Gaius Severus stirred before dawn, the faintest gray light creeping through the small, square window of the flat. His body, accustomed to decades of rigid discipline, woke him as it always did—before the city stirred, before the streets filled with merchants and gossiping matrons. The mattress beneath him creaked slightly as he shifted, careful not to disturb his wife.
Her dark hair was splayed across the pillow, one arm tucked beneath her head. The lines on her face, softened in sleep, reminded him of the woman she’d been when they first met. A tavern girl, bold and brash, who had dared to mock a centurion’s gruff demeanor. The memory brought a faint smile to his lips.
Gaius sat up slowly, his joints stiff from years of wear. The ache in his shoulders and knees greeted him like an old comrade—a reminder of the life he’d lived. He stood and padded softly into the main room, the wood floor cool against his bare feet. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of bread baking in a nearby oven. It mingled with the familiar mustiness of the tavern below.
The small room was quiet, save for the muffled snores of his sons behind the partition. The table, chairs, and hearth were well-worn but sturdy, the kind of furniture that spoke to years of practical use rather than luxury. Above the hearth, a simple shelf displayed a few keepsakes that held meaning beyond their modest value: a bronze phalera for valor, a dented officer’s helm, and a small cross, chipped at the base.
Gaius lowered himself into a chair at the table, the wood groaning beneath his weight. He leaned back, his eyes resting on the shelf. His hand drifted to his jaw, fingers brushing over the faint stubble he hadn’t yet bothered to shave. The objects on the shelf seemed to stare back at him, each one carrying a story. Each one carrying a weight.
His gaze lingered on the phalera, its polished surface catching the faintest glint of dawn’s light. It had been awarded after the campaign against the Alemanni, for holding the line when others faltered. He remembered the battle vividly—the clash of shields, the screams of men and horses, the raw chaos that had threatened to consume them all. He’d been younger then, hungrier for glory. And now? Now, he wasn’t sure what he was hungry for. Peace, perhaps. Or maybe just a quiet life where he could feel like more than a relic of Rome’s fading might.
“Gaius?”
The soft voice pulled him from his thoughts. He turned to see his wife standing in the doorway, her robe loosely tied and her hair tousled from sleep. She rubbed her eyes, studying him with a mix of concern and tenderness.
“You’re up early,” she said, stepping into the room.
“Old habits,” he replied, his voice low. “Couldn’t sleep.”
She crossed the room and sat down across from him, her movements graceful despite the weariness etched into her features. Her eyes flicked to the shelf, then back to him. “I’ve been finding you like this more often. Sitting here, staring at those damned medals.”
Gaius shrugged, his hand resting on the edge of the table. “Just thinking.”
“You’ve always been good at that,” she said, a hint of teasing in her voice. But her expression turned serious. “What are you thinking about, Gaius? And don’t tell me it’s nothing.”
He sighed, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “I’m thinking about how things used to be. About the men I’ve lost, the battles I’ve fought. About whether it was worth it.”
Her brow furrowed. “Of course it was. Look around you.” She gestured to the room, to the closed door behind which their sons slept. “You fought so we could have this. A home. A family. Safety.”
“I know,” he said quietly, his gaze dropping to the table. “But sometimes it feels like… like I left the best parts of me out there. On those battlefields. And now all I have are memories and scars.”
She reached across the table, her hand covering his. “You’re more than your memories, Gaius. You’re a father, a husband. You’re the man who taught Lucan how to hold a sword, the man who makes Marcus laugh so hard he can’t breathe. That’s who you are.”
He looked at her, his eyes softening. “And you? You’ve carried more than your share of this burden. You deserved better than a soldier who drinks too much and broods over the past.”
She smiled faintly, squeezing his hand. “I married you knowing who you were. And I don’t regret it. But I worry about you, Gaius. You can’t carry this weight alone.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a creak from the other room. Moments later, a small face peeked around the corner. Marcus, the younger of their two sons, shuffled into the room, rubbing his eyes and clutching a worn blanket.
“Papa?” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.
Gaius smiled and opened his arms. “Come here, little soldier.”
