Romulus stood in the dimly lit study, his eyes scanning the chaotic spread of sketches and plans on the table. They were full of potential—schematics for reinforced gates, diagrams of grain mills—but they felt distant, intangible. The frustration gnawed at him. Time. It was always time that he needed, and time was slipping away. Two days until he could meet with Ravenna’s craftsmen. Two days to even begin moving forward, and after that, weeks or months before any real results would show.
The impatience simmering within him was barely contained. He could feel it in his clenched fists, in the restless tapping of his fingers against the edge of the table. Odoacer isn’t waiting, he thought bitterly. Every moment we delay, he grows stronger.
The sound of footsteps outside the study caught his attention, followed by a soft knock. “Enter,” Romulus said, his voice sharp.
Andronikos stepped into the room, his expression calm as always. He carried a sheaf of papers under one arm, his measured steps a quiet contrast to Romulus’s agitation.
“Dominus,” the Greek began, offering a slight bow. “I bring news.”
Romulus straightened, his frustration tempered by curiosity. “Tell me.”
Andronikos placed the papers on the table and glanced at the scattered plans with a faint smile. “Gaius Severus has been busy. His efforts to recruit veterans are bearing fruit. Several have already pledged their support. Not only that, but he has managed to reach out to… less conventional sources. Men who once served but have since turned to other means of survival.”
Romulus’s brow furrowed. “Bandits?”
“Former soldiers, Dominus,” Andronikos clarified, his tone careful. “Men who understand discipline and the battlefield but were left with little choice when the legions disbanded. Severus’s reputation is strong enough to draw them back to the fold.”
Romulus nodded, a spark of hope flickering amidst his frustration. “And the craftsmen?”
“Arranged,” Andronikos replied. “The leading masons, carpenters, and smiths of Ravenna have agreed to meet with you in two days’ time. I expect that convincing them to fully commit will take some persuasion, but it is a significant step forward.”
The tension in Romulus’s shoulders eased slightly. “Good,” he said, though his tone still carried a note of impatience. “That’s progress.”
Andronikos studied the young emperor for a moment, his calm gaze contrasting with Romulus’s restless energy. “Dominus, these steps, though they may feel small, are vital. A storm cannot be weathered without preparation, and each of these efforts builds the foundation for what is to come.”
Romulus sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I know you’re right, Andronikos, but waiting feels like defeat. I don’t want to sit here and plan while others move against us.”
Romulus opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a sharp knock interrupted them. He turned toward the door as it opened, revealing a servant bowing deeply.
“Dominus,” the servant said, his voice deferential. “Lord Orestes has summoned you to the council chambers.”
Romulus blinked, the announcement catching him off guard. “The council chambers? For what purpose?”
“I was not told, Dominus,” the servant replied. “Only that your presence is requested immediately.”
Romulus hesitated, his mind racing. Orestes had never included him in the council before. This was unexpected—unusual. Was it a gesture to include him in the inner workings of the empire, or something more?
He glanced at Andronikos, whose expression remained calm but curious. “Shall I accompany you?” the Greek offered.
“No,” Romulus said, shaking his head. “I’ll go alone.” His voice softened, a note of curiosity replacing his earlier frustration. “This could be… interesting.”
Andronikos inclined his head. “As you wish, Dominus. But remember, opportunities are often found where they are least expected.”
Romulus gave a faint nod, his thoughts already turning as he left the room. The servant led him through the marble corridors, his cloak trailing behind him. The summons intrigued him. This was an opportunity—a rare chance to glimpse the empire’s inner workings and perhaps gain some measure of influence.
As he approached the heavy oak doors of the council chambers, he straightened his shoulders. Whatever awaited him inside, he would be ready.
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The heavy oak doors of the council chambers creaked open, and Romulus stepped inside, his gaze sweeping across the room. The chamber was grand but austere, its high ceilings adorned with faded mosaics depicting Rome’s victories. A long, polished table dominated the center, surrounded by men who carried the weight of the empire on their shoulders—or so they believed.
Orestes sat at the head, his presence commanding as ever. To his right was Crassus , the grim-faced advisor whose calculating eyes missed nothing. A cluster of senators occupied one side of the table, their togas pristine and their expressions guarded. On the opposite side sat Bishop Felix, his fingers steepled as he watched the emperor’s entrance with a serene yet unreadable smile.
