise of offering advice, each more polished and serpentine than the last. Romulus received them in a formal chamber adorned with tapestries of past triumphs, a room chosen by his father to impress but also to intimidate.
Senator Marcellus, a man of advanced years but sharp wit, was among the first to visit. Draped in a pristine white toga edged with the crimson band of senatorial rank, he bowed low, his thin lips curving into a practiced smile.
“Imperator,” he began, his voice rich and warm. “It is a rare honor to address one so young yet so vital to our empire’s future.”
Romulus inclined his head, keeping his expression neutral. He had learned to mimic Andronikos’s mask of detached courtesy, a skill that was proving invaluable. “The honor is mine, Senator Marcellus. Please, speak freely.”
Marcellus wasted no time. “I wished to discuss certain matters of state—particularly the allocation of funds to the provinces. Our borders are strained, as you know, and the Senate humbly suggests that resources be diverted to strengthen them.”
Romulus frowned slightly. “Diverted from where?”
Marcellus hesitated, just briefly, before offering a carefully measured response. “From projects of lesser urgency, my emperor. Perhaps the expansion of Church lands or non-military ventures.”
Romulus’s eyes narrowed slightly. He could see the maneuver for what it was: an attempt to undermine his father’s concessions to the Church and redirect power back to the Senate. “I will consider your counsel,” he said finally, his tone polite but firm. “Thank you, Senator.”
The next senator, Gaius Lepidus, tried a different tactic. He praised Romulus’s poise and wisdom excessively, the words dripping with flattery. “Already, your presence commands respect, Dominus,” Lepidus said, his hands clasped before him. “The people see in you the embodiment of Rome’s eternal strength.”
Romulus endured the overture with gritted teeth. He longed for the plain-spoken honesty of Gaius Severus. By the time Lepidus broached the subject of increased senatorial autonomy, Romulus was too drained to push back effectively. Instead, he gave a vague, noncommittal answer that sent the senator away with a glimmer of hope.
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If the senators were calculated, the clergy were persistent. Bishop Felix, unbowed by Orestes’s earlier intervention, sent a series of emissaries to the boy emperor, each bearing gifts and requests for audiences. Relics of saints, ornate manuscripts, and gilded icons began to clutter the antechambers of the palace, their presence a constant reminder of the Church’s reach.
One afternoon, Father Dominicus, an elderly priest with kind eyes but a probing nature, was admitted to Romulus’s study. He carried with him a beautifully bound codex, its pages filled with illuminated psalms.
“A gift, Imperator,” Dominicus said, placing the codex reverently on the desk. “To remind you of the Church’s devotion to your guidance.”
Romulus studied the book, its craftsmanship undeniable. “I thank you, Father,” he said, though his voice lacked enthusiasm. “It is a fine gift.”
Dominicus smiled gently, taking a seat unbidden. “The Church’s love for you is boundless, my child. And with love comes a desire to protect. Bishop Felix wishes only to shield you from the burdens of this world.”
Romulus’s fingers tightened around the edge of the codex. “I am grateful for the Church’s concern, but I believe my father has arranged for all the guidance I need.”
The priest’s smile never wavered, but his eyes sharpened. “Of course, Dominus. But even the wisest ruler must lean on the eternal wisdom of God. Should you ever need counsel beyond the worldly, know that we are here.”
The conversation ended amicably enough, but Romulus felt as if he had weathered a storm. The codex remained on his desk, a silent witness to the encounter.
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The wealthy elite of Ravenna brought a different kind of pressure. Fathers paraded their sons before him, their daughters demurely following, each introduction cloaked in the guise of paying homage. Lucius Varius, a portly merchant with a booming laugh, was particularly bold.
“This is my son, Marcus,” Lucius declared during an audience in the palace gardens. Marcus, a boy of thirteen with sandy hair and a freckled face, stepped forward awkwardly. “He’s strong, quick-witted, and eager to serve. Perhaps as a companion to our young emperor?”
Romulus forced a smile, though his stomach churned. “It is kind of you to offer, Lucius Varius. But I am well cared for.”
Lucius’s laughter faltered. “Of course, of course. But Marcus could learn so much from your example, Dominus.”
“I am certain he will,” Romulus said, his tone clipped. “In time.”
The girls were no easier to dismiss. Claudia, the daughter of a wealthy patrician, was brought to him during a banquet. She curtsied prettily, her dark eyes full of calculated charm. Her father, Senator Pollio, hovered nearby, his expression one of poorly disguised ambition.
“It would be an honor to see the emperor and my daughter grow close,” Pollio remarked, his voice low but insistent.