Marcus climbed into his father’s lap, resting his head against Gaius’s chest. The boy’s warmth and weight were grounding, pulling Gaius firmly into the present. He wrapped an arm around Marcus, his calloused hand smoothing the boy’s unruly hair.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” Gaius asked softly.
Marcus shook his head. “Bad dream.”
“Bad dreams don’t stand a chance with your papa here,” Gaius said, his voice gentle. “I’ve fought off worse things than dreams.”
His wife watched them, a smile playing at her lips. “And that’s the man I know. The one who fights for us.”
Gaius looked up at her, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes. For all his doubts and regrets, this was what mattered. The warmth of his son in his arms, the quiet strength of his wife across the table. This was the life he’d fought for, the life he’d protect with every ounce of his being.
“Papa?” Marcus’s voice was small, sleepy. “Will you teach me to fight like you?”
Gaius chuckled softly, his hand resting on the boy’s back. “One day, Marcus. But for now, you should focus on being a boy. There’s time enough for fighting later.”
From the other room, the sound of Lucan stirring signaled the start of the day. Gaius kissed the top of Marcus’s head and set him down gently.
“Go wake your brother,” he said. “And tell him to get ready. If you two are late for your chores again, your mother will have both our heads.”
As Marcus padded off, Gaius turned back to his wife. She stood, leaning over to kiss him on the forehead. “You’re still that soldier, Gaius. But you’re also the man we need here. Don’t forget that.”
He nodded, standing to stretch as the first rays of sunlight spilled into the room. The doubts that had plagued him in the quiet hours hadn’t vanished, but they’d been softened by the morning’s warmth. Whatever battles lay ahead, he would face them as he always had—with resilience, for his family and for the future they shared.
Gaius Severus rose from the chair as the sun cast its first pale rays over the city. He moved to the corner of the room where his armor stood, a silent sentinel watching over his home. Each piece was worn, bearing the marks of countless campaigns, yet it was polished to a steady gleam. The lorica hamata caught the morning light, its interwoven rings a testament to Roman craftsmanship.
He reached for the cuirass, running a hand over the scratches etched into the metal. Each mark told a story—a spear deflected, a close encounter with an enemy blade. Carefully, he lifted it and began the familiar ritual of dressing. The leather straps and buckles yielded under his practiced hands, and the weight of the armor settled over him like an old friend.
Next came the helmet, its crest trimmed with simple horsehair, a far cry from the ornate decorations of younger officers who hadn’t yet earned their scars. He strapped on his sword belt, the well-worn leather fitting snugly over his tunic. Fully armored, he glanced at the small mirror above the hearth—a relic from a wealthier past. The man staring back at him was a soldier first, a father second, and somewhere beneath it all, a man searching for peace.
His wife stepped into the room, her brow furrowing slightly as she saw him preparing to leave. She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “You know,” she said softly, “most men your age would hang that armor up for good.”
Gaius smiled faintly, adjusting his sword. “Most men my age don’t have the emperor as their pupil.”
She stepped closer, her fingers brushing his arm. “Just… don’t lose yourself out there, Gaius. Not in the past. Not in their expectations of you.”
He nodded, placing a hand over hers briefly before turning to the door. “I’ll be back by noon.”
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The streets of Ravenna were already stirring as Gaius descended the wooden staircase and stepped into the crisp morning air. The tavern below his flat was quiet now, its doors closed and its patrons still slumbering off the night’s excesses. He moved purposefully through the narrow streets, his armor clinking softly with each step.
As he walked, passersby turned to look. Men straightened their postures; women whispered behind their hands. Children stared openly at the scarred, armored figure cutting through the morning haze. Gaius acknowledged none of it, his gaze fixed ahead, but he felt their eyes. He always did.
When he reached the gates of the imperial palace, the guards on duty stiffened immediately. Their salutes were crisp, their eyes filled with respect as they recognized him.
“Centurion Severus,” one of them said, his voice firm but reverent.
Gaius inclined his head. “Carry on, lads.”
They stepped aside, their movements precise, and he strode past them. The respect they showed wasn’t born of rank alone. It was earned—built over years of standing shoulder-to-shoulder with men like them, leading from the front, never asking of others what he wouldn’t do himself. For soldiers, there was no higher currency than that.