The murmurs of conversation quieted as Romulus entered, and all eyes turned toward him. He hesitated for the briefest moment before stepping forward, his chin held high. Orestes gestured to a chair near the center of the table, and Romulus took his place, acutely aware of the scrutiny he was under.
“Imperator,” Orestes said, his voice carrying the ease of a practiced politician, “we are pleased you could join us for today’s council. Your presence signals a bright future for Rome’s governance.”
The senators murmured polite affirmations, though a few exchanged skeptical glances. Romulus nodded, keeping his expression neutral. “It is an honor to be here, Magister Militarum.”
“Good,” Orestes said briskly, leaning forward. “Let us begin.”
The first matter raised came from Senator Marcellus, an aging patrician whose voice carried the weight of decades in politics. “With the harvest season concluded, the grain levies from the countryside have been below expectation,” he announced, his tone grave. “Flooding in the northern provinces has destroyed fields, and raiding along the southern trade routes disrupts collections.”
Crassus leaned forward, his voice calm but pointed. “Our reserves are sufficient for now, but traders have raised concerns about increasing tolls and ambushes. This could drive up prices for basic goods in the capital.”
Bishop Felix interjected, his tone smooth and deliberate. “The Church has its own grain stores. Should the need arise, we are willing to offer assistance. For a modest consideration, of course.”
Romulus studied the bishop’s face, noting the glint of calculation in his eyes. “What sort of consideration?” he asked before he could stop himself.
Felix turned his gaze to the young emperor, his smile polite. “Merely assurances that the Church’s role in overseeing the distribution would be recognized. It is our duty, after all, to see the needs of the poor met.”
Romulus’s jaw tightened, but Orestes cut in smoothly. “Your offer is noted, Bishop Felix. But let us first exhaust our other options.”
The conversation shifted, and Senator Gaius Lepidus took the floor. He was a younger man, ambitious and polished, and his words carried a veneer of concern that barely masked his self-interest.
“Honored council,” Lepidus began, his voice measured, “it is not only grain levies that are threatened. The roads connecting Ravenna to the countryside have become increasingly dangerous. Banditry is on the rise, and many of us”—he gestured vaguely toward his peers—“have received reports of theft and violence on our estates.”
There were murmurs of agreement from the senators, though Romulus noted their tone was more about personal loss than genuine concern for the common people.
Lepidus continued, “This is not merely a matter of property. The people living under our protection—the farmers, the craftsmen—are terrified. If this continues, we risk losing their faith in the empire’s ability to protect them.”
Bishop Felix, ever the opportunist, spoke next. “Faith in protection, Senator Lepidus, is not merely a secular matter. The Church has long been a sanctuary for those displaced by violence. Perhaps more direct collaboration with our clergy in these regions could offer solace to the afflicted.”
Crassus cleared his throat, steering the discussion back to practicalities. “Banditry thrives on chaos, and it feeds on opportunity. The disbanded soldiers, raiders, and desperate men who now wander the countryside must be addressed. However, we lack the manpower to post guards on every estate or patrol every road.”
Orestes frowned, his fingers drumming lightly against the table. “The foederati stationed in the outlying regions have their hands full. And while the Palatine Guard is loyal and disciplined, it is not large enough to police the countryside.”
Romulus, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface, finally spoke. “If the countryside falls into chaos, the cities will follow. Would it not be wise to prioritize securing the main roads and key estates? Perhaps we could enlist local militias to bolster our forces.”
Lepidus raised an eyebrow, his tone skeptical. “Militias, Dominus? Farmers with pitchforks and blacksmiths with hammers? Against organized raiders and disbanded legionaries?”
Romulus met his gaze evenly. “Local militias may not rival the foederati in skill, but they have a stake in defending their homes. With proper training and support, they could hold key positions while the main forces focus on larger threats.”
Crassus gave a small nod of approval. “It is a practical solution, albeit one that would take time to implement. Training local forces would require resources—tools, weapons, and instructors. And the treasury is already stretched thin.”
Orestes leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “If we are to pursue this, we will need to start small. Select a few key regions to serve as examples and see if the model can expand.”
