Lepidus lounged in the atrium of his villa, a goblet of watered wine in hand. The midday sun filtered through the mosaic-tiled roof, casting a dappled glow over the marble floor. His steward stood at attention nearby, holding a stack of correspondence, but Lepidus waved him off for the moment. He was still savoring the news from the council meeting that had reached his ears earlier that day.
The thought of it made him chuckle. "Worms," he muttered, his lips curling in disdain. "Caius and Marcellus groveling before that boy-emperor, as though their little deal could salvage their pathetic stations. Crafting farm tools and organizing brigades? It’s a marketplace squabble, not the governance of Rome." He sipped his wine, savoring the irony of craftsmen haggling with the supposed ruler of the West. "And Romulus, bargaining with them as though he were a merchant in the forum. If only Caesar Augustus could see what his name has been reduced to."
The steward shifted uncomfortably, drawing Lepidus’s gaze. “What is it, Decimus? Spit it out.”
“A letter, Dominus. From Crassus. It arrived moments ago.”
Lepidus’s brows furrowed. “Crassus?” He reached for the scroll, his mood souring as he broke the seal and began to read. The faint smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a grim scowl.
Odoacer demands more money. The words leapt out at him, sharp as a dagger. Lepidus pressed the scroll flat against the table, his eyes darting across the carefully penned lines. Crassus’s tone was as measured as always, but the message beneath was clear: Orestes’s cunning maneuvering had succeeded. The foederati chiefs were divided, and Odoacer’s position was weaker than ever. To restore unity and solidify his standing among the tribes, he needed more funds—and fast.
Lepidus leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. A headache throbbed at his temples. "That old fox Orestes," he muttered. "Always one step ahead. He’s turned the foederati against one another, and now Odoacer comes begging. Brilliant. Infuriating, but brilliant."
He tapped the table with a finger, the rhythm reflecting his irritation. The last few months had been grueling. Lepidus had moved heaven and earth to gather the funds for their cause. The new taxes imposed by Romulus had alienated many senators and landowners, and the relentless audits had driven even the most indifferent of the elite into opposition. Lepidus had exploited every ounce of discontent, visiting estates, sending letters, and cajoling anyone who would listen. The message was simple: Rome deserved better than a boy-emperor clinging to the coattails of his father.
The result had been both exhausting and gratifying. By appealing to their shared disdain for Romulus’s policies, Lepidus had managed to rally a surprising coalition. Senators with vast estates, local landowners who resented the emperor’s interference, even some bishops wary of the young Caesar’s growing reliance on the Church’s wealth—all had been convinced to contribute.
Fifty thousand solidi now sat in their coffers, a staggering sum, but not without cost. Every donor expected their generosity to be rewarded once Romulus was dethroned. Lepidus had kept meticulous records of every contribution, documenting each promise and expectation. The ledger sat locked in a chest in his study, its entries a web of obligation and opportunity.
He stood, pacing the atrium, his mind racing. His own reward was clear in his mind’s eye: the governorship of southern Italy, a prize he had worked tirelessly to secure. A whole province tailored to his ambitions, his influence extending from the estates of Campania to the bustling ports of Calabria. It was a tantalizing vision, one that kept him focused even as the pressure mounted.
But Odoacer’s demand for more funds was an unwelcome complication. The fifty thousand solidi had been difficult enough to gather, and he doubted their supporters could be pressed for much more without raising suspicions. The senators and bishops had been generous, but their patience had limits. Every promise he had made was a gamble on their eventual victory, and failure would mean not just political ruin but personal destruction.
He glanced back at the letter, rereading Crassus’s postscript. It was a veiled warning: If Odoacer’s demands were not met, his loyalty might waver. The barbarian chieftain was no fool; he understood his value to their cause, and he would not hesitate to exploit it.
Lepidus clenched his jaw. "More money," he muttered. "Always more." He would have to redouble his efforts, reaching out to allies he had not yet tapped and convincing those already pledged to give just a little more. The prospect of further entangling himself in promises and debts made his headache worsen, but there was no alternative.
"Decimus," he barked, and the steward straightened immediately. "Send word to the scribes. I will need a dozen letters prepared by nightfall. And have my horse saddled. There are visits to be made."
