Romulus entered the meeting hall with Andronikos at his side, the Greek carrying a stack of sketches and plans that he had meticulously prepared. The air inside the room was thick with the scent of wood and stone dust, faint remnants of the craftsmen’s trade. A semi-circle of masons, carpenters, and smiths awaited them, their postures wary but respectful, their calloused hands folded or resting on their tools.
Romulus paused at the head of the table and offered a brief nod of greeting. “Thank you for coming,” he began, his voice steady and deliberate. “I know your time is precious, and your work even more so. But I’ve asked you here because your skills are vital to Ravenna’s future—and to its survival.”
Andronikos stepped forward, unfurling the first of the sketches onto the table. The craftsmen leaned in, their faces betraying a mix of curiosity and skepticism. The lines on the parchment detailed the city’s fortifications: its walls, gates, and towers, each annotated with proposed modifications.
Romulus gestured to the plans. “You know Ravenna’s defenses better than anyone. The walls are sturdy, yes, but time and neglect have left them vulnerable. Cracks in the stone, weakened foundations—these are risks we cannot afford.”
He pointed to the main gates depicted on the plans. “The wooden gates are another concern. They’ve served their purpose, but wood burns, and it weakens with age. I propose we replace them with reinforced gates—metal-clad, double-leaf gates supported by iron bars. Heavy, yes, but far stronger and resistant to both fire and brute force.”
A murmur rippled through the room as the craftsmen exchanged glances. Romulus pressed on, turning to the towers. “The towers, too, need improvement. Their height gives us an advantage, but they lack platforms for heavy weapons. I propose we retrofit them with proper platforms to mount ballistae—siege engines capable of hurling bolts at approaching enemies.”
Andronikos unrolled another sheet, revealing detailed diagrams of ballista mechanisms. The craftsmen leaned closer, their interest piqued. “With these in place,” Romulus continued, “we can cover more ground and strike at enemies before they reach the walls. It’s a small change that could make a significant difference.”
He turned to the group, his gaze steady. “But I am not a mason or a smith. These are my ideas, my vision, but you are the ones who must bring it to life. What do you think? Are these plans feasible? Can we make these changes to Ravenna’s defenses?”
The room fell silent for a moment as the craftsmen studied the plans and exchanged quiet murmurs. Romulus waited, his hands resting lightly on the edge of the table. He knew the value of their input and that this was as much about winning their trust as it was about the logistics of the work.
Finally, an older mason with graying hair and a lined face stepped forward, his voice carrying the gravelly tone of years spent shouting over stonecutters. “Dominus,” he began, nodding respectfully, “the ideas are sound. The gates, the ballistae platforms—they’re all possible. But there are challenges.”
Romulus leaned forward slightly. “Speak freely.”
The mason gestured to the plans. “The gates will require more than just iron and wood. We’ll need skilled blacksmiths to forge the metal sheets and hinges, and time to fit them properly into the existing framework. As for the towers, reinforcing them to hold ballistae will require additional support beams and precise engineering. We’ll need craftsmen who understand siege engines to mount them securely.”
Another voice joined in, this time a younger carpenter. “And the walls, Dominus. Repairing the cracks and weaknesses will require stone of the right kind, not just what we can scavenge from the countryside. Quarrying and transporting it will take effort—and coin.”
The murmurs grew louder as others chimed in, pointing out logistical and material challenges. Romulus listened intently, nodding occasionally. Their concerns were valid, and addressing them would be crucial to the project’s success. When the voices quieted, he spoke again.
“These challenges are precisely why I’ve brought you here,” Romulus said. “To identify the obstacles and find solutions together. If it’s materials you need, I’ll ensure they are secured. If it’s manpower, I’ll see that you have it. And as for coin—” He glanced at Andronikos, who gave a faint nod. “—we will allocate what is necessary to ensure this work is done, and done properly.”