Felix smiled faintly, his tone almost fatherly. “A prudent course, no doubt. Though I would suggest keeping the Church involved, to ensure these militias do not become... unruly.”
Romulus kept his expression neutral, though inwardly he bristled at the bishop’s constant attempts to insert himself into every matter of state. “If the Church’s assistance is needed,” he said carefully, “it will be requested.”
Stolen story; please report.
Felix inclined his head, his smile unfaltering. “As you say, Dominus.”
The discussion continued, touching on logistical concerns, taxation strategies, and troop placements. Romulus absorbed everything, his mind racing as he pieced together the web of competing interests and fragile alliances that held the empire together. It was a delicate balance, one that could tip with the slightest misstep.
Finally, Orestes brought the meeting to a close. “We will reconvene in one week to assess progress. I trust everyone will see to their assigned tasks with the diligence Rome requires.”
The council members rose, exchanging polite farewells and thinly veiled barbs as they departed. Romulus remained seated, watching the room empty until only he, Orestes and his advisor, Crassus remained.
As the heavy oak doors closed behind the last departing senator, Orestes leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes turning to his son. A faint smile played on his lips, one that carried equal parts pride and curiosity.
“Well, Romulus,” he began, his tone light yet probing, “how did you find your first council session? A little different from the sketches and plans on your desk, I imagine.”
Romulus exhaled, leaning back slightly in his chair. “It was… overwhelming,” he admitted, his voice steady but tinged with frustration. “So much talk, so many opinions, but little action. Everyone seemed more concerned with their own interests than with Rome.”
Orestes chuckled softly, the sound devoid of mockery. “Welcome to governance, my son. The Senate thrives on debate and maneuvering. They’re not warriors, but they fight their battles all the same—through words and influence. You’ll grow accustomed to it.”
Romulus frowned. “And what if we don’t have time to grow accustomed? The countryside is falling into chaos, the roads are dangerous, and every delay weakens us further. We need to act.”
Orestes raised a hand, silencing the outburst. “Calm yourself, Romulus. The empire doesn’t run on impulse, nor can it survive on frustration alone. Remember, you wanted this. You insisted on having a budget and responsibility for your projects. Now you have a place at the table. That comes with weight and patience.”
Romulus nodded reluctantly, though the lines of tension in his brow didn’t ease. “I understand, but it feels like we’re moving too slowly. Every day that passes, others position themselves.”
Orestes’s gaze sharpened slightly. “Others? Speak plainly, Romulus. You mean Odoacer.”
Romulus hesitated, carefully weighing his words. “He commands great influence and an even greater army. I worry about placing too much trust in any one man, regardless of his service.”
Orestes sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Odoacer has proven himself loyal. He holds the provinces together where others have failed. His troops are disciplined, and his loyalty is rewarded accordingly.”
“I hope you’re right,” Romulus replied carefully. “But even the most disciplined men can be tempted if the rewards are greater elsewhere.”
Orestes studied his son, his expression a mix of scrutiny and reassurance. “A prudent caution, but misplaced in this case. Odoacer knows his strength comes from Rome. Without us, he is just another warlord in a sea of them.”
Romulus gave a faint nod, though inwardly he remained unconvinced. “Perhaps. Still, it is worth ensuring Ravenna’s defenses are strong, in case anyone else sees opportunity where we see stability.”
Orestes smiled faintly, his tone shifting to something lighter. “Ah, there it is. The strategist in you, always looking for the next move. Tell me, then—how is your project progressing?”
Romulus’s shoulders tightened at the question. “Gaius has begun reaching out to the veterans, and Andronikos has arranged a meeting with Ravenna’s leading craftsmen in two days. But everything takes time—training, supplies, coordination. Time we don’t have in abundance.”
“Good,” Orestes said, his voice carrying an approving weight. “You are learning to balance ambition with the realities of leadership. It is no small thing to coordinate men, resources, and priorities.”
Romulus’s frustration cracked through his composure. “But it’s not enough, Father. Waiting feels like surrender. Every delay is a chance for someone else to act while we prepare.”
Orestes’s gaze softened, though his tone remained firm. “Leadership is not about reacting to every shadow, Romulus. It’s about ensuring the foundation is strong enough to hold when the storm comes. Build wisely, and trust that strength.”
