The chamber was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a single oil lamp. Rain drummed against the slanted roof above, a ceaseless rhythm that had persisted for weeks. Odoacer paced near the window, his broad frame casting long shadows against the damp stone walls. He paused occasionally to glare at the rain-streaked glass, the weight of missed opportunities settling heavily on his shoulders.
Behind him, Gundobad sat with his arms crossed, his expression a mask of simmering frustration. Wulfgar, always restless, leaned against the far wall, absently sharpening a dagger that caught and reflected the faint lamplight.
“This cursed rain,” Gundobad muttered, breaking the silence. “It’s as if the heavens themselves conspire to keep us from what is ours.”
Odoacer turned sharply, his dark eyes narrowing. “You think I don’t know that? Weeks of this—weeks that cost us momentum, time, and the element of surprise. By now, we could have held Ravenna. Instead…” He gestured toward the window, where the rain continued to fall in relentless sheets. “Instead, we sit here, soaked and waiting.”
Wulfgar sheathed his dagger with a sharp click, his scarred face twisted in irritation. “You were right to wait,” he said grudgingly. “The roads are rivers, the fields are swamps. The men would have marched into mud pits, not a city. But now…” He shook his head, his voice growing bitter. “Now, we’ve lost the moment. Orestes has seen to that.”
Gundobad’s lip curled. “Orestes,” he spat. “A Roman clinging to a boy emperor like a shield. If not for this rain, we’d have swept them aside by now, shown the Senate who holds the true power in this land.”
Odoacer resumed his pacing, his boots striking the damp floor with deliberate precision. “Do not let your frustration cloud your thoughts,” he said, his voice calm but steely. “Ravenna was never meant to fall easily. The rains may have slowed us, but they have not stopped us. We will march again when the time is right.”
“When?” Gundobad demanded, rising from his chair with a heavy thud. “Next spring? By then, Orestes will have fortified every approach to the city. He’ll have rallied the legions, and the Senate will be too emboldened to even consider standing aside.”
Odoacer stopped pacing and fixed Gundobad with a cold stare. “Do you think I don’t know what we’ve lost?” he said, his tone dangerously low. “Every drop of rain is a reminder. But rushing now—marching half an army into soaked fields and flooded roads—would only hand Orestes the victory he craves. No. We regroup. We consolidate. And we ensure that when we move, there is no stopping us.”
Wulfgar pushed off the wall, his tone more measured than Gundobad’s but no less frustrated. “And how do we ensure that? The Senate won’t side with us willingly. They fear losing what little power they still hold. The Church will back Orestes, and the boy emperor gives them a perfect puppet. And the landowners…” He sneered. “They’ll protect their estates, not fight for our cause.”
Odoacer turned back to the window, his hands gripping the sill. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze fixed on the rain-soaked city beyond. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter but no less commanding. “We will not rely on the Senate’s favor or the Church’s blessings. What we need is neutrality. We need them to hesitate—to stay their hand when the time comes.”
Gundobad frowned. “Neutrality won’t win us Ravenna.”
“No,” Odoacer agreed, turning to face them again. “But it will keep them from uniting against us. If the Senate doubts Orestes’s strength, if the Church believes we can bring order to Rome where he cannot, they will stay quiet. And while they bicker and delay, we will gather our strength.”
Wulfgar folded his arms. “And if they don’t stay quiet?”
“Then we remind them what the Germans are capable of,” Odoacer said coldly, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken threats. “But only if we must.”
The room fell silent, the only sound the relentless drumming of rain on the roof above. Gundobad scowled, his frustration evident, but he said nothing. Wulfgar’s expression remained unreadable, though his fingers twitched near the hilt of his dagger.
Finally, Gundobad broke the silence. “The men grow restless,” he said. “Weeks of waiting, and they’re soaked to the bone. They’ll follow you, Odoacer, but not forever.”
“They’ll follow,” Odoacer said firmly. “They know what’s at stake. Italy is not just a prize—it’s a home. A place where our people can thrive, where we can build something stronger than any Roman dream. But they must be patient. Spring will come, and with it, our time.”
“And until then?” Wulfgar asked.