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Romulus Augustus sat at his desk, the dim light of late afternoon streaming through the tall windows of his office. The air was thick with the faint scent of parchment and ink, the desk before him cluttered with scrolls, letters, and tablets. One letter lay apart from the others, its seal broken but the words still resonating in his mind.
It was from Gaius Severus, his trusted dux in the East.
A fresh letter sat beside him, its wax seal still warm. He had penned it himself, his words carefully chosen. With a decisive gesture, Romulus called for a servant.
The door opened quietly, and a young attendant entered, bowing deeply. Romulus handed him the letter. "Take this," he said, his voice calm but firm. "It is to be sent east with the utmost urgency. Ensure it reaches Dux Severus without delay."
The servant nodded, clutching the letter as though it were a sacred relic, and departed as swiftly as he had come. Romulus leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the maps adorning the walls. His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar knock at the door.
The door creaked open to reveal two young figures: Lucan and Marcus, Gaius Severus's sons. They stepped inside, their faces bright with a mix of boyish excitement and deference. The guards had grown accustomed to their presence, allowing them free rein within the palace.
"Lucan, Marcus," Romulus greeted them with a warm smile, his tone softening. "Come in. What brings you here?"
The brothers exchanged a quick glance before Lucan, the elder and more reserved of the two, spoke. "Caesar, we heard something intriguing today in the marketplace."
Romulus’s curiosity was piqued. He gestured for them to sit on the low bench near his desk. "Go on," he said.
Marcus, unable to contain his excitement, leaned forward. "There's a rumor, Caesar. A merchant from Persia has arrived in Ravenna. They say he’s brought goods no one here has ever seen before. Exotic silks, spices, and even rare jewels."
Romulus’s eyes brightened with interest. Persia. The name alone evoked images of grandeur, of the fabled wealth of the East. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "A Persian merchant? Here in Ravenna?"
Lucan nodded, his tone more measured. "The rumors seem credible. Many in the marketplace are speaking of it."
Romulus tapped his fingers against the desk thoughtfully. His responsibilities as emperor often weighed heavily on him, but the prospect of a Persian merchant and the treasures he might carry stirred a flicker of youthful curiosity. "If these rumors are true," he said, a smile playing on his lips, "then it would be worth investigating."
Marcus grinned. "Shall we find him, Caesar?"
Romulus rose from his chair, his mantle flowing behind him. "Why not?" he said, his tone lighter than usual. "A walk among the people will do us good. Besides, I am curious to see what this merchant has brought."
Escorted by four of the imperial guards, Romulus Augustus and the two brothers made their way through the bustling streets of Ravenna. The late afternoon sun bathed the city in a golden hue, casting long shadows over its narrow, cobbled streets. The air was alive with the sounds of traders hawking their wares, children playing, and the occasional neigh of a horse.
The guards maintained a vigilant perimeter around the emperor and his companions, their eyes scanning the surroundings for any signs of danger. Despite the protective escort, the presence of the boy-emperor in the streets drew murmurs and curious glances from the passersby. Romulus, however, seemed unconcerned, his attention focused on the sights and sounds of the city.
"Where do you think we’ll find him?" Marcus asked eagerly, his gaze darting between the stalls filled with pottery, fruits, and tools.
Lucan pointed toward one of Ravenna’s larger squares, a wide-open area where merchants often congregated to attract the wealthiest buyers. "If he’s truly a merchant of Persia, he would aim to make an impression—likely somewhere central, where the crowds are thickest."
Romulus nodded, finding Lucan's reasoning sound. "Lead the way, then," he said, motioning for the guards to follow as they made their way toward the forum.
When they arrived, the scene was a vibrant mix of activity and noise. Traders shouted over one another to advertise their goods—fabrics from the East, amphorae of olive oil, sacks of grain, and rows of tools and trinkets. Among the throng of buyers and sellers, a small crowd had gathered near the edge of the square. The brothers exchanged a glance; this had to be it.
Pushing gently through the crowd, Romulus and his entourage soon spotted the source of the commotion: a man clad in rich, colorful robes, unmistakably foreign in design, stood behind a well-organized display of exotic wares. His dark beard was neatly trimmed, and his eyes, lined with kohl, gleamed with a shrewd intelligence. Rolls of shimmering silk, small ornate boxes of spices, and what appeared to be rare gemstones were spread out before him, drawing gasps and murmurs from the onlookers.
