28th of July, 476 AD

  Gundobad rode at the head of the vanguard, squinting through the day’s scorching haze as Ravenna’s sprawling skyline slowly came into view. He spat dust, curses stirring in his throat. They had been on the move since first light, two to three thousand strong, half of them cavalry, driving forward with an impatience that gnawed at his temper. Every man here yearned for battle—and every wasted moment fueled mounting anger.

  Flanked by his friend Wulfgar, Gundobad gripped the reins of his horse. He scowled at the sun-baked road ahead, its winding path bordered by scraggly farmland. He recalled how Odoacer had pressed them to hurry: “We must attack Ravenna quickly,” the warlord had said. “Take the city before the Eastern Empire can intervene.” Fine words, Gundobad thought sourly, but now they had arrived only to meet an eerily empty stretch of fields.

  He could just make out the shape of Ravenna in the distance—an old city core with ancient walls hugging the center, and a messy ring of houses beyond. The outer neighborhoods were not enclosed by any formal fortifications, more a labyrinth of narrow streets and huddled rooftops that extended out from the older walls. It should have been an easy push, but the silence was unsettling. No peasants came fleeing, no watchmen stood out on the roads. The quiet reeked of a trap.

  Wulfgar rode up alongside him, dagger in hand, picking at a notch in the blade. “Too quiet,” he said in a low voice, eyes scanning the horizon. “I don’t like it.”

  Gundobad grimaced. “Bah. Romans. They’d rather scuttle away than fight in open field.” He tugged his horse to a halt, beckoning the next few riders to slow. “We’ll spread out in a wide line. If they’ve left behind any hidden ambush, we flush it out.”

  Behind him, the vanguard responded with a ripple of motion—scouts spurred forward, cavalry fanning out on either side of the road. Gundobad urged his stallion on, clenching his jaw at the creeping sense of delay. He wanted to storm in and savage any opposition. But he had seen enough war to know that unthinking charges ended with men dying in mud and rusted iron.

  They rode another half-mile, Wulfgar sniffing the air like a wolf. Then the first obstacle appeared: a heap of felled trees and sharpened stakes blocking the main road. A small ditch in front of it, half-concealed by loose straw and old cloth, suggested a pit trap. One of Gundobad’s outriders almost plunged his horse into it, cursing loudly as the animal reared.

  “Cowards,” Gundobad snarled, eyes igniting with anger. “So this is how they greet us? Traps and ditches. Not an honest shield line in sight.” He flung a hand outward. “Clear the road. Drag those logs aside or burn them if you must.”

  Several foot soldiers advanced, prodding the ground for more pits. They found more cunning little foxholes full of spikes, carefully camouflaged with old sacks. It took the better part of half an hour to dismantle everything. Gundobad paced in agitation, cursing under his breath each time a soldier uncovered yet another hidden obstacle. The entire time, no Roman archer or militia emerged to contest them. The only foes were deadwood and cunning traps. It felt like an insult.

  Eventually, they pressed on, the road continuing in a gentle curve. Smoke rose lazily from some distant points in the farmland—fields possibly burned in haste, leaving little to forage. Gundobad scowled. “They’re starving us of any advantage,” he observed to Wulfgar. “No easy supplies, no comfortable lodging.”

  Wulfgar flicked a glance at him, face grim. “They want us worn out by the time we reach their walls. Odoacer warned of this. Said we’d meet a city that’s half destroyed outside, forcing us into narrow streets if we want a fight.”

  Gundobad let out a sharp breath. “I’d prefer them to stand and face us as men, rather than run and sabotage.” Then, through a gap in the roadside trees, he spotted a shape: the stump of a watchtower rising from a slight hill, presumably a forward outpost the Romans had used. “We’ll check that,” he grunted, pointing.

  He led a detachment of about twenty cavalry off the road, Wulfgar in tow. The tower was a squat stone structure, no more than two stories tall, with its upper half partly collapsed. The small yard around it was strewn with scraps of cloth and empty crates, suggesting a hasty evacuation. No sign of living defenders. Gundobad barked a command to dismount.