Romulus offered Claudia a polite nod, then turned to Pollio. “Your daughter is a credit to her family,” he said, the words feeling foreign on his tongue. “But I must focus on my duties to Rome.”
The rejection was subtle but firm. Claudia’s smile faltered, and her father’s face darkened with frustration.
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By the end of the third day, Romulus was utterly drained. Each encounter chipped away at his resolve, the constant need to navigate veiled demands and hidden agendas leaving him exhausted. He retreated to his chambers earlier than usual, collapsing into a chair by the window.
The city stretched out before him, its rooftops glowing in the amber light of sunset. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to breathe, to let the weight of the crown slip away. Yet even in solitude, the voices of those who sought to mold him lingered, their words echoing in his mind.
A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. “Enter,” he called, his voice weary.
The door creaked open, and Gaius Severus stepped inside, his armor dulled from the day’s drills. The centurion’s scarred face was as stoic as ever, but his sharp eyes took in the boy’s slumped posture.
“Long day, Dominus?” Gaius asked, his voice gruff but tinged with understanding.
Romulus nodded, too tired to speak.
Gaius pulled up a chair, sitting opposite the boy emperor. “Let me guess. The senators, the priests, and the merchants—all with smiles on their faces and daggers in their hands.”
Romulus managed a faint smile. “Something like that.”
Gaius leaned back, crossing his arms. “They’ll never stop, you know. Each one thinks they’re cleverer than the last. But you handled them, didn’t you?”
“I tried,” Romulus admitted. “But it’s exhausting. I feel like I’m drowning in their words.”
The centurion’s lips curled into a faint smirk. “You’re learning, Dominus. And that’s what matters. They may have their schemes, but you have something they don’t.”
“What’s that?” Romulus asked, his voice skeptical.
Gaius’s expression softened slightly. “Time. You’re young, and they’ll underestimate you because of it. Let them. Use it. Learn from them, even as they try to use you.”
Romulus nodded slowly and leaned back in his chair, the velvet cushion offering little comfort. He stared at the wooden beams of the ceiling, their intricate carvings lost on him. “I can’t take much more of this, Gaius,” he said, his voice trembling with frustration. “It’s endless. They come with their smiles, their gifts, their promises… all of it a charade. I’m just a boy to them. A tool. A puppet.”
Gaius sat quietly, his scarred face unreadable. The faint clink of his armor filled the silence as he shifted in his chair. His gaze remained fixed on Romulus, unflinching as the boy vented his emotions.
“I can’t even breathe without someone watching,” Romulus continued, his small fists clenching the arms of the chair. “They talk and talk, but none of it feels real. None of them care about Rome—they just want what they can take. I can’t…” He hesitated, his voice faltering. “I can’t even imagine doing this for the rest of my life.”
For a moment, Gaius said nothing. His silence was not cold, but deliberate, allowing the boy’s words to settle in the air. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. When he finally spoke, his tone was low and measured, like the rumble of distant thunder.
“You’re not wrong,” Gaius said, his words carrying the weight of hard truths. “It’s a game to them. A dangerous one, and you’re the piece they all want to move. They’ll flatter you, push you, try to mold you into something that serves their plans. And it’s not fair, Dominus. It’s not.”
Romulus blinked, caught off guard by the centurion’s candor. He had expected another lesson in perseverance or strategy, not this raw acknowledgment of his frustration.
Gaius exhaled deeply, his eyes drifting toward the window. “Sometimes, it feels like the whole world is one big charade,” he said, his voice softer now. “Even for men like me.”
Romulus tilted his head, curiosity piercing through his weariness. “Even for you?”
Gaius smirked faintly but didn’t elaborate. Instead, he let a rare flicker of warmth touch his otherwise gruff demeanor. “You’re allowed to be tired, Dominus. No one can carry this weight without faltering. Not even an emperor.”
Romulus let out a long breath, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “I just want a moment—a real moment. Not another senator, not another priest, not another speech. Just… something normal.”
Gaius nodded, his expression thoughtful. After a moment, he leaned back in his chair, his armor creaking softly. “You know,” he began, his voice almost hesitant, “my sons are here in the palace today.”
Romulus blinked, his weariness replaced by a spark of curiosity. “Your sons?”
“Aye,” Gaius said, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Lucan and Marcus. They’re not much older than you. Came with their mother to visit me for the day.”
The boy emperor straightened slightly, his interest piqued. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
Gaius chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Didn’t seem important at the time. And besides, I figured you had enough nobles’ sons trying to impress you.”
Romulus’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “They’re not nobles’ sons, though. They’re yours.”
“That they are,” Gaius said, his voice carrying a note of pride. “Good boys. Stubborn like their father, but good.”
Romulus hesitated, then asked, “Do you think… could I meet them?”
