As Romulus approached the imperial residence, the Palatine Guard flanked the gates, their scale armor catching the dim torchlight like polished bronze. Their spears stood as straight as the men who held them, their discipline and solemnity a striking contrast to the chaos that often spilled into Ravenna’s streets.
Romulus forced himself to slow his pace, his hands clasped behind his back in a mimicry of calm authority. Inside, his heart raced. The weight of 3,000 solidi—a fortune—pressed against his thoughts, fueling both excitement and a creeping sense of responsibility. He caught the eye of one of the guards, who inclined his head slightly and murmured, “Dominus,” before stepping aside. Romulus nodded in return, stiffly at first, then with more confidence as he stepped through the gates.
Inside the palace’s grand corridors, the air was cooler, the light from torches flickering off marble walls. More guards stood vigil along the hallways, their sharp eyes scanning every shadow and movement. Romulus allowed himself a fleeting moment of pride as he passed them. These men symbolized the empire’s endurance—Rome’s endurance—and he was their emperor.
The thought filled him with a strange mixture of determination and unease. Emperor. A title he still hadn’t fully claimed in his own mind. A boy of ten wearing a crown meant for a man.
He reached his quarters, where another guard opened the heavy oak door for him. “Thank you,” he said, his voice firmer than he expected. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment before exhaling sharply. His hand brushed the edge of the doorframe, and he let out a soft laugh. This was no time for hesitation.
The room was warm, the fire in the hearth casting a golden glow over familiar surroundings. The desk where he’d studied scrolls of Roman law, the map of Ravenna pinned neatly to the wall—these were no longer just remnants of his education. They were tools for shaping the future. He hurried to his desk and pulled out fresh parchment, the lingering scent of ink a comfort as he dipped his quill and began to sketch.
Three thousand solidi. He almost whispered the words aloud. It was a staggering sum, more than he’d ever imagined having control over. But it wasn’t just wealth—it was the key to a stronger Ravenna, a fortress that could withstand what was coming.
His hand moved quickly, the lines forming the rough outline of the city gates. He drew reinforced iron plating over the wooden doors, thicker hinges, and a mechanism to secure them against battering rams. The quill scratched across the parchment as he outlined the towers, raising them higher with platforms for archers and scorpions. But as he circled a vulnerable section on the map, his hand stilled.
Was this enough? Were the gates and towers the right place to begin? He pressed the quill’s tip lightly against the parchment, a faint ink blot forming where his hesitation lingered.
“This will strengthen the north gate,” he murmured to himself. “But the aqueduct… the towers there should be taller.” His voice wavered, and he glanced at the map again, suddenly uncertain.
The excitement that had propelled him home faltered as doubt crept in. What if he chose wrong? What if the plans failed? He swallowed hard, gripping the quill tighter as he forced the doubts aside. He wasn’t alone in this. That was why he had called for Andronikos and Gaius Severus. They would know what to do.
Stepping to the door, Romulus called for a nearby servant. The young man approached with a hurried bow, and Romulus straightened, speaking with a confidence he didn’t entirely feel. “Fetch Andronikos and Centurion Severus. I require their counsel.”
The servant bowed again and disappeared, leaving Romulus alone. He turned back to his desk, but his focus wavered. His hand hovered over the parchment as his thoughts churned. The sketches filled the page, but they were just that—sketches. Lines on paper couldn’t hold a city.
He shook his head, forcing himself back to work, adding notes about materials—stone for the towers, timber for scaffolding, iron for reinforcements. He wrote with quick, determined strokes, trying to suppress the small voice that reminded him how much he didn’t know. They’ll help me. They’ll know where to start.
When the knock came at the door, Romulus rose quickly, his heart leaping. He opened it himself, revealing Andronikos and Gaius Severus standing side by side. Andronikos’s sharp eyes flicked around the room, taking in the scattered parchment and Romulus’s restless energy. Gaius’s expression was unreadable, though his gaze lingered on the sketches.
“You summoned us, Dominus?” Andronikos asked, his tone calm but curious.