  Approaching on foot, some of his men warily tested the ground with spears. Sure enough, they found boards covering shallow pits—a standard Roman trick. Gundobad’s lips curled back. “Again,” he growled. “We waste time on these worthless traps.”

  Inside the tower’s base, the door stood ajar. The smell of stale smoke and oil drifted out. One warrior carefully nudged the door open. The gloom within was thick, but sunlight through the battered roof revealed an interior space littered with broken benches and scattered gear. A barricade half-blocked the stairs leading up.

  Suddenly, an acrid hiss rang out—someone had triggered a tripwire. Gundobad heard a hiss of liquid, followed by a sudden whoosh. Fire sprang across the floor, fed by spilled oil. Two men jumped back with shouts, narrowly avoiding the flames. Smoke poured upward, swirling black and suffocating. In the chaos, Wulfgar shouted for water, but the watchtower interior was already ablaze. The men scrambled out, choking, as the old timbers within caught.

  “Gods above!” spat Gundobad, eyes stinging. “They rigged the tower to burn if we entered. Another of their damnable snares. Or was that supposed to kill a few of us for good measure?”

  One soldier coughed and batted at a patch of fire on his sleeve. Another peeled off a smoldering cloak. The tower’s second level began to collapse in a rush of sparks. Realizing the structure was lost, Gundobad angrily hurled a chunk of stone at the base. “They call us barbarians. Meanwhile, they toy with traps like some cowering animals.”

  Though no man had perished, it was another delay, more frustration. Each trap that forced them to slow, to scatter, to douse flames, to treat minor injuries, chipped away at Gundobad’s composure. Time was slipping through his fingers. He stomped back toward the main road, men spitting curses in the swirling smoke behind him.

  All morning they advanced like that. At multiple crossroads, they met barricades of wagons or rubble. Archers? None to be seen—just more pitfalls and rows of caltrops scattered in hidden ruts. A horse went lame after stepping on a caltrop, its rider fuming while foot soldiers rummaged for bits of old cloth to remove the barbed spike.

  By midday, they had reached a vantage point from which they could truly see Ravenna’s low outer districts. The centuries-old inner walls rose in the distance, though large swaths of the city lay outside those fortifications. Indeed, the outer neighborhoods were half-abandoned: windows boarded, doors left ajar, some rooftops burnt or partially collapsed.

  Gundobad gazed out at the labyrinth of winding streets that spanned between them and the walled core. “So that’s the nest we have to march through.”

  Wulfgar stood close by, dagger still in hand. “They said the roads would be tricky. I never realized the scale. The Romans left us a city of hazards.”

  Gundobad clenched his fists, lips curling in distaste. “No pitched battle. They want to lure us into these narrow lanes. Our cavalry’s half-useless in cramped alleys. Meanwhile, they hold the final fortress behind their walls.”

  A junior officer rode up, saluting. “Chieftain, another barricade on the main route, with more pit traps behind. We can dismantle them, but it’ll take time.”

  Gundobad let out a snarling exhale. “Then do it. But watch for hidden oil or fire traps.”

  “Yes, Chieftain.” The officer galloped off, shouting orders at the rear.

  Wulfgar turned, eyes flicking over the sprawl again. “Even once we break these obstacles, the Romans will slow us with more. If we push deeper too soon, we risk ambush in the very streets.”

  Gundobad’s jaw tightened. “I know. But we can’t just sit here. We press forward, keep removing their little ‘surprises’ until we camp close enough to threaten that inner wall by nightfall. Let them see we’re not deterred by their coward’s game.”

  He swung into his saddle. The rest of the vanguard followed, cavalry hooves scuffing the dusty road. They advanced further, forced to circumvent a large crater in the pavement that had apparently been dug to break wagon axles. More cursing, more sweat, more time lost.

  At one point, a horse stumbled into concealed shards of glass, causing it to whinny in pain. Gundobad erupted, “Another Roman trick! Cowards!” He nearly drew his sword to hack at the nearest wooden fence out of sheer rage.

  Yet rage wouldn’t solve anything. The men around him stared, waiting for direction. With a grunt, he reined in his wrath. “Clear it, then keep moving,” he barked.