The Persian merchant was mid-sentence, gesturing animatedly to a prospective buyer, when he noticed the imperial guards parting the crowd. His sharp eyes immediately recognized Romulus Augustus, his imperial mantle unmistakable. Without hesitation, the merchant abandoned his previous customer, pushing past him with an apologetic nod, and strode forward, bowing low before the emperor.
"Caesar!" the man exclaimed, his voice rich and melodic. "The heavens honor me this day by gracing my humble stall with your presence."
The guards stiffened, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords as they eyed the merchant warily. The crowd hushed, the attention of everyone in the forum now fixed on the imperial party.
Romulus regarded the merchant with a measured gaze. "You are the merchant from Persia," he said, his voice calm yet commanding.
The man straightened, his movements precise and respectful. "Indeed, Caesar. My name is Bahram. I have traveled far from the lands of the Sassanid Empire, bearing the finest goods from my homeland to trade and honor Rome’s great markets."
Romulus's curiosity deepened as he took a step closer, his eyes scanning the wares with interest. "And what treasures have you brought to Ravenna, Bahram, that would draw such attention?"
Bahram's dark eyes gleamed as he gestured grandly to his display, his voice carrying a practiced charm that captivated the surrounding crowd.
"Caesar, let me first present the treasures of silk, woven in the famed looms of Samarkand," he said, unfurling a roll of shimmering fabric. The silk caught the late sunlight, its vibrant hues of crimson and gold almost glowing. "Soft as the breeze, yet resilient to time. This is the cloth of kings, adorned by the noble houses of Persia. Imagine its elegance on a Roman toga!"
Romulus stepped closer, his fingers brushing the edge of the silk. Lucan and Marcus exchanged fascinated glances, the younger boy whispering, "It looks like it belongs in a palace."
Bahram smiled at the comment, nodding approvingly. "Indeed, young master. But there is more!" He gestured to a set of small, intricately carved wooden boxes. He opened one to reveal a mound of vibrant orange powder. "Saffron," he announced, his tone reverent. "Harvested from the fields near Nishapur. Just a pinch of this transforms any dish into a feast worthy of the gods. Its scent, its color, unmatched in all the world."
Marcus leaned forward, catching the faint aroma wafting from the box. "It smells incredible," he murmured.
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"Ah, but scents do not end there," Bahram continued, producing a small vial filled with amber liquid. "Frankincense and myrrh, from the distant lands of Arabia and India, blended with the mastery of Persian artisans. A fragrance to calm the mind and invigorate the soul."
The merchant's hands moved deftly as he picked up a small set of shining objects, holding them up for the emperor to see. "Here, Caesar, pearls from the Gulf of Hormuz, so pure they rival the moon in their brilliance. And here—lapis lazuli from the mountains of Badakhshan, as blue as the skies of dawn."
Romulus regarded the pearls and lapis with quiet admiration, noting their craftsmanship and rarity. "You bring much to tempt the eyes, Bahram," he said, a faint smile on his lips. "But surely, as a man who has traveled far, you carry something of true novelty."
Bahram grinned, his demeanor growing more animated. "Indeed, Caesar. I have saved the most remarkable for last." He reached beneath the table, producing a polished wooden case. Opening it with care, he revealed a series of small metal cylinders, intricately engraved with symbols and patterns unfamiliar to the Roman eye.
"This," Bahram announced, "is a water clock, fashioned by the finest craftsmen of Persia. Its workings are precise, and it measures the passage of time not by shadow but by the steady flow of water through its chambers. A marvel of engineering, and one that speaks of Persia’s mastery over the elements."
The gathered crowd murmured in amazement, the guards even leaning slightly closer to catch a glimpse. Romulus bent forward, studying the device intently. The intricate craftsmanship and innovative design clearly intrigued him.
"A useful tool," he said thoughtfully, his gaze meeting Bahram’s. "You’ve brought many wonders, Bahram. I commend your ingenuity."