Inside the palace walls, the training grounds sprawled open, a patch of dirt and sand bordered by racks of weapons and shields. Men of the Palatine Guard moved through drills in the early morning light, their disciplined movements a testament to the captain who oversaw them.
As Gaius approached, the captain turned. He was a tall man, lean and sharp-eyed, his polished armor denoting his rank. Officially, he outranked Gaius. Unofficially, there was no man in the guard who didn’t look up to the Hero of Rome.
“Centurion Severus,” the captain greeted him, his voice carrying authority but also a note of deference. “Your timing is as precise as ever.”
“Captain,” Gaius replied, nodding. “The emperor sent word. I wanted to ensure everything is in order.”
The captain’s lips twitched into a small smile. “Everything always is when you’re involved. The men have been asking after you. They speak of the campaigns, of what you accomplished.”
“Campaigns are over,” Gaius said, his tone gruff. “What matters now is what these men do today.”
“True enough,” the captain agreed. “But still… it’s an honor to have you here.”
As they spoke, men of the guard stole glances at Gaius. Their expressions ranged from quiet admiration to outright awe. Even as the captain directed their drills, the undercurrent of reverence was palpable.
Gaius exchanged a few more words with the captain, discussing the training regimen and the emperor’s orders for strengthening the defenses. When their conversation concluded, Gaius turned to leave, his boots crunching softly against the sand.
It was as he walked away that he heard it—murmured voices from the men behind him.
“The Hero of Rome,” one said, the words barely audible.
“Imagine what he’s seen,” another whispered. “What he’s done.”
Gaius’s steps slowed for the briefest moment. The words hung in the air, chasing him like shadows. He clenched his jaw and quickened his pace, leaving the training ground behind.
Hero of Rome.
The title had once meant something. It had once filled him with pride. Now, it felt like a weight, a reminder of everything he had lost along the way. For every battle won, there had been a friend who hadn’t made it home. For every medal earned, there had been a scar left behind—some visible, others buried deep.
By the time he reached the far gate of the palace, his face was set in a grim mask. The murmured praise, the salutes, the deference—all of it felt hollow in the face of what he carried. As he stepped into the street and made his way back toward the flat, the words echoed in his mind.
Hero of Rome.
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As the morning turned to afternoon, Gaius Severus dedicated himself to the emperor’s training. Romulus stood with a wooden practice sword in his hands, his youthful determination etched on his face. Gaius corrected his stance, demonstrating precise footwork and emphasizing balance. Every motion was deliberate, every word measured.
“Keep your weight centered, Dominus,” Gaius instructed, his voice steady. “Power comes from the legs, not just the arms. A sword is only as strong as the man wielding it.”
Romulus nodded, trying again, though his swings still lacked the sharpness of a trained soldier. Gaius watched closely, offering corrections but also quiet encouragement. For all the boy’s faults—and there were many—his willingness to listen was admirable.
Between drills, they spoke of strategy. Gaius recounted battles he had fought, focusing on the lessons rather than the glory. Romulus listened intently, occasionally interrupting with questions that revealed his sharp, inquisitive mind.
“Tell me,” the boy asked, his tone tentative but curious, “how do you lead men who are afraid?”
Gaius paused, the question settling between them. He glanced at the young emperor, seeing both the boy and the burden he carried. “You don’t fight fear,” Gaius said finally. “You fight beside it. Show them you’re not above them—that you’ll face the same dangers they do. That’s what earns their trust.”
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The boy nodded slowly, absorbing the words.
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The air inside the tavern was thick with smoke and the faint tang of stale ale. Gaius Severus stepped into the dimly lit room, his armor catching the flickering light of the hearth. The murmur of voices softened as heads turned, recognition sparking like embers among the men gathered at the scattered tables. Some rose from their seats, clasping arms in greeting; others nodded, their expressions a mix of respect and cautious curiosity.
“Severus!” Valens’s voice rang out from the back of the room. The broad-shouldered veteran pushed himself to his feet, his gait slower than it once had been, a limp betraying the wound that had never fully healed. His grizzled face split into a wide grin as he waved Gaius over. “By Mars, I thought I’d seen the last of you in armor. What brings you out of hiding?”