Gaius folded his arms, his grizzled face tilting into something like a smirk. “What’s this about, Emperor? You look like you’ve just won a siege.”
Romulus gestured toward the desk, his excitement breaking through his composure. “Father approved the funds. Three thousand solidi to strengthen Ravenna’s defenses.”
Andronikos raised an eyebrow, his usual reserve faltering for a moment. “A substantial sum,” he said, a note of approval in his voice.
Gaius stepped to the desk and picked up one of the sketches. His scarred hand traced the lines, his expression unreadable. “Higher towers, reinforced gates…” He muttered the words like a soldier reviewing a battle plan. “Good ideas, Emperor. But these are just that—ideas.”
Romulus’s smile faded slightly. “That’s why I called you both,” he said, a flicker of uncertainty slipping into his voice. “I have the vision, but I need your advice. What should we prioritize first? What will make Ravenna impenetrable?”
Gaius set the parchment down and looked at him directly, his voice firm but not unkind. “The first thing you need isn’t on this parchment, Dominus. It’s experts. Engineers, masons, craftsmen. A centurion like me can lead men into battle, but building towers and gates? That’s another skill entirely.”
Andronikos nodded, his hands clasped behind his back. “Gaius is right. You’ve made an excellent start, but these plans need refinement by trained hands. The best architects and builders often work in Mediolanum or Constantinople. You’ll need to hire them—or summon them here.”
Romulus frowned slightly. “Do we not already have skilled builders in Ravenna?”
“Some,” Andronikos replied with a faint smile. “But not enough for a project of this scale.”
“And the materials,” Gaius added, his tone matter-of-fact. “Stone for the towers, iron for the gates, timber for scaffolds and reinforcements. All of it will drain your coffers faster than you think. You’ll need to decide what’s critical—the gates and towers, I’d say—and focus there.”
Romulus nodded slowly, absorbing their words. “Then I’ll summon the experts and start with the gates and towers. Andronikos, can you draft letters to Mediolanum? Gaius, I need a list of men you trust to oversee the labor.”
Andronikos inclined his head. “Of course, Dominus.”
Gaius chuckled softly, the hint of a grin returning to his face. “Looks like you’ve got your first task, Emperor.
The two men exchanged a glance—brief but weighted. It was a shared acknowledgment of the boy’s determination and the enormity of his task.
Andronikos and Gaius joined him at the desk, debating priorities and refining the plans as the firelight danced around them. Outside, the rain continued to fall, but within the chamber, a sense of purpose burned brightly.
As Andronikos examined the sketches, a thoughtful expression crossed his face. His fingers tapped lightly on the edge of the desk as he scanned Romulus’s rough diagrams, the faint beginnings of a plan taking shape in his mind.
“Dominus,” Andronikos began, straightening, “there may be something I can do to assist. In my travels, I’ve encountered men skilled in the very crafts you require. Architects, masons, even specialists in defensive fortifications. If you permit me, I can write to them and invite them to Ravenna. Their expertise would be invaluable.”
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Romulus’s face lit up with hope. “You think they would come?”
Andronikos allowed himself a small smile. “Gold speaks loudly, Dominus, especially to those whose talents often go underappreciated by their rulers. I will write with urgency and offer generous terms. In the meantime, I can also make inquiries here in Ravenna and in nearby cities. There may be local craftsmen who could contribute.”
Romulus nodded eagerly. “Do it. Write to anyone you believe can help. If they can strengthen Ravenna, I want them here as soon as possible.”
Andronikos inclined his head. “As you wish, Dominus. I will need access to your seal and authority to send the letters. With luck, we will have replies within weeks.”
Romulus gestured toward a small box near the desk containing his imperial seal. “Take whatever you need. I trust you.”
Andronikos picked up the box, cradling it carefully. “You honor me, Dominus. I will begin drafting the letters immediately.”
He paused, glancing at Gaius before adding, “I must caution, though, that assembling such a group of experts will take time. Even the most willing will need weeks to prepare for a journey, and the construction itself will not be swift. Patience will be essential.”