  So they inched forward, step by painful step, dismantling obstructions that had clearly been prepared days in advance. The city’s outer blocks, while mostly deserted, gave the eerie sense of watchful eyes behind every shutter. Even if no Roman militia fired from rooftops, Gundobad’s instincts told him they were observed.

  By early afternoon, the vanguard had carved a path perhaps half a mile into the outskirts. The houses grew denser, single-story huts mingling with modest workshops. Overhead, seagulls circled from the distant port side, adding shrill cries to the tension.

  Gundobad guided his warhorse deeper into the lifeless streets, sweat beading beneath his helm. The vanguard stretched behind him, churning through dust and debris in disjointed columns. They were past the flimsy barricades, past a half-mile of abandoned outer districts, and into Ravenna’s low-slung neighborhoods where buildings pressed close, casting cramped alleys and blind corners.

  The houses here were taller, with multiple floors—two, three, sometimes four stories. Windows looked out like dark, accusatory eyes. The occasional deserted cart or cluster of overturned barrels gave an eerie hush to the scene. Gundobad clenched his jaw, scanning rooftops. His instincts prickled.

  Ahead, one of his forward riders emerged from a side street. The man looked shaken. “Chieftain,” he gasped, “the main road is partly blocked, but we can pass single-file between some fallen beams.”

  Gundobad flicked a gaze at Wulfgar. “Of course. More Roman nonsense.” He urged his horse forward, the clop of hooves echoing on the cobblestones.

  They entered a narrower lane that snaked between tall, ancient stone houses. Gundobad’s cavalry compressed into a single line, foot soldiers carefully picking through rubble on the flanks, trying to keep watch. The stench of stale ash and rotting garbage clung to the air; evidently, the inhabitants had fled days ago, leaving behind only scraps of half-burned furnishings.

  Suddenly, a sharp hiss split the silence—a volley of quarrels whipped down from above, clattering into men and horses. The impact was brutal: one horse shrieked, a rider toppled with a bolt through his neck. Others threw up shields, cursing. Gundobad’s pulse spiked. At last, they show themselves.

  “Shields up!” he bellowed. But even as they spun toward the rooftops on the left, a second volley sliced in from the right, drilling into the vanguard’s flank. Cries went up, men staggering or tumbling from saddles. One cavalry officer took a bolt in the thigh and roared in agony. The narrow lane trapped them. They could not form a tight shield wall; nor could the cavalry properly charge. Panic rippled among the front ranks.

  “Take cover against the walls!” Wulfgar shouted, dismounting to duck beneath an archway. Dozens followed suit—horses were too large and vulnerable in such a cramped kill zone. Gundobad cursed, scanning for any sign of the attackers. High overhead, glimpses of movement flickered behind rooftop parapets and shuttered windows. Roman crossbowmen, he realized, firing from vantage points. He gnashed his teeth—this was precisely what he had feared.

  With a rageful growl, Gundobad leapt from his horse. “You, you, and you,” he snarled at the nearest half-dozen foot soldiers. “Find a way up there—force them out!”

  They rushed to a door along the lane’s right side, hacking it open with axes. A handful of men poured in, climbing rickety stairs. Meanwhile, more crossbow bolts rattled off shields or punched into unwary stragglers. Gundobad pressed himself against a wall, hearing the hiss of more bolts overhead. Across the lane, Wulfgar and a group sheltered behind a half-toppled wagon.

  A cry echoed from above. “They’re gone!” a barbarian warrior yelled from a rooftop vantage. Gundobad glanced upward: a few of his men had reached the top floor, only to find the crossbow positions empty. They must be moving swiftly from building to building. Indeed, the next moment, bolts rained down from the other side of the street, cutting into the men on the roof.

  “Spread out!” Gundobad barked. “Take the side streets! We can’t all be funneled into one lane.” He waved to the cavalry who had dismounted, urging them to break into smaller groups. The moans of wounded men twisted his gut. We’re exposed.

  A portion of the vanguard, pinned in that lane, pulled back. Others pushed forward into branching alleys. The idea was to flush out these Romans so they couldn’t vanish between rooftops. But the labyrinth proved maddening. Twice more, crossbow teams ambushed them: first from a half-collapsed building on a side alley, then from behind a row of stacked crates in an abandoned plaza. Each time, the same pattern repeated—a sudden volley, a scramble to respond, a swift Roman retreat.