Gaius approached, his boots thudding against the worn wooden floor. He clasped Valens’s arm in greeting. “Still wearing it better than you ever did, Valens,” he said with a faint smile.
Valens barked a laugh, slapping Gaius on the back. “True enough. You always did look too damn serious for a man your age. Come, sit. Let’s see if that tongue of yours has grown sharper than your blade.”
Laughter rippled through the room as Gaius took a seat at the long table. Mugs clinked, and men shifted to make room. These were men he had fought alongside—scarred, grizzled veterans who had bled for Rome on fields far from home. Their faces were lined with years of hardship, their hands roughened by the weight of swords and shields. The camaraderie in the room was palpable, but so was the undercurrent of weariness.
Valens leaned back in his chair, his grin fading into something more somber. “Didn’t think I’d see you again like this, Gaius. Not after Arles.”
The room grew quiet. Conversations stilled as the name hung in the air like a shadow. Gaius’s hand tightened around the handle of his mug. “Arles wasn’t a victory,” he said, his voice low but firm. “It was survival. That’s all.”
A younger man at the far end of the table, his face still bearing the softness of youth, glanced around uncertainly. “I heard stories,” he said hesitantly. “About the line holding, about how Severus—”
“Stories don’t matter,” Gaius interrupted, his tone sharper than intended. He took a steadying breath, glancing at the faces around him. “What matters is that we’re here now. The past won’t save us.”
Valens studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Fair enough. But you didn’t come here to reminisce, did you?”
“No,” Gaius said, setting his mug down with a deliberate clink. He leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table. The men around him mirrored his posture, their attention sharpening. “I came here because Ravenna needs us.”
A murmur swept through the room, tinged with both curiosity and skepticism. Valens raised an eyebrow. “Ravenna, huh? And what exactly does this city want from a bunch of old war dogs like us?”
“Not the city,” Gaius said. “The boy emperor.”
That drew a reaction—grumbles, raised eyebrows, a few muttered curses. One of the older veterans, his beard streaked with gray, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “What’s he got to do with us? He’s just another puppet on the Senate’s strings.”
“He’s more than that,” Gaius replied, his voice steady. “He’s young, yes. Inexperienced. But he sees what most in the Senate refuse to admit—that Rome can’t survive as it is. The walls are crumbling, the armies are scattered, and the people have lost faith. He wants to rebuild.”
Another veteran, younger but with a jagged scar cutting across his cheek, snorted. “Rebuild what? An empire that’s already fallen? We’ve heard that song before, Gaius. Every emperor promises the same thing—restoring Rome, raising the eagle, all that glory. And what do we get? Dead comrades and empty promises.”
The room stirred with agreement, the men nodding or muttering their discontent. Gaius let the noise simmer for a moment before raising a hand. The room fell silent again, all eyes on him.
“I won’t lie to you,” Gaius said. “This isn’t about glory. It’s not about expanding borders or reclaiming lost provinces. Those days are gone. This is about survival. About building something that can stand the storms that are coming.”
He paused, letting his words sink in. “The boy has ideas—new ideas. He wants to train soldiers, real soldiers, not just hired foederati. He wants to rebuild Ravenna’s defenses, to make this city a bastion. But he can’t do it alone. He needs men who know what it means to hold the line. Men like us.”
A heavy silence followed. The men exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of doubt and consideration. Valens was the first to speak, his tone skeptical but curious. “And what makes you think this boy can pull it off? What makes you think we can?”
“Because he’s willing to listen,” Gaius said simply. “To us, to men who’ve fought and bled for Rome. He knows he doesn’t have all the answers, and he’s not too proud to admit it. That’s more than I can say for most of the fools in the Senate.”
Another veteran, his voice gruff with years of shouting commands, spoke up. “And what about you, Severus? What do you want out of this? Why are you here?”
Gaius met his gaze without flinching. “Because I’m tired of watching Rome fall apart. I’ve spent my life fighting for it, and I’ll be damned if I let it slip away without trying to save what’s left. If that means putting on this armor again, then so be it.”
The low murmur of voices settled as Gaius took a sip from his mug, his eyes scanning the room. The veterans sat forward, their postures tense with the gravity of the conversation. Valens, as always, was the first to break the silence.
