Marcus Petronius still marveled at how life had brought him full circle, pressing him to take up arms once again. He remembered his earlier days as a soldier—long stretches of hardship, fear but proudness as well. This time, though, no one forced him to fight. When news spread that Crassus’s so-called imperial army was stripping the countryside of grain and livestock, Marcus had stepped forward voluntarily. He did it for his village, for his wife and children, and for the neighbors who depended on one another to survive. If he and his fellow veterans didn’t rise to defend their homes, who would?

  He had prepared himself for another miserable stint—a patchwork militia, underfunded and largely ignored by whichever power claimed legitimacy. Yet word soon followed that Emperor Romulus was different. Unlike the old days, the emperor did not demand service from every able-bodied man. Instead, he offered a place to any veteran or motivated recruit who chose to fight—and, shockingly, he promised proper equipment and fair treatment in return. Rumor spoke of pikes, new armors, well-forged swords, even crossbows. It almost sounded too good to be true.

  Skeptical but hopeful, Marcus signed up with thirty other veterans from his village. Their first glimpse of the reorganized army came when they marched north to join Romulus’s main force. Marcus expected the usual chaos and ragged lines. Instead, he found soldiers drilling in tight formations, wearing matching armor that glinted in the summer sun. Officers kept detailed rosters; quartermasters dispensed standardized weapons. Men fell into rank with crisp discipline at the sound of a single horn. It reminded him of the old legionary traditions told in campfire tales, the ones he had scarcely believed were possible anymore.

  He saw action sooner than expected. Under cover of darkness, he joined the night raid on Crassus’s army which targeted their supplies. Despite being outnumbered, they caught the enemy by surprise, bolstered by new crossbows that startled the marauders with bolts slicing through the gloom. The success was overwhelming. They destroyed much of Crassus’s supplies and gave a huge blow to their morale. That victory filled Marcus with a strange, glowing pride. This emperor hadn’t thrown them into the fray as disposable pawns; he’d equipped them properly, gave them a decent plan, and trusted them to succeed.

  For the next few days, Marcus’s unit carried out similar harassments—lightning strikes at dusk, ambushes along wooded paths, then quick withdrawals before the enemy could organize. Morale soared. Marcus watched men way younger than him, some barely out of training, fight with a blend of caution and courage that made his chest tighten in admiration. At night, whispers circulated around the campfire that Romulus himself had a hand in these tactics. He’d studied how best to outmaneuver a larger force and gave authority to officers who actually knew how to coordinate smaller detachments.

  One afternoon, resting after a skirmish, Marcus found himself on a hillside overlooking a broad field where several units were drilling. He stood at the crest, leaning on his sword, eyes drifting across neat rows of infantry performing maneuvers he hadn’t seen since his youth—shields locking, pikes lowered in unison, crossbowmen timing volleys to maximize their impact. Here and there, officers barked commands, and the entire formation shifted like one living organism. A lump formed in Marcus’s throat. It was as if those ancient legionary traditions had come alive before his eyes, forged anew under an emperor who actually cared about discipline and unity.

  He didn’t bother hiding the tears that welled up. They weren’t tears of sadness, but of awe and gratitude. Through all the disarray and civil wars he’d endured in his past, never had he witnessed such an organized, professional force among Western Romans. Yes, they were still short on supplies and had plenty of wounded from recent ambushes—but the spirit of the legion, the sense of higher purpose, was there. It wasn’t just about surviving another campaign. It was about standing for something worth defending: their land, their communities, and a future that might truly be different.

  Marcus blinked away the moisture in his eyes. He would fight for that future. Whether Crassus came in force or continued to skulk around like a vulture, Marcus Petronius stood ready. This time, no one had to force him. He gripped the sword hilt, a renewed determination settling in his chest, and silently thanked the heavens that he’d found a cause he could believe in once more.

  But that sense of purpose was soon tested. Within a day of the successful night raids, word spread through camp that Crassus’s force was moving west at a punishing pace. Dux Flavianus, a towering figure in well crafted armor, assembled the officers at dawn. Without ceremony, he laid out the plan: they would follow Crassus, harry his foraging parties, and capture or disperse any deserters before they turned to banditry. Rumors whispered that Crassus hoped to link up with Odoacer beyond the Po River, creating a far more dangerous alliance.