Romulus frowned slightly but nodded. “I understand. Just bring them here.”
With a final bow, Andronikos left the chamber, his long robes swishing softly as he disappeared into the corridor. The door shut behind him, leaving Romulus alone with Gaius Severus.
The centurion lingered by the desk, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the crackle of the hearth. Then, Gaius broke the silence with a low chuckle.
“Well,” he said, “looks like the Greek’s got you covered on the experts. Smart move bringing him into this.”
Romulus smiled faintly. “And you, Gaius? What do you think?”
Gaius stepped closer to the desk, leaning over the sketches. “I think you’ve got the right idea, Dominus. The gates, the towers—those are priorities. But…” He tapped the map with a calloused finger. “You’ll also need to think about the men who’ll defend these defenses. A tower’s no good if it’s empty, and gates don’t close themselves.”
Romulus tilted his head. “The Palatine Guard, perhaps? Or the garrison in Ravenna?”
“Good choices,” Gaius agreed. “But they’ll need training—discipline. You don’t just give a man a post and expect him to hold it under siege. And if this city’s going to stand against anyone who challenge your rule, it won’t just be about walls and gates. It’ll be about the people behind them.”
Romulus frowned thoughtfully. “You mean soldiers.”
Gaius nodded. “Soldiers, yes, but also the citizens. If they see the emperor investing in their safety, they’ll stand firmer when the time comes. Confidence spreads, Dominus. And so does fear. Keep the people on your side, and Ravenna will be harder to break.”
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The quiet halls of the imperial residence were a refuge Andronikos rarely allowed himself to linger in. As a former slave, his steps through the marble corridors were measured, his presence purposeful. He moved quickly, his thoughts focused on the letters he needed to draft for Romulus—messages that might bring the minds and hands necessary to realize the boy’s grand vision for Ravenna.
He turned into the shadowed hallway leading to his modest quarters. Unlike the opulence of the emperor’s chambers, his room was tucked away near the wing reserved for functionaries and servants. It was a reminder of his tenuous position: though trusted by the emperor, he was still a man whose status depended entirely on his usefulness.
The sound of deliberate footsteps made him pause. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Senator Gaius Lepidus emerging from the shadows, his toga pristine and his gait leisurely. Andronikos recognized the man immediately—his reputation for cunning whispered through the palace like a warning bell.
“Andronikos,” Lepidus said smoothly, his tone warm and cordial as he closed the distance. “What a fortunate meeting. May I have a moment of your time?”
Andronikos inclined his head slightly, his expression carefully neutral. “Of course, Senator. How may I assist you?”
The man’s smile widened, an expression honed to disarm. “You are a remarkable figure in this palace. To rise from such humble beginnings to become the emperor’s tutor—an inspiration to us all.”
Andronikos offered a polite nod, his face unreadable. “I am honored to serve the Dominus in any capacity he sees fit.”
“Indeed, indeed,” Lepidus continued, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone. “And such a position must come with its challenges. To guide one so young, so impressionable... why, the very fate of the empire might rest on your wisdom.”
“His Majesty is eager to learn,” Andronikos replied, carefully steering the conversation back to Romulus. “He shows great potential.”
“I’m sure he does,” Lepidus said, his hand slipping into the folds of his toga. He withdrew a small pouch, its weight betraying its contents. With a faint clink of coins, he extended it toward Andronikos. “A gesture of appreciation, my dear friend. A token for your invaluable work.”
Andronikos’s gaze flicked to the pouch before returning to Lepidus’s face. His jaw tightened imperceptibly, but his voice remained calm. “Your generosity is unnecessary, Senator.”
Lepidus tilted his head, his smile thinning but not disappearing. “Oh, come now. We are both servants of the empire, are we not? Information, Andronikos, is the lifeblood of governance. A small insight into the emperor’s thoughts—his plans—could be invaluable in keeping the Senate aligned with his vision.”