The room fell silent once more, the craftsmen studying Romulus with expressions that ranged from cautious optimism to lingering skepticism. It was clear they weren’t yet convinced, but there was a spark of something—hope, perhaps—that hadn’t been there when he first entered.
“Your work will not go unrecognized,” Romulus added, his voice firm. “Or unrewarded. I promise you fair payment for every hour, every effort you put into this project. No man here will be cheated under my watch.”
The silence that followed Romulus’s words was heavy, oppressive even, as though the room itself held its breath. The craftsmen exchanged glances, their expressions ranging from guarded to outright dubious. The young emperor’s sincerity was clear, but the weight of past grievances hung over them like a storm cloud.
Finally, the older mason who had spoken earlier stepped forward again, his lined face hardening. “Dominus,” he said, his voice carrying the measured tone of someone accustomed to speaking uncomfortable truths, “it’s not that we don’t believe you mean what you say. But promises… promises have come before.”
Romulus’s brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded for the man to continue.
“We’ve been called to these halls before,” the mason said, gesturing vaguely around him, “by your predecessors. They, too, spoke of grand plans. Of fortifications and glory for Rome. And do you know what we got for it?” His voice turned bitter. “Scraps. If we were paid at all.”
A younger craftsman, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, added, “And when we spoke up? When we refused to work for nothing? We were dragged to the dungeons, beaten, or worse. They called it service to the empire. I call it theft.”
Several murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. The tension was palpable now, the collective grievances of the craftsmen surfacing like long-simmering embers stoked into flame.
The older mason nodded at the younger man’s words before turning back to Romulus. “Dominus, you speak well, and perhaps your intentions are good. But we’ve learned not to trust words, no matter how fine they sound. We’ve been lied to too many times.”
Romulus felt a flicker of anger—not at the men, but at the legacy of exploitation that hung over his office like a stain. He took a slow breath, steadying himself before he replied.
“I understand your mistrust,” he said, his tone quieter but no less firm. “And you’re right to feel as you do. If I stood in your place, hearing promises from an emperor, I might feel the same.”
He stepped closer to the table, his hands resting lightly on its worn surface as he met the eyes of the gathered craftsmen. “But I am not my predecessors. I am not here to force you into anything or to demand your labor without reward. I am here because I need your help—and because Rome needs it.”
A carpenter spoke up, his voice laced with skepticism. “Words, Dominus. That’s all they’ve ever given us.”
The older mason let out a dry chuckle, the sound carrying a mix of weariness and incredulity. “And words, Dominus, are all we’ve ever had to rely on. Promises made and broken, assurances given with one hand while the other takes everything away.”
He gestured toward Romulus with a calloused hand. “You wear the purple, yes, and your words carry authority. But you’re still just a boy. What power do you truly have to ensure we’re paid? To make good on the promises you’re so eager to give?”
The room grew tense as the craftsmen murmured in agreement, their skepticism hardening into outright doubt. Romulus felt Andronikos shift slightly beside him, but the Greek remained silent, his calm gaze fixed on the crowd.
The older mason pressed on, his voice rising with the weight of long-held grievances. “We’ve heard it all before—from emperors, governors, magisters. They tell us we’re the backbone of Rome, that our work is vital. But when the time comes to pay us? Nothing. Scraps, or worse, threats. You can understand why we’re cautious, Dominus. Why we don’t trust the word of an emperor, no matter how earnest he seems.”
Romulus let the words settle, the room falling into a heavy silence. He could feel the eyes of every man on him, waiting for his response. The weight of their distrust pressed against him, but he refused to waver.
“I understand,” he said finally, his voice steady. “You’ve been wronged—by men who wore the same mantle I now bear. I cannot erase that. I cannot undo the harm that was done to you.”
He took a step closer, his gaze sweeping across the room. “But I can ensure that it does not happen again. You said my words are not enough, and you’re right. Words must be backed by action. Let us put this agreement into writing—a contract, binding and clear. Each of you will have your terms laid out, and every man will be paid what he is owed.”