Crassus, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. His voice was low and measured. “Your father is right, Dominus. A foundation must be laid properly, or the structure will collapse. Haste can be as dangerous as inaction.”
Romulus pressed his lips into a thin line, nodding faintly. His mind was still racing with questions and concerns. One in particular stood out, and he decided to voice it.
“Father,” he began, meeting Orestes’s gaze directly, “what is the state of the treasury? If we are to rebuild and defend the empire properly, I need to know what resources we have at our disposal.”
Orestes exchanged a brief glance with Crassus before gesturing for him to answer. The advisor leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable.
“The imperial treasury,” Crassus began, his voice calm and precise, “is not what it once was. Years of conflict, diminishing tax revenues, and costly alliances have left it strained. As of this month, the treasury holds approximately 15,000 solidi.”
Romulus’s brow furrowed. “That seems… insufficient.”
Crassus inclined his head. “It is sufficient for immediate needs—paying the foederati, maintaining the palace and key garrisons, and funding some basic infrastructure. However, large-scale projects or extended campaigns would require either increased taxation, borrowing, or reallocating existing resources.”
Romulus exhaled slowly, absorbing the information. “And the reserves?”
Crassus’s expression darkened slightly. “Nearly depleted. The reserves were drawn upon heavily during the campaigns to stabilize northern Italy. What remains is negligible.”
Romulus turned to Orestes, his frustration creeping back into his voice. “How are we meant to rebuild or defend Rome when the coffers are almost empty?”
Orestes rested his elbows on the table, his fingers steepled. “By being resourceful. This is why we must carefully prioritize every effort, Romulus. We can’t afford to waste a single coin.”
Romulus nodded reluctantly. “And the state of our troops? I don’t mean the foederati—I want to know about Rome’s own legions in northern Italy.”
Orestes glanced at Crassus again, granting him permission to answer. The advisor straightened in his chair, his tone taking on an analytical edge.
“Our Roman troops in northern Italy number approximately 5,500,” Crassus said. “Of those, 800 are stationed in Mediolanum, tasked primarily with maintaining order in the region. Another 1,400 are scattered across various smaller forts and outposts, their main focus being defense against raiders and bandits.”
“And the rest?” Romulus asked.
“The remaining 3,300 are concentrated in Ravenna and its immediate surroundings,” Crassus replied. “This includes the Palatine Guard, which is well-trained but limited in number, as well as auxiliary forces that are reliable but lack the discipline of seasoned legionaries.”
Romulus leaned back, frowning. “That’s less than I expected.”
Crassus’s expression softened slightly, though his tone remained firm. “Dominus, the days of vast legions are behind us. The foederati make up the bulk of our fighting strength now. While the Roman troops are capable, they are fewer in number and often stretched thin.”
Romulus’s mind raced, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. “And their equipment? Their readiness?”
Crassus hesitated briefly before answering. “Adequate, though not exemplary. Supplies are inconsistent, and much of their equipment is reused or repurposed from older campaigns. Morale is stable, but prolonged neglect of their needs could erode that.”
Orestes spoke then, his tone measured. “This is why we rely on the foederati, Romulus. They fill the gaps left by our diminished legions. Without them, holding the borders would be impossible.”
Romulus’s jaw tightened. “And yet, the foederati’s loyalty is tied to their payments and land. What happens when those payments falter?”
Orestes fixed him with a steady gaze. “Then we ensure they don’t falter. That is why maintaining control over the treasury and the countryside is vital.”
Romulus nodded slowly, though his mind was far from settled. The precarious balance of the empire seemed to grow more fragile with each passing moment. He hesitated for a moment, then spoke, his voice thoughtful yet cautious.
“Perhaps,” he began, “we could seek aid from Constantinople. The Eastern Empire has resources we could use—gold, grain, even troops. A unified Rome could stand stronger against these threats.”
The reaction was immediate. Orestes’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as his hands gripped the arms of his chair. Even Crassus’s usual composure faltered for a brief moment, a shadow of unease crossing his face.
“No,” Orestes said, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “We will not beg the emperor in Constantinople for help.”
Romulus blinked, startled by the sharpness of his father’s tone. “But Father, wouldn’t an appeal to Basiliscus—or even his court—strengthen our position? We share the same heritage. Surely, they have a vested interest in seeing the West stabilized.”