Odoacer’s lips curved into a thin smile. “Until then, we do what we Germans do best. We adapt. We prepare. And when the rains cease and the roads dry, we march on Ravenna with an army that no wall, no legion, no Senate can withstand.”
The two men exchanged a glance, their frustration tempered but not extinguished. Gundobad finally nodded, his broad shoulders relaxing slightly. “Very well. But when spring comes, Odoacer, there can be no hesitation.”
“There won’t be,” Odoacer said, his voice as steady as the rain. “This land will be ours. It is only a matter of time.”
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The room was grand but cold, its austere marble walls adorned with faded mosaics of Roman triumphs. Odoacer sat at the head of a long table, his presence a stark contrast to the senators gathered before him. Clad in simple but well-crafted leather and fur, his bearing exuded strength and confidence, a man shaped by battles rather than oratory. Across the table sat four senators, their togas pristine, their faces carefully composed to conceal their wariness.
“Gentlemen,” Odoacer began, his voice smooth but firm, “I’ve asked for this meeting to speak plainly, as men who understand the realities of power.”
The senators exchanged glances. Senator Marcellus, the eldest of the group, leaned forward slightly, his thin lips curling into a practiced smile. “We are always eager to hear the perspectives of Rome’s allies.”
“Allies,” Odoacer repeated, allowing the word to linger in the air. His dark eyes swept across the room, measuring their reactions. “An appropriate word. Rome has no shortage of enemies at her gates, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”
“Indeed,” Senator Pollio said, his tone carefully neutral. “The security of Italy is always our priority.”
“And yet,” Odoacer continued, leaning forward slightly, “Rome’s security depends not on words, but on action. Action I and my men are prepared to take if necessary.”
There was a subtle shift in the room—a tightening of shoulders, a quick dart of eyes toward one another. Marcellus, ever the diplomat, offered a thin smile. “Your commitment to Rome’s stability is admirable, Odoacer. However, I trust you agree that such actions must align with the Senate’s interests.”
“Of course,” Odoacer replied smoothly. “Which is why I suggest we work together to ensure stability. The Senate’s wisdom, coupled with my army’s strength, can bring an end to the chaos that has plagued this land.”
“And what exactly are you proposing?” asked Senator Lepidus, his voice sharper than Marcellus’s.
“A simple understanding,” Odoacer said, spreading his hands. “When the time comes, I ask for your neutrality. Do not support Orestes, who clings to power through a boy too young to rule. In return, I will see to it that the Senate’s influence is preserved—and even expanded—in a stable, unified Italy.”
The senators were silent for a moment, their expressions carefully guarded. Finally, Marcellus cleared his throat. “An intriguing proposition. But you must understand, the Senate cannot make such decisions lightly. We serve the people of Rome and must weigh every choice with their welfare in mind.”
“Of course,” Odoacer said, though his patience was thinning. “But consider this: Orestes grows weaker by the day. His alliances are fragile, his control over the legions tenuous. When he falls, and he will, those who stand with him risk falling too.”
Lepidus frowned. “And if we remain neutral, as you suggest, what guarantee do we have that your regime will respect our position?”
Odoacer’s smile tightened. “Because I am not a fool. I know the value of the Senate and the stability it represents. But if you choose to oppose me…” His voice trailed off, letting the implication hang heavily in the air.
Marcellus raised a placating hand. “There is no need for threats, Odoacer. The Senate will deliberate on your words and provide a response in due course.”
“Deliberation,” Odoacer repeated, his tone growing cooler. “A luxury that Rome often cannot afford. But very well. I will await your decision.”
The senators rose, bowing their heads slightly as they excused themselves. Their departure left the room colder, emptier, and weighed down by the unmistakable air of evasion.
When the door closed, Odoacer let out a frustrated breath. His hand clenched into a fist on the table. “Evasive cowards,” he muttered.
Gundobad, seated nearby, snorted. “What did you expect? They’re Romans. They’ll wait until the victor’s clear before pledging loyalty.”
“They play games while their empire crumbles,” Odoacer said, his voice low but simmering with anger. “They can’t see that this is their last chance to secure their place. Next year, when we march, I’ll have no need for their council.”