  Losses mounted among Gundobad’s men: a handful dead, more wounded, though it wasn’t catastrophic. The Roman aim was to harass, not to stand. Still, every successful ambush chipped away at the vanguard’s cohesion, leaving them more scattered. The foot soldiers grew exhausted from climbing stairs and rummaging through empty lofts. The cavalry found themselves nearly useless in the narrow roads.

  By the third ambush, Gundobad’s anger flared white-hot. He and Wulfgar led a group of twenty warriors in a direct charge toward the building from which quarrels zipped. The carved stone fa?ade bore an open doorway. “With me!” Gundobad roared, storming in.

  Inside, dust and gloom. A flight of stairs twisted up. One Germanic soldier ascended first, only to find the rooftop deserted. Again, the Romans had vanished. Cowardly dogs.

  Then, from a side corridor, an old man stumbled out, wearing a threadbare tunic. Perhaps too frail or confused to flee with the rest. He looked terrified, mouth opening and closing wordlessly. Gundobad’s vision tunneled with rage. Romans. The memory of his men lying pinned under crossbow fire seared him, fueling hatred. Without a moment’s thought, he lunged forward, slashing with his sword. The old man’s eyes bulged, then he crumpled in a silent spasm, blood staining the floor.

  A hush fell among Gundobad’s men, many blinking in surprise at the sudden violence. But no one protested. They all felt the tension in the air, the fury that had consumed their leader.

  Gundobad glared at the corpse, chest heaving. “Kill them all,” he snarled through gritted teeth. “Every Roman dog who lurks in these buildings—man, woman, I don’t care. If they hinder us, we end them.”

  No one dared contradict him. Wulfgar, expression tight with mixed shock and resignation, simply nodded. “Aye, Chieftain.”

  Gundobad wrenched his sword free, ignoring the sickening weight in his stomach. These ambushes had cost him men. The city’s cowardly tactics demanded a savage answer. If they wanted total war, so be it.

  Rushing upstairs, they found only empty rooms, shutters thrown wide. The crossbowmen had fled across rooftops to another vantage. The same story, again and again. Rage had driven him to kill a defenseless old man, and it still accomplished nothing about the ambushers. But it’ll show them we do not spare their kind.

  Leaving the building, Gundobad rejoined the battered streets. His men moved in squads now, some pushing left through a row of deserted workshops, others hugging the main lane’s edges. Distant shouts indicated the Romans had popped up again, loosing quick volleys, then melting away.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  At one intersection, a small group of Germanic warriors from a separate sub-column had cornered what appeared to be a handful of civilians—too slow or stubborn to evacuate. The Germans, having heard Gundobad’s vow, dragged them out. Even from a distance, Gundobad heard pleas for mercy, recognized the raw fear in their voices. Then the shrieks ceased. More blood.

  He inhaled, letting that savage clarity sharpen his purpose. We press on. The lanes twisted around another corner, revealing a partially collapsed arch that once led to a small courtyard. If the Romans were waiting, they'd likely snipe from above. He signaled a group forward carefully.

  No ambush met them there—perhaps the defenders had exhausted their vantage. In the distance, the city’s inner wall rose behind a thick mass of older stone structures. They were inching closer, but the toll of these hit-and-run attacks was written in the blood on the cobbles, in the grim lines of exhausted men.

  By late afternoon, the vanguard reassembled in a small open square roughly halfway to the fortress. Crossbow bolts littered the ground, and the acrid odor of charred beams lingered from random torchings. Gundobad dismounted again, surveying the battered formation. He could count at least two dozen men wounded or dead from the ambushes—some more had minor injuries. Their frustration was tangible, a sullen anger brewing in every harsh breath.

  Wulfgar approached, dagger still in hand, gaze flicking between the spattered gore on Gundobad’s sword and the deserted windows around them. “We bled them some, too,” he muttered, nodding at a few distant corners where Germanic forces had apparently caught or cornered small squads of Romans. Bodies there lay in haphazard sprawl. “But this city… it fights like a ghost. We can’t pin them.”