Bahram’s voice softened, his tone becoming earnest. "All these treasures are for trade, Caesar, but my journey here was not solely for commerce. Persia and Rome, great empires of the world, are bound by history and destiny. In offering these gifts to your market, I also offer a gesture of friendship from the artisans of my land."
Romulus straightened, considering the water clock once more. The craftsmanship was extraordinary, and the utility of such a device was undeniable. He gestured to Bahram, his voice measured but firm.
"What is your price for this water clock?"
Bahram hesitated for a fraction of a second, the brief pause of a seasoned merchant calculating both value and opportunity. His tone was respectful but confident when he replied, "Caesar, such an item is priceless in its rarity and craftsmanship. Yet, to honor Rome, I will part with it for no less than one hundred solidi."
There was a murmur from the crowd at the high price, but Romulus showed no reaction. He studied Bahram’s expression, then nodded slightly. "It is a fair price for such a marvel. Deliver this water clock to the palace, and you shall receive your payment in full upon its arrival."
Bahram's face lit up with genuine satisfaction, and he bowed deeply. "Your generosity honors me and my homeland, Caesar. I shall see to it personally that the water clock is delivered to the palace with care."
Romulus acknowledged him with a slight incline of his head. "See that you do."
The Persian merchant pressed his hands together and spoke with gratitude. "May the gods of Rome and Persia bless this successful trade, Caesar. You have my deepest thanks."
With the deal concluded, Romulus turned his attention to the square. The guards resumed their vigilant watch as Lucan and Marcus exchanged excited whispers about the water clock. Marcus was particularly animated, marveling at the ingenuity of the device.
"Imagine having one of those at home," Marcus said, his eyes wide. "We could time everything perfectly!"
Romulus smiled faintly at the boy’s enthusiasm. "Perhaps one day," he said, before motioning for the three of them to move on.
The group wandered further into the bustling square, weaving through stalls and clusters of merchants hawking their goods. While Romulus observed with interest, none of the wares matched the novelty or value of Bahram's treasures. Lucan and Marcus, however, were captivated by a few items.
At one stall, Marcus purchased a small figurine carved from ivory, depicting a hunting scene with remarkable detail. "It’s like the stories Father tells us," he said, showing it to Romulus.
Lucan acquired a sturdy leather-bound notebook, likely intended to record his observations and thoughts. "This will serve well for keeping track of what we learn," he said, a hint of pride in his voice.
The square continued to buzz with energy, merchants calling out to potential buyers and the scent of exotic spices mingling with the more familiar aroma of fresh bread and roasted nuts. Romulus let the boys explore a little further, allowing them the freedom to indulge their curiosity.
By the time the sun began to dip toward the horizon, the group had seen the best of what the market had to offer. The water clock remained the highlight of the outing, a symbol of both ingenuity and the connections between the empires of the world.
As the group turned toward the path leading back to the palace, Romulus paused for a moment, his eyes sweeping over the bustling square. The golden light of the setting sun bathed the scene in warmth, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. Merchants called out their final pitches for the day, families bartered for goods, and children laughed as they played near the fountain. The vibrancy of the square, full of life and purpose, stirred something deep within the young emperor.
For a fleeting moment, Romulus felt the weight of the days ahead press against his chest. He knew what loomed on the horizon. The confrontation with Odoacer would come soon enough, and with it, the fragility of the stability Rome had clung to for so long. He thought of the Gothic kings that would surely follow, the Lombards after them, and even the Eastern Roman invasions that history whispered might come. War upon war. These streets—so vivid and alive—would be filled not with laughter but with the cries of the wounded, the destruction of dreams, and the endless grind of conflict.
He inhaled deeply, the aroma of spices and roasted nuts mingling with the salt air from the nearby Adriatic. These people, he thought. These people are Rome. Not the senators scheming in their villas, not the generals plotting their next conquest, but the merchants, the artisans, the children laughing at the fountain. They are what gives Rome its soul, its enduring strength.
A pang of guilt struck him. He was the Caesar, sworn to defend these very people, yet the choices he made might lead them into suffering. He clenched his fists briefly, then exhaled. What if he did nothing? What if he bowed to Odoacer’s demands and surrendered Rome to the foederati? A fleeting peace might follow, but it would crumble. Rome would become a patchwork of warring tribes, each new wave of invaders carving deeper scars into its heart.