Wulfgar, standing by the window, spoke without turning. “You’re wasting your time on these men. If they cared about Rome’s future, they wouldn’t be debating it in gilded halls. They’d be out with their legions.”
“They are not our only obstacle,” Gundobad reminded him. “The Church wields more influence than these fools. Their backing will be harder to win.”
Odoacer nodded, rising from his chair. “Then we turn to Felix. If the Church wants stability, they’ll see that I’m the only one who can bring it.”
Gundobad’s expression darkened. “And if Felix is as slippery as the Senate?”
Odoacer’s eyes gleamed with cold resolve. “Then we remind him that even faith cannot stand against an army.”
The hall of the bishopric was a place of austere grandeur, its high ceilings adorned with frescoes of saints and martyrs, their serene faces staring down in judgment. The air was thick with the scent of frankincense, cloying yet strangely oppressive. Odoacer strode in, his heavy boots echoing against the polished stone floor. He carried himself with the authority of a king, though his simple leather-and-fur attire was a stark contrast to the bishop’s resplendent gold vestments.
At the far end of the room, Bishop Felix stood with his hands clasped before him, his expression unreadable. A group of lesser clerics hovered near the edges of the chamber, their whispers dying as Odoacer approached. Felix inclined his head slightly, the gesture polite but devoid of warmth.
“My lord,” Felix greeted him, his tone measured. “The Church always welcomes those who seek God’s wisdom. Please, sit.”
Odoacer bowed his head in what appeared to be respect, though a faint sneer lingered at the corner of his mouth. He lowered himself into the offered chair, the wood creaking under his solid frame. For a moment, he studied Felix, taking in the man’s serene composure. It was the serenity of someone who believed himself untouchable.
“You know why I am here,” Odoacer began, his voice steady but laced with authority. “Rome stands at a crossroads, and the Church, as always, stands at its center. Stability is within our grasp, but it requires action—decisive action.”
Felix’s thin lips pressed into a faint smile, but his eyes remained sharp. “Stability is indeed a virtue, one the Church holds dear. And yet, it is often those who claim to bring stability that leave behind only ashes. Tell me, my lord, what kind of stability do you offer?”
Odoacer leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table between them. “The kind that ends chaos. The foederati under my command are loyal, disciplined, and ready to ensure order in this land. With the Church’s neutrality, we can avoid bloodshed. The people will be spared, and the Church’s sacred role will remain untouched.”
Felix tilted his head, his gaze unflinching. “Neutrality is a complicated matter, my lord. The Church must always act in accordance with God’s will. And God’s will is not always aligned with the ambitions of men.”
Odoacer’s lips tightened. “Ambition is a necessity in times like these, Your Grace. Orestes cannot hold Rome together. His grip weakens daily. And the boy emperor he props up is a child—not a leader.”
“And yet,” Felix replied calmly, “that child is crowned by the will of God and supported by the Church. It is not for men like you or me to question divine providence.”
Odoacer’s patience thinned, but he masked it behind a placid expression. “I am not questioning providence. I am offering you a choice—a chance to protect the Church from the chaos that will follow if Orestes falls. Work with me, or at the very least, step aside. When Rome’s future is decided, the Church will find its place secure under my rule.”
Felix sighed softly, his demeanor unchanged. “My lord, the Church has long memories. It remembers those who sought to use its influence for their own ends. It remembers the Vandals and their so-called stability—the persecution of the faithful, the desecration of holy sites. You ask us to remain neutral, but neutrality would be a betrayal of our sacred duty.”
“I am not Gaiseric,” Odoacer said sharply. “Nor are my men like the Vandals. We fight for order, not destruction.”
“And yet,” Felix countered, his voice still calm, “you and your foederati follow the Arian Creed—a divergence from the true faith. Tell me, my lord, how can the Church entrust its future to those who reject the Nicene Creed and stand apart from the body of Christ?”
The room fell silent, the tension palpable. Odoacer’s jaw clenched as he leaned back in his chair. The bishop’s words stung more than he cared to admit, and the murmurs of the lesser clerics only added to his frustration.
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“I offer you peace, Felix,” Odoacer said, his voice low but simmering with controlled anger. “A chance to avoid bloodshed. Surely the Church values that above all else.”