The older mason squinted at Romulus, his skepticism unwavering. “A contract, Dominus. Written words, signed and sealed. That would be something, but even those can be broken.” He paused, looking around at the other craftsmen before speaking again. “If we agree to this, we’ll need a guarantor—someone who will hold you, and us, accountable.”
Romulus furrowed his brow. “A guarantor? Do you mean another party to oversee the terms?”
The mason nodded. “The Church, Dominus. They have the authority, the reach, and the permanence to ensure that all parties—emperor or craftsman—abide by the agreement. If the Church holds the contracts, no one will dare break them.”
The murmurs of assent from the other craftsmen grew louder. For them, the Church represented an institution that was larger than any emperor and more enduring than any reign. But for Romulus, it was a troubling proposition. He masked his displeasure, but inwardly, he bristled at the idea of ceding more influence to Bishop Felix and his growing hold over Ravenna.
Romulus hesitated, weighing his response carefully. He couldn’t openly oppose the Church without risking alienating these men further, but neither could he allow such a critical project to be fully dependent on their oversight.
“I see why you might think the Church a fitting guarantor,” Romulus began, his tone measured. “They are a respected institution, and their reach is wide. However, the role you propose is not without its challenges. The Church has its own interests, and while they may align with ours at times, they do not always serve the same goals as Rome.”
The craftsmen exchanged glances, some nodding in agreement while others remained skeptical. Sensing the tension, Romulus pressed on. “Instead, I propose another solution. The terms of our agreement will be overseen by the magistrate of Ravenna and his office. The magistrate is charged with upholding the laws of Rome, and his authority is bound by those laws. Furthermore, I will personally appoint a committee of respected citizens—men known to you, chosen from among the guilds and local leaders—to serve as additional guarantors.”
A murmur of curiosity rippled through the group, and Romulus seized the moment. “This way, the agreements are not tied solely to me or to any one institution. They will be upheld by the city’s officials, by men you trust, and by the laws of Rome itself. And if any party fails to honor these terms, there will be swift and transparent recourse.”
The older mason crossed his arms, his expression hard to read. “And what if the magistrate or your committee turns out to be just as unreliable as the emperors of old?”
Romulus met his gaze steadily. “Then you will have my name and my seal on the contract. If I fail to honor it, I will answer to you—and to Rome. Let it be written that my own honor and rule are tied to the success of this endeavor.”
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The silence in the room was heavy as the craftsmen mulled over his words. Finally, the mason spoke again, his tone cautious but less hostile. “It’s a better offer than we’ve had in years, Dominus. But trust is earned, not given. If you deliver on your promises, we’ll see.”
Romulus nodded, understanding the unspoken challenge. “Then let us begin earning that trust now. Andronikos, ensure the scribes are summoned. We’ll draft the contracts tonight, with input from all present.”
Andronikos inclined his head, stepping forward with a reassuring smile. “It will be done, Dominus.”
The tension in the room eased slightly as the craftsmen exchanged cautious glances, their initial skepticism tempered by curiosity. One of the younger blacksmiths stepped closer to the table, his gaze lingering on the sketches of the proposed gates.
“The design here,” he said, pointing to a diagram, “it’s solid, but if we’re going to clad the gates in iron, we’ll need a better supply chain for the raw materials. The local forges can manage the shaping, but getting enough high-quality ore in time could be a challenge.”
Another craftsman, a wiry mason with sharp eyes, chimed in, his voice laced with a hint of enthusiasm. “The towers… if we’re reinforcing them for ballistae, we could add secondary platforms lower down for archers. They wouldn’t have the same range as the ballistae, but it’d give us more options during a siege.”
The room buzzed with murmurs as the craftsmen began to engage more earnestly, their professional instincts overriding some of their distrust. Romulus watched as they pointed to specific sections of the sketches, debating details and offering suggestions. The energy in the room shifted, becoming more collaborative.