  Marcus went out with his comrades again and again, each skirmish taking them deeper into the scorched countryside. They’d learned that desperation made people do terrible things—Crassus’s soldiers tore through farmsteads and vineyards like locusts, scooping up grain, livestock, even confiscating goats and chickens. But the rapid march took its toll on Crassus’s common levies, men who’d never wanted to fight in the first place. Deserters slunk away at night, stumbling into Marcus’s lines hungry and terrified.

  One morning, Marcus and a few others discovered a pitiful cluster of stragglers near a dried-out stream. Half-starved peasants slumped at the roadside alongside women and children, all in rags. They must have trailed Crassus’s column until they could no longer keep up. One woman clutched a toddler who gazed dully at Marcus, too weak even to cry. She begged for food, her voice cracking. Marcus knelt, rummaging through his pouch, feeling an ache in his chest as he pressed a small portion of dried bread into her shaking hands. How could Crassus allow this? An “emperor” who cared more for a race to meet Odoacer than for the well-being of his own following?

  A short time later, a messenger came galloping up from the rear: new orders from Flavianus. Marcus and the rest of the militia were to break off their harassing attacks—Odoacer’s cavalry was reportedly on the move, and their small detachments risked being overrun. Instead, they would march back to Ravenna, resupply, and prepare for the next stage of this conflict. The militia units, specifically, were tasked with aiding any refugees on the roads—at least ensuring that children, the wounded, and those near starvation did not perish for lack of a meal.

  Marcus felt a flood of relief. In older campaigns, he’d been forced to leave people behind with no aid, and the guilt of those memories still plagued his nights. This time, he could do something. His eyes swept over the ragged lines of displaced peasants, the limp forms of children. Yes, they were on the opposing side—or had been, in a sense—but it hardly mattered now. They were human souls caught in the teeth of war. At least his emperor believed in caring for them.

  He guided the group gently toward the nearest wagon, helping them climb aboard one by one. Though they were low on supplies themselves, Marcus’s unit shared what rations they could spare. Some of the women managed a tearful smile, still not quite believing the soldiers who had been their enemy only days ago were now their protectors.

  As Marcus turned to walk beside the wagon, he couldn’t help recalling the sight of those disciplined drills on the hillside—the same army that fought with fierce precision was now showing mercy to a defeated foe. In that moment, he felt a conviction that what they were defending wasn’t just land or titles—it was the chance for a Rome that could be both strong and merciful. Despite the exhaustion that pulled at his limbs, he found renewed resolve in that thought.

  Titus couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt full. Perhaps it was weeks ago, back when Crassus’s officers had first promised decent rations to all who joined the cause. Now, as the army trudged west under a punishing sun, he had only enough dry crusts of bread to keep himself upright. Whatever extra he managed to scavenge, he slipped to his wife and their three children. The children grew weaker each day, though neither complained. Their eyes—the same eyes that once shone with curiosity—were now dull with hunger.

  Rumor and fear drove them onward. Word spread that the boy-emperor Romulus was a rabid dog who slaughtered any captives unfortunate enough to fall into his hands. Soldiers whispered of tortured prisoners, of entire villages put to the sword because they provided them with food. Titus wondered if it could be true. He’d never seen these so-called atrocities himself, but the stories persisted, terrifying enough to keep most people marching without pause. Desertion was rampant all the same. Each night, in the darkness behind tattered tents, a handful of men quietly vanished. By morning, no one spoke of them aloud, but Titus’s mind conjured ugly fates. Were those deserters ambushed by Romulus’s hounds, devoured by wild beasts… or simply starved alone in some ditch?

  Fear and hunger pressed down from all sides. Titus clutched his spear even when he tried to sleep, half afraid someone would notice he had saved a scrap of bread for his children and decide to take it for themselves. More than once, he’d awakened to shouts from nearby tents—someone caught stealing a handful of grain, someone else murdered in cold blood over a single ration. The next morning, the guards would find a body sprawled amid the trampled grass, the lifeless shape hardly noticed by anyone still too hungry to care. That was the world they lived in now.

  Still, Titus forced himself to keep moving. No matter how badly his legs ached or his stomach cramped, he wouldn’t abandon his wife and children. He’d heard that Crassus was heading for Odoacer’s camp, somewhere near Pavia, and that if they made it there in time, they’d join forces strong enough to crush the boy-emperor for good. He wanted to believe the union of Crassus and Odoacer would bring victory—and maybe, just maybe, a day’s worth of proper food. But as he shuffled past rows of ragged, hollow-eyed families, Titus couldn’t ignore the truth: Crassus’s army was dissolving before his eyes. Men died in their sleep from malnutrition, children wailed until their voices faded into rasping sighs, and even the rumored brutality of Romulus seemed less fearsome than the daily threat of starvation.