Felix’s expression softened, though there was a trace of sadness in his eyes. “Peace, my lord, is indeed a gift from God. But it must be a peace rooted in righteousness. A peace bought with compromise is no peace at all.”
The murmurs of the clerics grew louder, their unease evident. Odoacer’s patience, already worn thin by the Senate’s evasions, snapped.
“I am not uncertain!” he barked, rising to his feet. His sudden movement sent a ripple of alarm through the room. “I have the strength to bring order to this land. I have the men, the will, and the means. But your precious Church would rather see Rome burn than step aside and let me save it.”
Felix stood as well, his composure unbroken. “The Church does not step aside, my lord. It endures. Empires rise and fall, kings come and go, but the Church remains. You may wield the sword, but remember this—the faith of the people is not yours to command. That faith is our strength, and it cannot be undone by armies or siege engines.”
For a moment, Odoacer stared at Felix, his fists clenched at his sides. The bishop’s words echoed in his mind, a maddening reminder of the Church’s unyielding influence.
“Pray for your emperor, Felix,” Odoacer said coldly. “Pray that he survives what is coming. But know this—when Rome’s future is decided, it will not be prayers that shape it. It will be power.”
Without waiting for a response, Odoacer turned and strode toward the exit. The clerics parted nervously as he passed, their whispers following him like shadows. The autumn rain greeted him as he stepped into the courtyard, cold and unrelenting. Gundobad emerged from the shadows, his expression grim.
“That didn’t go well,” Gundobad said.
Odoacer let out a bitter laugh, his frustration barely contained. “The Church is as blind as the Senate. They think they can afford to wait, that their faith will shield them from what’s coming.”
“And what now?” Gundobad asked.
Odoacer’s gaze turned toward the rain-soaked horizon. “They’ll hesitate. They always do.
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Odoacer entered the chamber, his boots damp from the endless autumn rains. The warmth of the hearth and the golden glow of the candelabra gave the room a sense of comfort, but his purpose here was far from casual. Orestes, clad in his crimson cloak, greeted him with a broad smile, gesturing toward a table set with wine and bread.
“Odoacer,” Orestes said, his voice hearty, “my trusted ally. Come, sit. The weather has been unkind, but the company need not be.”
Odoacer inclined his head, his movements deliberate as he crossed the room. He glanced briefly at the boy emperor, Romulus Augustus, seated beside his father. The boy’s wide, watchful eyes followed him, curiosity and something deeper flickering in their depths.
“You honor me, Magister,” Odoacer said smoothly, taking the offered seat. “The weather is indeed cruel, but such trials test our mettle, do they not?”
Orestes laughed lightly, pouring wine into a goblet and pushing it toward Odoacer. “Indeed, my friend. And you have proven yourself time and again. Rome owes you much.”
Odoacer accepted the goblet with a gracious nod, though his thoughts churned beneath his calm exterior.
“The rains,” Odoacer began, his tone conversational, “have made movement… difficult. I had hoped to remain closer, perhaps even in Ravenna, but my men—well, they prefer the open country. And with winter coming, it seems wise to return to them.”
Orestes’s brow furrowed slightly, though his expression remained friendly. “A shame to lose your presence here. Your counsel is invaluable. But I understand. The foederati are loyal, yet they are men like any other. They need their leader.”
Odoacer leaned back slightly, swirling the wine in his goblet. “They are loyal,” he agreed, his tone light but measured. “Yet loyalty must be nurtured. Promises fulfilled. The previous emperor,” he said, glancing toward Romulus, “fell, in part, because he did not honor those who stood with him.”
Romulus remained silent, his small hands folded in his lap. Odoacer’s gaze lingered on the boy for a moment before shifting back to Orestes.
“You need not remind me,” Orestes said, his voice steady. “The lands will be allocated. These things take time, my friend. You understand the delicate balance I must maintain.”
Odoacer inclined his head, his expression understanding, even deferential. “Of course, Magister. And I trust in your wisdom. Still, the men grow restless. A gesture, even a small one, could soothe their spirits. Funds, perhaps, to see them through the winter.”
Orestes nodded thoughtfully, taking a sip from his own goblet. “A reasonable request. I will see what can be spared. The treasury is strained, but for you, Odoacer, I will make it happen.”