  “They can’t stop us,” Gundobad snapped, though a sliver of uncertainty undercut his tone. “We’ll push closer, set up an evening camp near the inner wall if we must. Then, once Odoacer’s main host arrives, we strangle them from all sides.”

  His men responded with a subdued growl of agreement. They wanted rest, water, and a real battle rather than cat-and-mouse rooftop fights. But they would follow Gundobad—he was the keystone of their vow to Odoacer.

  He wiped sweat from his brow, forcing himself to appear resolute. “We keep pressing. If any Roman still hides in these streets, we kill them. No quarter. They asked for this.”

  Nodding, Wulfgar set off to relay orders. Soldiers formed up in wedge-like squads, ready to tackle the next winding path. Gundobad inhaled, ignoring the pang of guilt that twinged at his conscience from slaying that unarmed man. Cowardly Roman ploys breed savage retribution. They brought this upon themselves.

  He mounted again, glare fixed on the looming silhouette of the walled core. They had shed enough blood for one day, yet more would undoubtedly spill. Each step into the city’s heart was slower, more fraught with lethal corners and rooftops. But he would not stop.

  As they resumed their advance, the narrow streets echoed with the ring of steel-shod boots, the clipped yells of Germanic tongues. Somewhere beyond these twisting alleys lay the final ring of ancient stones that Romulus and his generals thought so mighty. Let them see that no trap, no cunning crossbow ambush, could hold back Gundobad and his vengeance.

  Thus the vanguard carved its bloody path onward. In the distance, the sun dipped lower, casting elongated shadows across the carnage. The day’s ordeal was far from over, and Gundobad’s fury simmered like molten iron, fueling every savage command: Kill every Roman dog. If the city insisted on a war of ghosts and rooftops, then so be it—he’d burn half the district if he had to, until the final stronghold of Ravenna lay open for the conquering.

  Marcus Petronius crouched behind a low, crumbling wall, the chill of approaching dusk on his face. His left hand gripped the worn edge of his scutum, and his right hand rested on the hilt of a newly issued spatha. How many years had it been since he’d stood armed and ready like this? Though his time in the legions felt like another life, habit stirred in his muscles—muscles more used to guiding a plow than wielding a sword these days.

  He pictured his wife Tullia and their children, safe (he hoped) on the small farm granted to them under the emperor’s reforms. It tore at him to be away from them, but the city was in dire need of defenders. When word came that the Germans advanced into Ravenna, harrying every district, Marcus and two dozen other veterans had formed a makeshift militia. The Emperor’s new workshops had re-equipped them with serviceable arms—spatha blades, metal helms, and sturdy scuta. Not so long ago, he’d stood in a similar posture, prepared to fight for an empire that had once abandoned him. Now, he fought so that empire would not abandon anyone else.

  “Marcus,” murmured Crispus, a neighbor who had also once served in the legions, “they’re coming.”

  Marcus peered around the broken stones. A narrow square lay ahead, flanked by shuttered homes and the faint silhouette of a wooden chapel. The chapel’s old cross, rising above its sagging roof, was just visible in the fading light. The quiet around them was tense—no birds, no footsteps except those of the approaching enemy.

  All afternoon, the Germanic invaders had split up to flush out defenders. This neighborhood ambush plan involved two squads: Marcus’s group of militia armed with swords and shields, and another group hidden on the far side, armed with crossbows from the workshop. The crossbowmen’s job was to strike first, forcing the Germans to focus in one direction. That distraction would allow Marcus and his squad to charge in from behind.

  Marcus braced himself, adjusting the scutum on his arm. He took a silent breath, mind drifting to the old priest who insisted on remaining in the chapel. Father Clement, may God shield you from this madness.

  Sure enough, footfalls echoed on the cobblestones. A German column—perhaps a dozen men—moved cautiously into the square, scanning windows and rooftops. Their torchlight illuminated stern faces and battered armor, their frustration evident after a day of cunning Roman ambushes.

  Marcus glanced to Crispus and gave a slight nod: Wait for the crossbow volley. That was the plan.