Orestes leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “Do you truly believe that, Romulus? That the emperor of the East cares about anything beyond his own borders? Let me tell you what I have seen in my years of service.”
His voice grew heavier, tinged with anger and something deeper—bitterness. “Emperors in the West have risen and fallen like leaves in a storm. Julius Nepos, Glycerius, even Anthemius before them—what do they have in common? They were puppets, their strings pulled from Constantinople. Do you think it coincidence that every time a Western ruler sought independence, his reign ended abruptly?”
Romulus furrowed his brow. “You believe the East orchestrated their downfalls?”
Orestes leaned back slightly, his expression grim. “I don’t believe, Romulus. I know. The Eastern court has no interest in a strong Western Empire. To them, we are a buffer—a shield to absorb the blows of barbarians so that they might remain secure behind their wealth and walls. If they send aid, it will come with chains, not generosity. And if they send an army, it will march not to save us, but to replace us.”
Crassus spoke then, his tone quieter but no less firm. “Your father is correct, Dominus. The East has always seen the West as expendable. Their support would come at a cost—our autonomy, our identity. We would trade one set of problems for another.”
Romulus’s frustration mounted. “Then are we to stand alone? To face every threat with depleted coffers, scattered troops, and a Senate more interested in their estates than the empire?”
“Yes,” Orestes said simply. “Because standing alone means standing free. I will not see Ravenna bow to the whims of Constantinople, not while I draw breath.”
The finality in his tone silenced Romulus, though his mind continued to race. He understood his father’s anger, even shared it to some degree, but the sheer weight of their isolation pressed down on him like a millstone. He took a steadying breath and nodded, his voice quieter when he spoke again.
“Then we must ensure our strength comes from within,” he said. “Rebuild the treasury, reinforce the legions, and make Ravenna a fortress no one can breach.”
Orestes’s expression softened slightly, a faint glimmer of approval in his eyes. “Now you’re thinking like an emperor. Remember, Romulus, we are Rome. No one will save us but ourselves.”
Crassus nodded in agreement. “A difficult path, Dominus, but the only one worth taking.”
As the conversation reached its end, Orestes dismissed Crassus with a curt nod. The advisor bowed slightly before leaving the room, his footsteps echoing off the marble floors. When the heavy oak doors closed behind him, silence settled in the chamber, broken only by the faint crackle of a dying brazier.
Orestes leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting to the worn mosaics on the ceiling. For a long moment, he said nothing, and Romulus, unsure whether to speak, remained silent as well.
Finally, Orestes exhaled deeply, the sound weighted with something Romulus couldn’t immediately place. “You’ve changed, Romulus,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “Just a few weeks ago, you were still a boy in my eyes. I see now that you’re becoming something else.”
Romulus shifted slightly, unsure of how to respond. He caught a faint wistfulness in his father’s tone, an emotion he rarely saw in the man who had always seemed unshakable.
“I wanted you to wear the purple to protect you,” Orestes continued, his gaze still distant. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? The purple protects, yes, but it also paints a target on your back. I thought if I placed you on the throne, I could shield you from the worst of it. Keep you in the backlines while I stabilized the empire. The senators and bishops would demand your attention now and then, but the rest… I wanted to carry it myself.”
Orestes turned his eyes to Romulus, studying him with an expression that was both proud and pained. “But you’ve become more than I expected. More than I ever allowed myself to hope for. You’ve grown into someone I can share this burden with. Someone who can see the weight of the decisions we must make and not turn away.”
Romulus’s throat tightened as his father’s words settled over him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Orestes speak so candidly, so vulnerably. The man before him seemed less like the stoic Magister Militarum and more like a father speaking to his son.
“I’ve always carried this weight alone,” Orestes admitted, his voice growing quieter. “It was easier that way. But seeing you today, in that council chamber, holding your own… You’ve proven me wrong, Romulus. And I’m proud of you for it.”
Romulus’s chest swelled with a mix of pride and humility. “Thank you, Father,” he said, his voice steady but warm. “I only hope I can continue to live up to your expectations.”
Orestes smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth softening into something almost tender. “You’ve already surpassed them, my son. Now, let’s ensure Rome does the same.”
The moment of sentiment passed, but its weight lingered as father and son sat in the quiet chamber.