Odoacer allowed a small smile, the picture of gratitude. “You are a man of your word, Magister. It is why the men trust you, as do I.”
Inside, however, Odoacer’s thoughts were less generous.
Orestes leaned forward, his tone growing serious. “And what of you, Odoacer? You have been here longer than expected. What do you make of the Senate? The Church? Do you see the same treachery in their eyes as I do?”
Odoacer feigned a thoughtful expression, stroking his chin. “The Senate… They move cautiously, like wolves circling prey. They will not strike unless they see weakness. As for the Church, their ambitions are subtler, cloaked in piety. They seek to expand their influence, as always. Both factions should be watched closely.”
Orestes sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. “It is as I feared. Rome is beset on all sides by ambition. And yet, I am grateful for your steady hand, Odoacer. Without allies like you, this empire would crumble.”
Odoacer placed his goblet on the table and leaned forward, his tone softening. “I stand with you, Magister. Always. But beware those who whisper in your ear, promising unity while sowing division. The Senate and the Church… They see the boy emperor and dream of their own thrones.”
Romulus flinched slightly at the words but kept silent. Orestes placed a reassuring hand on his son’s shoulder. “I know, Odoacer. That is why I value men like you—men of action, not words. Rome needs strength, not scheming.”
Odoacer allowed the faintest smile.
He rose, inclining his head respectfully. “Magister, Dominus, I will take my leave. The hour is late, and I must prepare for my journey. But know this: my loyalty to you remains unshaken.”
Orestes stood, clasping Odoacer’s arm firmly. “Go with my blessing, my friend. And know that your loyalty is returned in kind.”
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As Odoacer exited the chamber, the icy autumn rain greeted him, soaking his cloak as he strode purposefully toward the barracks where his retinue awaited. The façade of loyalty and deference faded with every step. His jaw tightened, and his thoughts churned like the storm clouds overhead.
Let Orestes believe in my unwavering loyalty. Let him revel in his illusions of control. Come spring, I will remind him of the folly of trust.
The funds Orestes had promised would come soon enough. The Magister Militarum’s words about the strained treasury had amused him—Rome’s gold was stretched thin, yes, but Orestes would squeeze it dry if only to keep him placated. The thought of using that gold to build siege engines capable of tearing down Ravenna’s walls filled Odoacer with grim satisfaction. To break the walls of Rome with its own coin… The irony would be almost poetic.
As for the promised land, Odoacer had no intention of waiting meekly for the Senate’s approval or the Church’s consent. His foederati were restless, their grumbles growing louder with each delay. Winter would be long and bitter, but it would not be idle. Back among his people, he would reorganize the army, strengthen its ranks, and prepare them for the march to Ravenna. By spring, their blades would gleam, their siege engines ready to roll, and their spirits hardened by promises of wealth and conquest.
Odoacer’s lips curled into a faint smirk as he envisioned the chaos to come. The Senate, the Church, Orestes—they all thought themselves masters of intrigue, weaving their webs of influence and control. But none of them saw the storm brewing beyond their fragile city walls. They plot and scheme in marble halls, while I prepare my warriors in the open air. Let them play their games. I’ll bring them all crashing down.
The boy emperor had been an interesting presence in the chamber, his wide eyes watching the exchange between Odoacer and his father with a quiet intensity. Romulus had said little, but Odoacer had noticed the way the boy’s gaze lingered, as if trying to unravel the true nature of the conversation. The boy was sharp, perhaps sharper than Orestes realized, but it mattered little. The child’s crown was a symbol, nothing more. When Ravenna fell, that symbol would be discarded, just as so many others had been.
As he reached the barracks, Odoacer’s thoughts turned to his men. The rains had bogged down their movements, thwarting his original plans to secure Ravenna by force this autumn. The delay had been maddening, but in hindsight, it was perhaps a blessing. It had forced him to reconsider his approach, to sharpen his strategy. Next year, the march would be decisive, and there would be no room for hesitation or missteps.
He entered the barracks, the dampness clinging to him as the warmth of the hearths inside greeted him. His captains rose to meet him, their faces a mix of deference and expectation. They were his true council, the men who understood the realities of power, not the empty rituals of Rome.