  A piercing hiss split the tense silence. From a high vantage, the other ambush squad unleashed a volley of crossbow bolts. Shouts erupted among the Germans as several men fell or staggered. Instantly they turned to face the unseen shooters.

  “Now!” Marcus hissed. He sprang from cover, Crispus and the rest of the militia close behind. Their spathae glinted in the twilight as they rushed across the square, shields raised.

  The Germans, distracted by the crossbow attack, realized too late that a second threat closed in from behind. Marcus’s heart pounded in his ears. He slammed bodily into a startled enemy soldier, driving the man back with his scutum, then slashed with his spatha. Crispus lunged past him, hacking at another barbarian’s exposed flank.

  For a flurry of moments, it was all clashing iron, snarls, and frantic movement. Marcus ducked a wide axe swing, planted his feet, and rammed his shield forward again, toppling the wielder. His mind flashed with old training: keep the line, keep pressure. The smell of sweat and blood mingled with the acrid stench of burning torches.

  A savage roar rose from the Germans. They were well-trained, too. One of them hammered a war hammer against Crispus’s shield, cracking the wood. Another blocked Marcus’s next thrust with a battered longsword. “Romans!” one hissed in scorn, driving forward.

  But the day’s skirmishes had worn these Germans thin. Another volley of bolts hissed from the rooftops, forcing them to huddle or dodge. Marcus seized the chance to drive his blade home into an opening. The warrior collapsed with a gasp.

  “Pull back!” Crispus shouted. Already, the Germans were regrouping despite their losses, and more enemies might be converging. They could not stand toe-to-toe for long. This was never meant to be a decisive stand, only a strike-and-retreat.

  Marcus felt a surge of relief that the plan was working. He glanced around quickly—his men had inflicted chaos and confusion. “Fall back!” he echoed.

  The militia, practiced from earlier ambushes, knew exactly where to go. They disengaged swiftly, sprinting across the square into a narrow alley behind the chapel. Two Germans attempted pursuit, but the third crossbow volley came at just the right moment, forcing the pursuers to dive for cover.

  Marcus led his men at a run, hearts pounding, relieved to see the flicker of lamplight from the chapel’s small windows. Father Clement’s decision to keep the sanctuary lit might have drawn enemy eyes, but hopefully the old man would stay safe.

  The militia slipped away into the tight alley, scuta held close, mindful of every footstep on the rubble-strewn path. Once they were sufficiently out of sight, Crispus paused, breath rasping, to help a comrade who’d taken a glancing sword cut. “Keep moving,” Marcus urged softly, though concern pressed at him. “We can bind that wound once we’re clear.”

  None of them noticed how the flicker of light in the chapel’s window took on a strange, dancing glow not long afterward.

  The Germanic warriors—those still able to stand—bunched up in the square, clutching wounds and cursing. Their ambushers had vanished. Once again, the Romans had inflicted stinging losses then melted away. A few barbarians stomped angrily in circles, searching for traces of where the militia had gone. One spotted movement by the chapel.

  “Lights in there,” he growled in broken Latin. “They must be hiding!”

  In their frustration, the men rushed the chapel door. The old wooden boards groaned under their assault, snapping open to reveal the small sanctuary. At the far end, Father Clement emerged, startled, hands raised in appeal. “This is God’s house,” he pleaded in a quavering voice. “There must be no violence—”

  But the Germans, driven by rage and suspicion, stormed inside. One seized Clement roughly by the robe, shouting questions or curses he couldn’t understand. The priest tried again to beg them to leave. His eyes flicked toward the battered icons near the altar, a silent prayer.

  A blow to his ribs silenced him. Then the German's sword ended it brutally. The old man collapsed, blood spreading across the worn floorboards.

  Snarling, the Germans rummaged around, but found no Roman soldiers. In their anger, they overturned pews, knocked over stands of candles, and spilled oil lamps. A single candle landed against a frayed tapestry near the altar, unnoticed at first.

  Only when flames licked the low rafters did one warrior shout, “Fire!” Smoke plumed upward, the timbers catching quickly in the old, dry wood. Realizing the blaze was spreading too fast to stamp out, they hurriedly fled back outside.