Romulus allowed them to discuss for a moment before raising his hand, his gesture commanding their attention. “Your ideas are excellent, and this is precisely the collaboration I hoped for. But Ravenna’s needs extend beyond its defenses. If I may, I’d like to hear your thoughts on other projects vital to the city.”
The craftsmen stilled, their curiosity piqued. The older mason folded his arms, nodding for Romulus to continue.
“Our aqueducts,” Romulus said, gesturing to Andronikos, who unrolled a fresh set of plans. “Many of them are in disrepair. Cracks and blockages mean the flow of clean water into the city is unreliable. What would it take to repair them?”
The wiry mason spoke first. “The aqueducts are old but resilient. Replacing broken sections of stone isn’t the hardest part—it’s ensuring the gradient remains steady and the flow isn’t disrupted. We’d need skilled labor, tools, and scaffolding to reach the elevated sections.”
“And time,” another craftsman added. “Water systems can’t be rushed. If we’re going to do it, we need to do it properly.”
Romulus nodded thoughtfully. “And the roads?” he asked. “Not just within the city but those connecting Ravenna to nearby settlements. If we cannot move goods and people efficiently, everything suffers.”
A burly carpenter, his arms thick from years of hauling timber, stepped forward. “Stone roads are the best for durability, but they’re slow to build and expensive. Repaired timber bridges could work in the short term, but we’d need regular maintenance.”
Romulus turned to the plans once more. “And what of the mills? Water-powered ones for grain. I’ve seen designs that could increase output dramatically. Have any of you worked on such mechanisms before?”
The group exchanged glances before one of the younger blacksmiths spoke up. “I haven’t worked on mills, but I know the basic principles. If you have designs, Dominus, I could collaborate with others who have the experience.”
Romulus’s gaze swept across the group, his confidence bolstered by their engagement. “Then let’s prioritize,” he said. “The fortifications first—Ravenna’s defenses cannot wait. But alongside that, I want plans drafted for the aqueduct repairs, road maintenance, and new mills. We’ll approach each in turn, using the same collaboration we’ve begun here.”
The older mason, now visibly less skeptical, inclined his head. “You think big, Dominus. But as we’ve said—trust takes time. Deliver on the fortifications, and we’ll see about the rest.”
Romulus met his gaze with a steady resolve. “I will deliver,” he said. “And together, we’ll ensure Ravenna not only survives but thrives.”
As murmurs of agreement spread through the room, Andronikos stepped forward, his voice calm and reassuring. “Scribes will arrive shortly to begin drafting the contracts. If you have specific concerns or terms to include, now is the time to voice them.”
The craftsmen, their skepticism not entirely erased but softened, began to speak among themselves, their initial hesitations giving way to cautious optimism. Romulus stepped back slightly, allowing them space to deliberate while Andronikos managed the details.
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As the scribes entered the room and began drafting contracts with the input of the craftsmen, Romulus stepped to the side, observing the process. His mind, however, was racing ahead to other pressing matters. Once the contracts were finalized and the craftsmen began signing them, the atmosphere shifted—less tense, more focused. Romulus noted the names of those who had been most vocal and engaged during the meeting.
The older mason, introduced earlier as Marcellus Claudius, signed his name with deliberate precision, while the burly carpenter, Quintus, exchanged a few quiet words with a fellow craftsman before following suit. Among the blacksmiths, young Varus Caius lingered at the table, his sharp eyes scanning the terms before adding his mark.
When the last of the craftsmen had signed, Romulus spoke again, his tone calm but commanding enough to halt their movements. “Claudius, Quintus, Caius—if I might trouble you and a few others to remain for a moment longer?”
The named craftsmen exchanged curious glances, their expressions a mix of hesitation and intrigue. They stepped back from the table as the others began filing out, some murmuring among themselves about the unusual summons. Romulus waited until the doors closed, leaving only the craftsmen, Andronikos, and himself in the room.
“There’s another matter I wish to discuss with you,” Romulus began, stepping closer to the table. “While the fortifications and infrastructure of Ravenna are paramount, our defenses must also extend beyond stone walls and gates.”