“We leave for the winter camp tomorrow,” Odoacer announced, his voice carrying the weight of command. “The rains have slowed us enough. It’s time to return to our people and prepare for what lies ahead.”
The captains nodded, their expressions resolute. One of them, a burly man named Gundahar, spoke. “And the gold, my lord? Did the Magister Militarum agree to your terms?”
Odoacer’s smirk returned. “He did. The fool thinks it will keep me loyal. Instead, it will buy the tools of his undoing.”
Gundahar chuckled darkly, and the others followed suit. Odoacer raised a hand, silencing them. “The work begins now. The men must be ready by spring. Every sword, every spear, every shield must be accounted for. The foederati will march with discipline and purpose. And when we reach Ravenna, we will show them the strength of those they have taken for granted.”
He turned toward the open door, the rain still falling heavily outside. His gaze drifted toward the distant city walls, hidden in the gloom. Let them bask in their false security. Let Orestes congratulate himself on another alliance secured. Spring will come, and with it, their reckoning.
Odoacer stepped out into the rain once more, his cloak billowing behind him. The cold drops on his face were a sharp contrast to the fire that burned within. Rome thinks it can buy peace with promises and gold. But I will take its gold, its lands, and its throne. And I will build my empire from the ashes of theirs.
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The door closed behind Odoacer with a heavy thud, the sound reverberating in the chamber. Romulus remained seated beside his father, his small frame stiff and still. Orestes leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly, the faintest smile touching his lips as he looked at his son.
“You see, Romulus?” Orestes said, his tone carrying an edge of triumph. “Odoacer is loyal. He speaks plainly, with none of the riddles and pretensions of the Senate or the Church. A man like that is worth keeping close.”
Romulus said nothing, his gaze fixed on the grain of the polished table. His fingers pressed lightly against the edge, his mind a flurry of thoughts he couldn’t voice. Ten months. That’s all we have before Odoacer marches on Ravenna. Each word Odoacer had spoken earlier lingered in his mind, a bitter reminder of the betrayal his father refused to see.
Orestes misinterpreted the silence, his smile widening. “It is men like Odoacer who will help us secure the future, Romulus. Loyal men, strong men, who understand what it takes to hold the empire together.”
The warmth of the chamber was a sharp contrast to the relentless autumn rain outside. The hearth crackled, casting long shadows across the mosaic-tiled floor, its light dancing over the polished surfaces of the room. Orestes sat at the head of the table, his crimson cloak draped over his shoulders, the gold clasps catching the firelight. Across from him, Romulus Augustus perched on a cushioned chair, his small frame dwarfed by the opulent surroundings. The boy’s face was calm, composed—too composed for a ten-year-old, Orestes thought.
He set his quill down, the faint scratch of its nib against parchment giving way to the quiet crackle of the fire. The treasury orders lay before him, half-written, a reminder of the impossible task of keeping the empire together. For a moment, he studied his son. There was something in Romulus’s eyes—thoughtfulness, calculation, perhaps even doubt. It stirred a strange mix of pride and unease in Orestes.
“You see, Romulus,” Orestes began, leaning back in his chair, his voice tinged with satisfaction, “Odoacer is loyal. He speaks plainly, without the games and riddles of the Senate or the Church. A man like that is worth keeping close.”
Romulus didn’t respond immediately. His small hands rested lightly on the table, his gaze fixed on the grain of the wood as if weighing every word before speaking. Finally, he looked up. “How much solidi will you give him?”
The question caught Orestes off guard, though he hid it well. He tilted his head slightly, curiosity flickering in his sharp eyes. “I was considering 1,500. Enough to cover his men’s needs through the winter—a gesture of good faith.”
Romulus frowned, his brow furrowing slightly. “Make it 1,200.”
Orestes raised an eyebrow, his surprise giving way to a faint smile. “1,200? You would offer less? Do you not think Odoacer might take that as a slight?”
“If he’s truly loyal, he won’t,” Romulus replied steadily. “And if he isn’t…” He let the sentence hang in the air, leaving its implications unspoken.
Orestes’s smile widened, tinged with approval. The boy was sharper than he had expected, even cunning in his reasoning. “You are testing him,” Orestes said, his tone more musing than accusatory.