“All right, Severus. Let’s assume we’re in,” he began, his tone skeptical but tinged with curiosity. “Where do we even start? The walls? The gates? That’s all well and good for the inner city, but Ravenna’s not just a fortress. What about the people outside the walls?”
A few heads nodded in agreement. Decimus, always blunt, growled, “Those farmers and fishermen aren’t picking up and moving into the city. And if we abandon them, what’s the point? Their grain feeds us. Their hands build our ships. If we lose them, we lose Ravenna.”
Gaius set his mug down firmly. “You’re right. The walls and gates aren’t enough. We need to think bigger. Protecting Ravenna means protecting the people beyond the walls, not just those within.”
“Then what?” Valens asked, leaning forward. “You’re talking about defending an entire countryside. We don’t have the men—or the time—to build walls around every farm.”
“No,” Gaius admitted, “but we can fortify key positions. Watchtowers along the main roads and the canal routes. Rallying points at the larger estates where people can gather if raiders come. We can create zones of defense, not just one central stronghold.”
“That’s not bad,” Decimus muttered, rubbing his chin. “But that still leaves the question of manpower. Who’s guarding those towers? Who’s holding the line?”
“Recruits,” Gaius replied. “We train the garrison first—get them into proper shape. Then we start recruiting from the population. We don’t need career soldiers; we need men who can fight when it counts.”
Valens scoffed. “And how do you convince farmers to leave their plows for spears? They’ve seen enough war to know it’s a bad deal.”
“We don’t take them away from their farms,” Gaius said. “We train them where they are. Each village needs its own militia—men who can defend their homes when the time comes.”
“That’s assuming they even have weapons to fight with,” another veteran said, his tone doubtful. “We’re not exactly swimming in surplus swords.”
“Then we improvise,” Gaius said. “Spears are cheap to make and easy to use. We gather smiths and carpenters—get them working on weapons and shields. Ravenna has shipyards, doesn’t it? Those shipwrights know how to handle timber better than anyone.”
“Assuming they’re willing to,” Decimus added. “It’s one thing to build a fishing boat. It’s another to make something that’ll get your neighbor killed.”
Gaius sighed, leaning back in his chair. “It won’t be easy. But it’s the only way. Every man, every craftsman, every farmer—they all have a stake in this. If Ravenna falls, it won’t just be the city that suffers.”
“What about the women and children?” Valens asked. “You know as well as I do, they’re the first to suffer when raiders come. What do we do for them?”
“We set up shelters,” Gaius said, his voice firm. “Temporary stockades in the countryside, places where they can retreat if the worst happens. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s better than leaving them to fend for themselves.”
The men exchanged glances, murmuring their agreement. The scope of the task was enormous, but Gaius’s plan was practical, rooted in the harsh realities they all understood.
“And the pay?” Valens finally asked, his tone cutting through the noise like a blade. “Gaius, you know how this works. Men don’t fight for promises. They fight for coin. Does the emperor have it?”
The room went still. All eyes turned to Gaius, who held their gazes evenly. “He has some,” he admitted. “Enough to start. He’s already allocated funds for the gates and towers. But you’re right—this effort will take more than what’s in the treasury now.”
“So we’re fighting for scraps?” Decimus said bitterly. “Not for Rome, not for glory, but for a city that can’t even pay us?”
“We’re fighting for survival,” Gaius said sharply. “If you’re looking for gold or glory, you won’t find it here. But if you’re tired of watching everything we’ve fought for crumble, if you want to leave something worth having for your sons—then you know why we fight.”
The silence that followed was heavy, but it wasn’t hostile. These men had all fought for less. They understood what was at stake, even if they didn’t like it.
“And the boy emperor?” Valens asked quietly. “Does he expect a siege?”
Gaius exhaled slowly. “He’s smart enough to know it’s a possibility. Odoacer’s no fool. If he decides Ravenna’s worth taking, he’ll come for it. We need to be ready—not just for him, but for anyone who thinks Rome’s heart is ripe for the taking.”
Decimus chuckled darkly. “Well, Gaius, if this boy of yours has the sense to prepare for what’s coming, maybe he’s got more in him than we thought.”