The crowd seemed to blur for a moment as Romulus’s mind surged with resolve. No. He would not abandon them. Not these people, not their laughter, not their hopes. He would stand firm, not out of pride or ambition, but because Rome deserved better. Its people deserved better. They deserved a chance at stability, at prosperity, at a future where their children could laugh in the streets without fear of the sword.
Romulus turned to Lucan and Marcus, who were inspecting a nearby stall of polished trinkets. Their youthful excitement brought a faint smile to his lips. It was for them, too, that he would fight—not just his own survival, but for their chance to grow up in a Rome worthy of its legacy.
“Let us return,” Romulus said, his voice steady and firm.
The guards took their places, and the small group began its journey back to the palace. As they walked through the streets of Ravenna, Romulus cast one last glance over his shoulder at the lively square. He carried its image with him, a determination burning in his chest. Whatever trials lay ahead, he would face them with the resolve of an emperor not just of titles, but of purpose. For Rome. For its people. For its future.
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The next morning, sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the imperial palace, casting a warm glow across the chamber where Romulus Augustus sat, already immersed in thought. Scrolls and maps lay before him, evidence of the tasks demanding his attention. The faint sounds of Ravenna stirring to life reached his ears as the doors creaked open, admitting Marcus Verus, the agricultural advisor, and Quintus Marcellus, the treasury advisor.
“Good morning, Caesar,” they said, bowing deeply as they entered.
Romulus gestured for them to take their seats. “There is work to be done,” he began. “We must prepare the best thirty thousand iugera of imperial land for settlement. This land will be distributed to two thousand foederati and four thousand veterans. It is essential that the allotments be mixed, ensuring the foederati are integrated among the veterans.”
Marcus Verus raised an eyebrow, clearly uneasy. “Caesar, granting such a significant portion of land to the foederati…” He trailed off, hesitant to finish his protest.
Romulus met his gaze steadily. “And to veterans. Four thousand of them. The settlements will be balanced, Marcus. This integration is not a concession; it is a necessity. Begin identifying lands that can sustain families and ensure equal quality across all allotments.”
Hearing of the veterans, Marcus nodded reluctantly, the tension easing from his features. “As you command, Caesar. Preparations will begin at once.”
Romulus turned to Quintus. “Fifteen thousand solidi will be allocated from the treasury for this project. Use these funds wisely. The first settlements must be ready within a few weeks.”
Quintus inclined his head, his composure unwavering. “Understood, Caesar. Even after this allocation, the treasury retains approximately thirty thousand solidi. I will oversee the records personally.”
Romulus gave a slight nod of approval. “Keep me informed. This plan is a foundation for the stability we need.”
As the advisors departed, their steps purposeful, Romulus allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. With this move they successfully undermined Odoacer’s hold on the tribes.
Later that morning, the chamber doors opened once again, this time to announce the arrival of Bahram, the Persian merchant. Flanked by attendants carrying a carefully crated water clock, Bahram entered with a deep bow, his demeanor as polished as his wares. “Caesar,” he said, his voice carrying a note of reverence, “I bring to you the marvel of Persia’s ingenuity.”
The attendants set the crate on a low table and revealed the water clock, its intricate engravings catching the sunlight. Bahram gestured with pride as Romulus approached to inspect it. “As promised, this is the finest craftsmanship of my homeland. A timekeeper that stands unmatched in precision and artistry.”
Romulus studied the device, its complexity a testament to the skill of its creators. “It is a marvel indeed,” he said thoughtfully. “Your artisans are to be commended.”
Bahram bowed again, his expression pleased. “I am honored by your words, Caesar. May this treasure serve you well.”
Romulus motioned for an attendant, who handed a coffer of gleaming coins to the merchant. “One hundred solidi, as agreed. Your craftsmanship is deserving of its price.”
Bahram accepted the coffer with both hands, his gratitude evident. “You honor me, Caesar. Persia and Rome grow stronger through exchanges such as these.”
Romulus inclined his head. “Return next year, Bahram. Perhaps then, Rome will have something to offer you.”
The merchant’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “I look forward to the journey, Caesar. May the gods favor you and your reign.”