The insult was subtle but unmistakable. Andronikos drew himself up slightly, his expression cooling. “My duty is to the Dominus, Senator. It is not for me to share his confidence.”
Lepidus’s smile vanished, replaced by a sneer. “Loyalty,” he said, his tone dripping with disdain. “How quaint. One might almost mistake you for a true Roman.”
Andronikos held his ground, his voice unshaken. “I may not be Roman by birth, Senator, but loyalty is a virtue I hold dear. It cannot be bought.”
Lepidus stepped back, his expression hardening. “Do not let your pride blind you, Andronikos. The boy will tire of your lessons soon enough. When that day comes, remember who offered you a lifeline.”
Without another word, the senator turned and strode away, his sandals echoing down the corridor. Andronikos watched him go, the tension in his chest easing only once the man disappeared from view. He exhaled slowly, then continued to his room, his steps firm and resolute.
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The small room offered little comfort, but it was enough. A simple desk stood against the far wall, its surface worn from years of use. Shelves lined one side of the space, crowded with scrolls and books—some smuggled from Alexandria, others gifts from scholars who recognized Andronikos’s insatiable thirst for knowledge.
Sitting down at the desk, he reached for a blank parchment. The senator’s parting words lingered in his mind, a reminder of how precarious his position truly was. Yet, it was not fear that drove him to pick up the quill. It was resolve.
Dipping the quill into the inkpot, Andronikos began to write:
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To my dearest friend and companion in learning, Callimachus,
Greetings from Ravenna. I trust this letter finds you in good health and enduring spirit amidst the trials of our time. It has been too long since we last shared words, though not a day passes that I do not think of Alexandria and the sanctuary we found within its halls of wisdom.
How fares the grand library? The news I receive here is troubling, though I pray it is exaggerated. It pains me to hear of Constantinople’s refusal to provide the funds so desperately needed for its restoration. How many times have we heard the same promises, only to see them broken? I fear for its future, my friend. The great library has stood as a beacon for centuries, yet within our lifetimes, it may become but a shadow of what it was meant to be.
And yet, I find myself daring to hope. Here in Ravenna, I serve a boy who has ascended to the purple—a boy who, against all odds, may hold the power to change the course of history. Romulus Augustus is no ordinary pupil. For nearly four years, I have seen him grow, not only in knowledge but in his understanding of what Rome could be. He speaks of restoring what has been lost, of building a future that values wisdom and learning as much as strength and power.
It is for this reason that I write to you now. If there is any hope for the library’s survival, it may lie with him. Romulus is young, yes, but he is also curious, eager to learn, and willing to listen. I believe he could be persuaded to act for Alexandria’s sake—if he sees its value demonstrated by those who hold it dear.
I urge you, Callimachus, to come to Ravenna. Bring with you what you can: manuscripts, artifacts, or even a delegation of scholars. Present these treasures to the emperor, and I believe you will find in him an ally unlike any other. His resources, though limited, can be directed toward the library’s restoration. Together, we might ensure that Alexandria remains a sanctuary of knowledge for generations to come.
Should you undertake this journey, you will have my assistance in all things. Let us not lose hope, my friend. The past may be crumbling around us, but the future is still unwritten.
Yours in friendship and shared purpose,
Andronikos
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Setting the quill down, Andronikos read the letter over once more. It carried his hopes, but also his fears—both for the library and for the young emperor he had grown to believe in. Folding the parchment carefully, he sealed it with wax and prepared it for dispatch.
For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine Callimachus reading the letter in Alexandria, the city they had both loved so deeply. Perhaps it was naive to think that Romulus could be the savior of the library, but it was a risk worth taking. If the boy emperor could be moved by the treasures of the past, he might yet become the leader Rome needed.
Andronikos leaned back in his chair, the weight of the day finally settling on him. His loyalty to Romulus was not born of blind faith—it was rooted in a cautious belief that the boy could rise above the petty politics of the empire. He had seen the spark of greatness in Romulus’s eyes, and for that spark, he was willing to risk everything.