  The militia had regrouped a few streets away, huddling in the shell of a half-ruined stable. Marcus Petronius bent over, hands braced against his thighs as he fought to steady his breath. Around him, Crispus nursed a shallow slash on his forearm, a few other men rummaged for fresh bandages or sipped from dented waterskins. Their ambush, though short and vicious, had succeeded—and for a fleeting moment, they almost believed that was enough.

  Then something flared against the night sky. A bright, searing glow rose above the rooftops, turning plumes of smoke a hellish orange. Crispus froze, peering through a ragged gap in the stable’s collapsed roof. “That… that’s near the old chapel.”

  Marcus stiffened, remembering Father Clement, a stooped but devout priest who insisted he would not abandon God’s house. The men exchanged glances, hearts lurching. As one, they stumbled outside into the alley to see better. And there, above the cramped skyline, the chapel’s wooden cross shone in flames, an inferno devouring the spire with terrifying speed.

  For an instant, not one of them spoke—shock choked their voices. Marcus felt his stomach twist. “They burned down a church,” he whispered, voice raw with disbelief. “God in heaven… They actually burned it.”

  Crispus’s eyes brimmed with furious tears. “They’re animals,” he spat. “Nothing but devils who’d do this to a house of worship.”

  A ragged chorus of curses followed. One young militiaman trembled with rage, knuckles whitening on his spatha’s hilt. Another veteran hammered a fist against the stable wall, stirring dust. All stared at the blazing cross, transfixed—some with tears, others with clenched jaws. The flames lashed the spire until part of the roof collapsed, sending an avalanche of sparks into the blackness.

  Marcus’s breath shuddered. “They left nothing sacred,” he said thickly. “Not our homes, not our churches, not our people.”

  Gradually, Crispus pressed a hand to Marcus’s shoulder. “We can’t save it,” Crispus murmured. “But by God, we can make them pay.”

  Marcus shut his eyes, holding back a surge of grief and fury. “Yes. We must. They want to slaughter us all… but we won’t let them.” Gathering his composure, he turned to the group. “We move on. There may be more survivors out there, more ways to strike. This isn’t over.”

  Their faces—drawn tight with sorrow and rage—hardened into grim resolve. With soft curses, they gripped their shields and swords anew, the reflection of the burning cross flickering on every blade.

  All along Ravenna’s inner walls—those ancient ramparts that circled the heart of the city—civilians and soldiers crowded for a glimpse of the inferno. Some had been scanning the streets for signs of loved ones; others simply stood watch, braced against the chill night air. But the sight of that monstrous blaze, crowned by the chapel’s cross ablaze in defiance, sent a tremor through the huddled throng.

  An old woman sobbed openly, her trembling hands clasped in prayer. Soldiers, grim-faced, spat curses under their breath, calling the foe devils and heathens. Fathers held children close, children who stared wide-eyed at the conflagration. From the main parapet, the reflection of the flames cast haunting shadows. And towering above them stood Orestes, Magister Militum—the emperor’s father, cloaked in crimson.

  For several seconds, Orestes simply gazed at the burning cross, reading the mixture of horror, anger, and dread on every face around him. Soldiers scowled, civilians shook in fear, and the faint clang of armor underscored the city’s trembling heartbeat. Seizing the moment like a seasoned politician, Orestes climbed onto a low ledge so all could see him.

  He raised his arms for silence, and a hush spread across the battlements, broken only by the distant roar of flames. In a clarion voice that resonated with both fury and cold control, Orestes began:

  “Citizens of Ravenna—Romans!” he thundered, pointing a gloved hand toward the blaze. “Do you see what Odoacer and his heathen allies have done? Look upon that cross, our sacred symbol, consumed by their vile flames!”

  A murmur ran through the crowd, half-sobs, half-growls of anger. Orestes’s eyes blazed with fierce conviction as he pressed on:

  “They burn our churches, slaughter our priests, butcher families beyond these walls like lambs to the slaughter! And why? Because they believe we are weak. They call themselves just—yet they wage war not just on an emperor, but on God Himself! They defile our faith, our hearts, our very claim to civilization. Tell me—are we to lie down before these devils?”