As the Persian merchant departed, his attendants carefully crating the water clock once more, Romulus turned to one of his guards. “Have the water clock brought to the Alexandrian scholars. I will be visiting them shortly,” he instructed. The guard saluted and set about fulfilling the task as Romulus adjusted his mantle and made his way through the corridors of the palace toward the guest wing.
The Alexandrian scholars had been given a secluded suite near the quieter edges of the palace grounds, away from the bustle of Ravenna. Here, under Callimachus’s watchful eye, they worked tirelessly, the room alive with murmurs of debate and the scratch of quills against parchment. Scrolls and diagrams covered every surface, mingling with tools and early prototypes. The faint scent of ink, wax, and burning candles filled the air, a testament to their relentless focus.
When Romulus entered, the activity stilled, and Callimachus approached with a respectful bow. “Caesar,” he greeted, his tone calm yet tinged with purpose.
Romulus motioned to an attendant, who stepped forward, unveiling a polished water clock. The scholars, initially poised to listen to their emperor, leaned forward as one, their collective curiosity ignited. Callimachus’s eyes widened, and he stepped closer, his fascination overcoming decorum.
“A Persian clepsydra,” he murmured, circling the device with an air of reverence. “Its precision is extraordinary. Such craftsmanship…” He trailed off, his fingers brushing the engravings.
Romulus allowed a faint smile. “It measures time by the flow of water. A gift from Persian artisans. Perhaps it will inspire you.”
Callimachus nodded, his attention fixed on the mechanism. “It already has,” he said softly. “Such precision could help many of our designs.”
After a moment, Romulus cleared his throat, reclaiming the room’s focus. Callimachus straightened reluctantly, his hands retreating from the clepsydra. “How goes the progress on the designs I entrusted to you?” Romulus asked, his tone measured but expectant.
Callimachus gestured toward a nearby table where schematics and rudimentary prototypes lay side by side. “We have made progress, Caesar,” he began, his voice steady. “The ten thousand solidi you entrusted to us have been invaluable. We used the funds first to refine the designs you provided, testing their feasibility and making adjustments based on our experience. Once we were confident in the concepts, we began constructing rudimentary prototypes.
We sent word to Alexandria, using the funds to summon my colleagues—those who safeguarded the knowledge of the Grand Library’s remnants. They brought with them not only their expertise but also skilled craftsmen and manuscripts essential to this work.”
Romulus’s expression softened slightly. “Show me what you have accomplished.”
Callimachus led him to the table, where an early prototype of a crossbow lay alongside sketches of an improved bloomery and a small, hardened block of cement. “The crossbow mechanism, while rudimentary, demonstrates increased precision,” Callimachus explained, gesturing to the trigger assembly. “The bloomery design has been refined to optimize airflow, though it will require further testing. And the cement mixture—this is promising. Early tests show remarkable durability and resistance to water.”
Romulus studied the items in silence, his fingers brushing the smooth cement surface. Finally, he turned to Callimachus. “You have done well,” he said.
Romulus’s gaze lingered on the prototypes for a moment longer before he straightened, his tone deliberate. “I look forward to seeing these designs brought to life as fully functioning prototypes. Your efforts so far are commendable. By mid-summer, I expect these ideas to transform into tools Rome can use.”
Callimachus inclined his head, his determination evident. “We will continue refining the designs and testing the prototypes. The challenges have been great, Caesar, but so is the reward. We will not fail.”
Romulus allowed a faint smile, stepping back and glancing around the room. “Good. There are turbulent times ahead, but you must not let them distract you. Focus on your work. The stability of the empire rests on the progress we can achieve here.”
The scholars exchanged glances, their murmurs subdued but charged with purpose as they returned to their tasks. Callimachus bowed once more, his confidence firm. “We will remain steadfast, Caesar.”
Satisfied, Romulus turned and left the room, his boots echoing softly against the polished stone floors of the corridor. As he walked, his thoughts turned to the crossbow prototype he had just seen. He sighed inwardly, acknowledging the time it would take before such innovations could be produced at scale.
The challenges of the coming months loomed large in his mind. If the scholars succeeded, their work would lay the foundation for Rome’s resurgence but it won't be there at Rome’s darkest times.