Claudius tilted his head, his weathered face skeptical. “Dominus, you mean weapons?”
“Exactly,” Romulus replied. “Pikes, for example. Ravenna’s militia and guards need arms that can be produced efficiently and in significant quantities. Can your forges manage this?”
Caius, the young blacksmith, nodded after a moment’s thought. “Pikes, yes. The design is straightforward—long wooden shafts with forged iron tips. If we gather the proper timber and iron, we could produce a steady supply.”
Romulus acknowledged him with a small nod, then shifted the conversation. “And crossbows? They’re more complex, I know, but their utility in defense cannot be overstated. They can be wielded by less-trained soldiers and provide immense stopping power.”
The craftsmen exchanged uneasy glances. Quintus, the carpenter, was the first to speak. “Dominus, we’ve repaired crossbows before—simple ones used for hunting—but to produce them in numbers, let alone for military use, is beyond most of us. The mechanisms are intricate. The ballistae are similar, but those require specialists we don’t have.”
Claudius crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. “It’s not impossible, Dominus, but it would take time. We’d need to experiment, to replicate what we have and improve upon it. Without the knowledge of a skilled weaponsmith, we’d be working blind.”
Romulus remained undeterred. “Then start with what you know. Gather your best carpenters and blacksmiths. Examine any existing crossbows you can find—learn from them. If we must innovate, then we will. And I’ll ensure more craftsmen arrive to join you. Among them may be those who have the expertise we lack.”
“And if no such craftsmen come?” Claudius asked, his tone respectful but pointed.
“Then the work you begin here will be even more crucial,” Romulus said firmly. “You have the ingenuity and skill to rise to the challenge. I’ve seen it already. Ravenna’s future may depend on it.”
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of Romulus’s words settling over the group. Finally, Quintus spoke again, his voice thoughtful. “We’ll try, Dominus. The pikes we can start immediately, and we’ll examine any crossbows or plans we can find. But it will take time, and we’ll need resources.”
“You’ll have what you need,” Romulus assured them. “Timber, iron, tools—whatever it takes.”
Caius nodded, his youthful enthusiasm tempered by the magnitude of the task. “We’ll do our best, Dominus.”
Romulus allowed a faint smile, sensing the faint stirrings of commitment among the group. “That’s all I ask. Your efforts here will be remembered—not just by me, but by all of Rome.”
With a final nod, the craftsmen began to filter out of the room, their quiet discussions already turning to the tasks ahead. Andronikos stepped forward, his expression one of quiet approval.
“You’ve given them a great deal to think about,” the Greek said.
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Romulus trudged into his chamber, the weight of the day's negotiations and decisions pressing heavily on him. The once-bright afternoon sun had faded, casting long shadows across the room. His desk, cluttered with scrolls, sketches, and hastily scrawled notes, seemed to mock him with its chaotic promise of ideas waiting to be realized.
He dropped into his chair, letting out a sigh that felt as though it carried the burdens of not just one day, but an entire empire. For a moment, he sat there, unmoving, before reaching for the nearest scroll. The rough parchment crinkled under his fingers as he unrolled it, revealing a sketch of a primitive blast furnace—a bloomery, annotated with his crude attempts to outline the process of producing higher-quality iron.
The words "carbon infusion" and "bellows" were scribbled in the margins, next to rough diagrams of layered charcoal and ore. He shook his head, the inadequacy of the design glaring at him. He knew the principles—the heat, the chemical reactions—but making it work in practice required more than knowledge. It demanded tools, precision, and craftsmen who understood metallurgy far better than he did.
Pushing the bloomery sketch aside, he grabbed another scroll. This one bore an equally amateurish diagram of an explosive composition—gunpowder. The ingredients were crudely listed: saltpeter, charcoal, sulfur. He understood the proportions in theory, but how to refine saltpeter or safely combine the components eluded him. His mind conjured images of explosions gone wrong, craftsmen injured or killed in pursuit of his visions. He placed the scroll down with a shudder, his confidence faltering.