  A roar of “No!” erupted spontaneously, soldiers and townsfolk alike seized by righteous fury. The flames upon the cross crackled, as if urging Orestes onward. He lifted his voice, building momentum.

  “These monsters—the betrayer Crassus, the barbarian Odoacer—they are no mere enemies of Rome. They are traitors to every oath, to every law of man or God. They would put your children to the sword, burn every house of worship, destroy every relic of our faith and heritage. Look at that burning spire—an unholy testament to their cruelty! Is this the world we accept for ourselves, for our families?”

  Shouts of anger and revulsion echoed. Some militia on the walls hammered spear butts against stone, fueling the crescendo of defiance. Orestes’s cloak fluttered in the rising wind, flame-light dancing across his armor.

  “Well, I will not accept it!” Orestes cried, voice raw with passion. “Nor will our emperor. Nor shall any true Roman with breath in his body! We stand on these walls as the last shield between them and the heart of Christendom. Would we let them rip that heart out? Would we cower while they snuff out everything we hold sacred?”

  Another chorus of “No!” resounded, fiercer this time. Fear was twisting into wrath, the people uniting in outrage. Orestes swept his gaze over them, face set in grim command.

  “Then steel yourselves,” he said, his tone urgent. “Yes, their numbers are great, their cunning vile. But we are not alone. We have strong walls, new arms, each other’s faith! More than that, we have righteousness on our side. And we are Romans—our ancestors tamed the seas, conquered continents, spread law and light across the known world. Now, these barbarians would tear that legacy to pieces, would cast us into darkness. Will we let them snuff out the flame of our faith?”

  “Never!” came the cry, men pounding fists on shields. Women, tears in their eyes, nodded fiercely, holding children who watched wide-eyed. The blazing cross was a savage brand in the sky, fueling their fury.

  “Never,” Orestes repeated, letting the echo ring. “Tonight, that cross may burn, but its light stokes the fires in our hearts. The devils who do this think they have frightened us. They think to break our resolve by burning God’s house. But all they have done is unite us under a single cause: to drive out these godless fiends, to punish the traitors who stand with them, and to preserve our homes and our faith!”

  He paused, drawing a deep breath. “So remember this sight. Let it seal your hearts against cowardice. For when they breach a gate or scale a wall, you will fight with the wrath of Heaven behind you. Let them tremble at our determination! Let them learn that whoever stands against Rome—and against God—shall face the full measure of our fury!”

  By now, the crowd roared, a wild surge of voices echoing through the ramparts. Weapons lifted in unison, a hundred defiant sparks glinting. Civilians clung to the hope in Orestes’s speech, rallying behind the promise that they were in the right, that heaven itself would not forsake them.

  Orestes lifted his arms, silencing them once more with a final rallying cry: “We do this for our emperor, for our city, for our children! Stand firm, be strong, and know that God and Rome march together in this battle. We shall not let devils reign here. We shall not watch more crosses burn. We shall endure, and by God’s grace, we shall triumph!”

  A thunderous roar erupted from every throat—soldiers, townsfolk, militia. Some wept openly in mingled sorrow and rage, while others brandished swords as if already in battle. On that wall, in that fiery glow, Orestes had harnessed their shock and despair, forging it into an unbreakable will.

  Across the city, from battered streets to watchful ramparts, the burning chapel’s cross raged on a while longer—an inferno visible for miles. But where it might once have sown hopelessness, it now served as a blazing clarion call, uniting Romans against an enemy who had revealed its true savagery.

  In the ruined stable, Marcus and his militia also caught sight of that last defiant image. Fury and resolve coursed through them. The men tightened their grips on their spathae, mentally preparing for the dawn or any further attacks in the dark. Like so many others this night, they burned with a shared conviction: to save Ravenna from the devils who would destroy both city and faith.

  And on the walls—still electrified by Orestes’s speech—soldiers and civilians formed a living rampart of courage. Tears on some cheeks, righteous anger in every gaze. The cross sank deeper into its final collapse, sparks exploding upward. Yet in hearts across Ravenna, the flame of resistance only burned brighter, spurred by the raw, impassioned words of Orestes, the fury at barbarian sacrilege, and the hope that God, in the end, would not forsake them.