Gaius studied the boy for a moment, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing the request. Then he nodded. “I don’t see why not. A bit of company your own age might do you good. If nothing else, they’ll remind you not everyone in the world wants something from you.”
Romulus’s face brightened, the fatigue lifting momentarily. “Where are they now?”
“In the training yard, most likely,” Gaius replied, rising from his chair. “I’ll take you to them.”
Romulus felt a flicker of excitement—not the forced anticipation of a ceremony or a speech, but genuine curiosity. He followed Gaius toward the door, his steps lighter than they had been in days.
The sun cast long shadows across the palace’s private training yard, where two boys were sparring with wooden swords. Their movements were quick but unrefined, the clatter of wood striking wood echoing through the courtyard. A woman in simple yet well-tailored attire watched from a shaded bench, her posture poised but relaxed. She looked up as Gaius and Romulus approached, her expression softening into a warm smile.
“Father!” one of the boys called, pausing mid-swing to wave. His sparring partner took the opportunity to land a light jab on his shoulder.
“Lucan, pay attention!” the second boy teased, grinning as he stepped back and pointed his wooden sword at him.
“That’s enough,” Gaius said, his voice carrying easily across the yard. Both boys immediately dropped their weapons and straightened, their faces alight with excitement.
The woman rose and inclined her head respectfully toward Romulus. “Dominus,” she said, her tone deferential yet kind. “It is an honor.”
Romulus felt a flicker of awkwardness but managed a polite nod. “Thank you.”
Gaius stepped forward and rested a hand on each of his sons’ shoulders. “Lucan, Marcus,” he said, his tone softer than usual. “This is the emperor, Romulus Augustus.”
Both boys’ eyes widened slightly, and they exchanged a quick glance before bowing deeply. “Dominus,” they said in unison, their voices tinged with awe.
Romulus shifted uncomfortably, unused to being addressed with such reverence by children his own age. “You don’t need to bow,” he said, his tone lighter than it usually was. “I think we’re all tired of bowing today.”
The boys hesitated, then straightened, their postures still stiff with nervousness.
“This is Lucan,” Gaius said, gesturing to the taller of the two, a boy with sandy hair and an easy smile. “And Marcus,” he added, indicating the younger, stockier one, whose dark eyes studied Romulus with open curiosity.
“It’s nice to meet you both,” Romulus said, trying to keep his tone friendly.
Lucan, ever the bolder of the two, took a step forward. “Do you fight, Dominus? With swords, I mean?”
Romulus blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. “I… I’ve started training,” he admitted. “But I’m not very good.”
Marcus grinned. “Neither is Lucan,” he said, earning a playful shove from his brother.
“Better than you,” Lucan shot back, but his tone was good-natured.
Gaius raised an eyebrow. “Enough,” he said, though his voice held no real edge. “You’ll scare the emperor off before he’s even had a chance to know you.”
Romulus found himself smiling despite the awkwardness. “I’m not scared,” he said, surprising even himself with the firmness of his tone. “But I’m not sure I’d win in a sparring match, either.”
The boys exchanged another glance, and Lucan grinned. “We could show you some moves,” he offered. “Nothing too hard.”
Marcus nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, just the basics. It’s not like Father doesn’t make us practice enough.”
Gaius’s stern expression softened into something that might have been amusement. “You’ll thank me for it one day.”
The woman on the bench, Gaius’s wife, approached then, placing a gentle hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “Give the emperor some room to breathe, boys,” she said, her voice warm. She looked to Romulus. “They can be a bit… eager. I hope they’re not overwhelming you, Dominus.”
Romulus shook his head quickly. “No, they’re not. I think…” He hesitated, then smiled faintly. “I think I’d like to try sparring with them. If that’s all right.”
The boys lit up, their excitement barely contained. “Really?” Marcus asked, his tone almost disbelieving.
Gaius crossed his arms, his scarred face unreadable. “As long as you don’t hurt him,” he said gruffly. “Or yourselves.”
“We won’t!” Lucan promised, already reaching for a spare wooden sword.
Romulus accepted the offered weapon, its weight unfamiliar but not unwelcome in his hand. The boys guided him through a few basic stances and movements, their instructions punctuated by laughter and the occasional good-natured jab at each other. At first, Romulus felt self-conscious, acutely aware of their familiarity and his own stiffness. But as the minutes passed, the awkwardness faded.
The sound of their laughter filled the yard, mingling with the clatter of wooden swords and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. For the first time in what felt like forever, Romulus forgot about the crown on his head, the expectations that weighed him down, and the endless games of power and influence that defined his days.
Here, in the training yard, he wasn’t an emperor. He was just a boy.