Another parchment caught his eye. The drawing was of a steam engine, its pistons and levers sketched with an almost childlike simplicity. The annotations—steam pressure, release valves, motion transfer—showed his grasp of the concept, but the execution was a mountain too steep to climb. Who could craft such intricate components? Who could understand the tolerances required to contain and harness such power without catastrophe?
Romulus leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. He had knowledge, yes, but not mastery. Ideas, but no means to bring them to life. The gap between theory and practice felt insurmountable. His dreams of transforming Ravenna into a bastion of strength and innovation seemed to slip further from his grasp with each passing moment.
He picked up another scrap of parchment, this one bearing rough calculations for an improved grain mill. Simple gears, powered by water—something more achievable, perhaps. But even this required precision and skilled laborers who could craft the parts to his specifications.
His head sank into his hands. "I’m just a boy," he muttered to himself, echoing the craftsmen’s earlier doubts. “What am I doing trying to reshape the empire? I don’t even have the tools to start.”
Romulus sat motionless for a moment, the enormity of his responsibilities pressing down on him like a lead weight. The funds Orestes had granted him—a modest treasury compared to the empire’s needs—were already stretched thin. Most of it was allocated to strengthening Ravenna’s defenses: gates, walls, ballistae platforms, and pikes. The remainder was reserved to train a core for a new army, a foundation he hoped would restore Rome’s military strength. And yet, the list of demands grew longer with each passing day. Roads, aqueducts, mills—all essential, all clamoring for attention and coin.
He sighed, his gaze drifting to the window. The faint hum of the city reached him, muffled by the thick walls of the palace. A pang of envy stabbed at his chest. The people outside those walls lived their lives free from the crushing weight of the purple. They had their struggles, yes, but they weren’t burdened with the fate of an empire. For a fleeting moment, Romulus allowed himself to imagine a different life—a simpler one. A life where he could run in the streets, laugh with friends, and grow up without the shadow of an imperial throne looming over him.
But the fantasy shattered as quickly as it had formed. That life wasn’t his to live. He was the emperor, whether he liked it or not, and the weight of countless lives rested on his shoulders. He turned his gaze back to the window, his eyes settling on the faint lights of Ravenna beyond the palace gates. So many people. Farmers, merchants, artisans, children—each with their own struggles, dreams, and fears. Their fate depended on him. And yet… he realized with a pang of guilt that he didn’t know them. Not really.
Romulus straightened in his chair, the thought gnawing at him. He’d lived his entire life in the sheltered confines of palaces and estates. His glimpses of the city had been limited to brief journeys by carriage, always along the main roads, always surrounded by guards. He had never walked its streets, never seen its markets, never spoken to the people whose lives he was sworn to protect.
He felt a sudden, almost desperate urge to change that. If he was to lead these people, how could he do so without understanding them? Without seeing their lives firsthand? The idea stirred something within him, a flicker of resolve. Perhaps… perhaps he could start small.
Gaius Severus’s family came to mind—his wife, Lavinia, and their two sons. They were an ordinary family in many ways, grounded in a life far removed from the palace. Visiting them would be a way to step beyond the walls, to begin understanding the world outside.
Romulus stood abruptly, pacing to the window. The city stretched out before him, darkened streets winding between modest homes and bustling markets. The thought of walking those streets—seeing the people not as an emperor but as one of them—both thrilled and terrified him. He could almost hear Gaius’s gruff voice warning him of the dangers, insisting on a full retinue of guards. But that wasn’t what Romulus wanted. He didn’t want the pomp or the distance. He wanted to be among the people, to see the city through their eyes.
He turned back to his desk, his thoughts racing. Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow, he would speak to Gaius and propose the visit. He would ask the centurion to accompany him—not as a guard, but as a guide. And if Gaius’s family agreed, perhaps they could show him Ravenna as it truly was.