Valens raised his mug, his expression grim but resolute. “To Ravenna, then. And to surviving what’s coming.”
The veterans echoed the toast, their mugs clinking together. The task ahead was daunting, but for the first time in years, the men felt a flicker of purpose—a reason to fight.
The mugs had barely touched the table when Valens leaned forward, his voice quieter, almost conspiratorial. “Speaking of recruits,” he said, his fingers drumming against the wood, “I might know some people who’d be interested in signing up.”
The room turned toward him, curiosity sparking in the veterans’ eyes. Gaius raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”
Valens shrugged, his tone casual, but his words carried weight. “They’re former soldiers, mostly. Men who left the legions when the pay stopped coming. Some went back to farming or trade, trying to make an honest living. But not all of them. You know how it is—when the coin dries up, so do the options.”
“Bandits?” Decimus asked bluntly, his expression darkening.
“Not all of them,” Valens replied quickly. “But yeah, a few are walking that line. They’re desperate, and they’re angry. But most of them are still soldiers at heart. They’ve got the skills, and they’ve got the hunger. Give them a chance at something real—a cause, even a small one—and you’d be surprised how many will come back.”
“Or how many will turn on you the moment they don’t get their pay,” Decimus countered. “You’re asking us to trust men who’ve already lost faith. That’s a gamble, Valens.”
“It’s a gamble either way,” Valens shot back. “You think we can train enough farmers to hold a city before trouble shows up? At least these men know how to fight.”
Gaius raised a hand, silencing the brewing argument. “Valens has a point,” he said. “But so does Decimus. These men will need more than promises to commit. They’ve been burned before. If we bring them in, we’ll have to prove to them that things will be different this time.”
“How do we do that?” asked a grizzled veteran with a jagged scar running across his jaw. “We all know the treasury isn’t overflowing. You promise these men coin and fail to deliver, and we’ll have more than a mutiny on our hands.”
“We don’t overpromise,” Gaius said firmly. “We offer them steady work—enough pay to live, food, and a chance to be part of something bigger than themselves. That’s all we can do.”
Valens leaned forward again, his tone growing serious. “And what about this emperor of yours? Do you think he’s ready for what’s coming? You know as well as I do, Gaius—Rome’s had more emperors than winters these past few years. They come and go like the tide.”
A hush fell over the room. The veterans exchanged knowing glances. Gaius nodded slowly, acknowledging the hard truth. “You’re right. The empire’s been a revolving door for emperors. Boys, puppets, men with ambition but no spine. But if there’s one lesson in all of it, it’s that nothing’s certain. A siege could come next month, or it could come next year. Either way, we’d be fools not to prepare.”
Decimus grunted in agreement. “In this climate? A siege isn’t just likely—it’s inevitable.”
“And if it comes?” Valens asked. “Do you think Ravenna’s got what it takes to hold?”
Gaius’s jaw tightened, his voice steady. “Not yet. But it can. With the right defenses, the right men, and the right will, we can make Ravenna more than a city waiting to fall.”
“And you think this boy can lead it?” another veteran asked, his tone dubious.
“I think he’s willing to learn,” Gaius said. “And he’s not blind to reality. That’s more than most of the Senate can say. Whether he’s got the steel to see it through—we’ll find out. But for now, it’s our job to make sure he has a city left to lead.”
The room was quiet, the weight of Gaius’s words settling over the gathered men. Valens finally broke the silence, raising his mug. “Well then, here’s to Ravenna. And to making sure it’s still standing when the storm comes.”
The others echoed the toast, their voices low but firm.
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Gaius stepped out into the cool night air, the weight of the conversation still pressing on his shoulders. The faint sounds of the city settling for the evening drifted through the narrow streets—the clink of a blacksmith’s hammer, the distant cries of a vendor closing shop. Above him, the stars were faint against the dim haze of smoke from countless hearths.
He glanced back at the tavern, the glow of its firelight spilling into the street. The voices of his old comrades were muffled now, replaced by the low hum of distant conversations. For a moment, he stood still, his thoughts racing. It had been years since he’d seen that flicker of purpose in those men’s eyes—a purpose he’d lit, but one that would demand more than just words to sustain.