Romulus nodded. “It’s important to know where we stand. Too much generosity might make the Senate question your priorities. And the Church…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “They would see it as favoritism.”
Orestes leaned back, crossing his arms as he regarded his son. There was a subtle shift in the boy—less hesitance, more confidence. “You think strategically,” Orestes said after a moment. “A skill that will serve you well.”
He adjusted the figure on the treasury order with a flick of his quill, but his thoughts lingered. Romulus was learning quickly—perhaps too quickly. Was this the boy’s own insight, or the influence of his tutors, Andronikos and Severus? The Greek would have taught him prudence, the centurion practicality. Together, they were shaping Romulus into something more than a figurehead.
Before Orestes could dwell further, Romulus broke the silence. “Father, I would like funds. For myself.”
The request surprised Orestes, though he kept his face neutral. He set the quill down again, leaning forward slightly. “For yourself? And what would you do with these funds, my son?”
Romulus met his father’s gaze, his expression calm but deliberate. “I want to strengthen Ravenna’s defenses. The city is our heart, and its walls should reflect that. The towers could be raised higher, the gates reinforced. If we lose Ravenna, we lose everything. Strengthening it is an investment in the empire’s future.”
The words were measured, the logic sound, yet there was something more behind them—a quiet determination that Orestes couldn’t quite place. He studied his son for a moment, seeing not just a boy but the faint outline of an emperor in the making.
“3,000 solidi,” Romulus continued, his voice steady. “It’s a substantial amount, but it will show the people that we care about their safety, that we are preparing for the future.”
Orestes raised an eyebrow, the boldness of the request striking him. “3,000?” he repeated. “That is nearly three times what I’ve allocated for Odoacer. Do you understand what you’re asking?”
“I do,” Romulus said simply. “It’s an investment. One that will bolster the people’s faith in us and ensure Ravenna’s survival. If Ravenna falls, nothing else will matter.”
For a moment, Orestes said nothing. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he weighed the request. The boy’s reasoning was sound, but the audacity of it struck him. When had Romulus begun to speak with such conviction? Such clarity?
“You are bold, my son,” Orestes said finally. “Boldness is a virtue in a ruler—but it can also lead to ruin.”
Romulus didn’t waver. “Ravenna must be more than a city. It must be a symbol of strength.”
Orestes exhaled slowly, the weight of the decision settling on him. The treasury was already strained—the Senate’s endless demands, the Church’s relentless push for influence, the constant need to placate the foederati. And yet, Romulus’s argument was compelling. The walls of Ravenna were strong, but time had worn their edges. And perhaps, he thought, the boy was right. If the people saw their emperor investing in their safety, it could inspire loyalty.
“You remind me of your uncle,” Orestes said suddenly, his tone softening. “Paulus always spoke of the importance of fortifying our foundations, of preparing for what might come.”
Romulus tilted his head slightly. “Does Uncle Paulus agree with you about Odoacer?”
The question gave Orestes pause, but he answered without hesitation. “Paulus sees no cause for concern. He watches the foederati in Mediolanum closely, and his reports suggest nothing amiss. Odoacer has been loyal for twenty years, Romulus. He is not a man to betray lightly.”
The words came easily, but Orestes knew they were as much for himself as for his son. He needed to believe in Odoacer’s loyalty. The empire was fragile—fractious senators, a scheming Church, restless foederati. Orestes needed someone he could trust, and Odoacer had been that man. They had served together in Attila’s court, endured the chaos of the Hunnic campaigns. That bond, forged in fire, was one of the few certainties Orestes still clung to.
Perhaps I am too trusting, he thought. But Paulus’s vigilance was reassurance enough.
“Very well,” Orestes said at last. “You will have your 3,000 solidi. But remember this, Romulus—this is your responsibility. If the funds are wasted or misused, it will reflect on you. An emperor’s reputation is as fragile as his power.”
Romulus inclined his head, his expression calm but resolute. “I understand, Father. Thank you.”
Orestes nodded, picking up his quill to finalize the orders. As the nib scratched against the parchment, he allowed himself a brief moment of pride. The boy was learning—not just how to think like a ruler, but how to act like one.