As he turned and began the familiar walk home.
When his flat came into view, the faint glow of the hearthlight behind the shuttered window, he exhaled deeply. Here was another purpose—a quieter one, but no less vital.
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The light was fading as Gaius stepped through the door of his flat, the familiar creak of the hinges announcing his arrival. The air was warm, carrying the faint scent of stew and herbs, but as he stepped into the room, he was met with Lavinia’s searching gaze.
“You’re later than I expected,” she said softly, her tone more observation than accusation. She sat near the hearth, mending a tunic with careful, practiced hands. The boys were nowhere in sight, though Gaius could hear their muffled voices from the other room.
“It took longer than I thought,” Gaius replied, lowering himself onto the worn stool near the table. His armor caught the firelight, its dull gleam a reminder of the day’s weight. “I spoke with Romulus. And some old comrades.”
Lavinia paused, her needle poised in the fabric. “And what did you tell them?”
Gaius met her gaze, his expression carefully neutral. “The emperor has plans. He wants to rebuild Rome’s strength—its defenses, its armies. I told them what he’s aiming for. Asked if they’d join.”
Her fingers tightened around the tunic, the fabric bunching slightly under her grip. “And did they agree?”
“They’re thinking about it,” Gaius admitted, his voice quieter now. “They understand what’s at stake.”
Lavinia set the tunic aside, her hands resting in her lap. “And what about you, Gaius? Do you understand what’s at stake? Because I do. I know what it means when you look at those men the way you used to—like they’re soldiers, not just friends.”
He sighed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “It’s not like that. I’m not leading another campaign. I’m training them, helping them get back on their feet. That’s all.”
“You say it’s just training,” Lavinia said, her voice soft but edged with knowing. “But I’ve seen this before, Gaius. The armor comes out, the veterans gather, and then… it’s not long before you’re back out there. Back in the thick of it.”
“It’s different this time,” Gaius replied, though even as he said it, he felt the words falter. “This isn’t about me.”
She crossed her arms, her gaze unwavering. “It never is, is it? Not to you. It’s always about the men, or Rome, or something bigger than yourself. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s you they’ll look to when the time comes.”
Her words stung, not because they were harsh but because they were true. He ran a hand over his face, the roughness of his calloused fingers grounding him. “This isn’t about me,” he said after a long pause. “It’s about Rome. About making sure Lucan and Marcus don’t grow up in a world where every city wall is a death sentence waiting to happen.”
Lavinia’s expression softened, but the worry in her eyes didn’t fade. “I understand why you’re doing this. I do. But that doesn’t mean I’m not afraid. Afraid that one day, you won’t come back through that door.”
He reached across the table, his hand covering hers. “I’m not looking for another war. I swear to you. But if there’s a chance to make things better—safer—for them, for you… I have to try.”
From the other room, the sound of the boys’ hushed voices broke the tension. Lavinia glanced toward the door, her lips curving into a faint smile. “They’re just like you, you know. Always listening, always wanting to follow in your footsteps.”
Gaius chuckled softly, the sound tinged with both pride and apprehension. “Let’s hope they don’t pick up too many of my bad habits.”
Lavinia’s smile widened, though her eyes remained serious. “Just promise me one thing, Gaius. Whatever happens, don’t lose sight of what’s here. Of us.”
“I promise,” he said, the weight of his words matching the weight of her gaze.
For a moment, they sat in silence, the crackle of the hearth the only sound between them. Gaius’s eyes drifted toward the partition where the boys’ voices rose and fell, animated and full of life. He could almost picture them there—Marcus clutching his wooden sword, pretending to be a legionary, while Lucan scolded him for holding it wrong. They were so young, so full of a world that hadn’t yet hardened them.
“They’re going to be a handful when they’re older,” he said.
“They already are,” Lavinia replied, her tone lighter now. “But they’re worth it. Just like you are.”
Gaius leaned back in his chair, the warmth of the fire and her words settling over him. His gaze lingered on the faint glow of his armor by the door. For all its weight, it wasn’t what defined him—not here, not in this quiet corner of his life. It was his family that mattered most.