  He pressed on, gripping his spear tighter. If he kept his focus—kept putting one foot in front of the other—perhaps he could protect his loved ones. Maybe the next town they reached would have bread or water.

  Then, on a sun-scorched afternoon when Titus could barely keep his eyes open from exhaustion, a sudden clamor rippled through the ranks. Shouts echoed up the line—men crying out something about a supply convoy. At first, Titus refused to believe it. Rumors came and went all the time, usually false promises that ended in deeper disappointment. But this time, the commotion spread quickly and unmistakably: carts, laden with sacks and barrels, were rolling into camp. Word was that Crassus had finally managed to organize a shipment of grain and dried meats.

  Titus’s heart hammered in his chest. He clutched his spear with trembling hands, jostling through the throng of equally desperate soldiers. A quartermaster—his face equally gaunt but wearing a triumphant grin—began handing out rations. Not meager crusts or watered-down gruel, but real provisions: barley bread, salted pork, even a handful of figs. It seemed almost lavish compared to the foul scraps Titus had survived on for days.

  When his turn came, Titus found himself staring at the bread in disbelief. His throat tightened, and a sob escaped him before he could stop it. The quartermaster had to call his name twice, pressing the rations into his shaking hands. Tears blurred Titus’s vision as he clutched the warm loaf, the pork’s salty tang drifting in the air. He had hardly any words. All he could do was nod frantically in thanks, tears running down the dust on his cheeks.

  He spun around and sprinted through the ragged tents toward the spot where his wife and children waited. In his haste, he nearly tripped over a torn piece of canvas, but he kept going. His wife, Claudia, looked up from where she sat cradling their youngest—her own cheeks hollow, her eyes weary. The moment she saw the bundle in Titus’s arms, her face lit with an emotion somewhere between disbelief and pure, desperate joy.

  “Thank the gods,” she whispered, her voice tight with tears. “Oh, Titus…”

  He dropped to his knees beside her. The children crowded in, their eyes fixed on the food. Titus broke the bread into chunks, handing each person a share, then carefully unwrapped the portion of salted pork. Their first bites came in silence, except for an occasional gasp at the richness of the flavors. Within moments, tears were streaming down all their faces, mixing with the dust and grime. They hardly noticed; the relief of being able to eat real food overwhelmed all else.

  Claudia murmured that her prayers had been answered at last. She kept glancing at the children, who devoured each crumb as if it were some magnificent feast. Titus nodded, almost trembling with gratitude. He forced himself to eat slowly, mindful that gulping too quickly could upset their starved bellies. Yet each bite felt like the first real nourishment he’d tasted in months.

  Night fell, but there was a charged excitement in the camp as men talked of renewed strength, of the chance to keep marching. Some of Crassus’s officers moved among them, promising more supplies on the way if they could just reach Pavia and join with Odoacer. Titus dozed that evening, for once not consumed by hunger pangs. He slept clutching Claudia’s hand, an unfamiliar sense of hope tugging at the edges of his dreams.

  Dawn brought a new stir of commotion. From the outskirts of the camp, the thunder of hoofbeats rose, followed by cheering. Titus hurried to see what was happening—and there, cresting a gentle rise, was a detachment of Odoacer’s cavalry. Five hundred horses at least, their riders armed with long spears and well-used swords. Dust billowed around them as they trotted into Crassus’s camp, and Titus felt his heartbeat quicken. Reinforcements. Finally reinforcements arrived.

  Morale lifted at once. Some men let out ragged cheers; others stared in awe. The cavalry commander exchanged quick words with Crassus’s lieutenants, then began directing the horsemen to set up a perimeter. The camp bustled with renewed energy: men tidied their meager gear, children peered wide-eyed at the horses, and the talk around cookfires that morning was more optimistic than it had been in weeks. Now that food had arrived and Odoacer’s men were here in strength, perhaps the grim stories of Romulus’s atrocities could be pushed back. Maybe they had a fighting chance.

  As for Titus, he felt the difference in his limbs as soon as he began marching again. The dull ache of hunger had loosened its grip; his children’s steps came easier. Claudia managed a smile—a real smile—when she saw the cavalry ride past. Finally Titus started to believe again that their small family might survive this ordeal.

  They continued west, the roads winding toward Pavia. Each footstep kicked up dust, but Titus no longer stumbled. Whenever doubt threatened to creep back, he would grip his spear more firmly and cast a glance at his well-fed wife and children trudging beside him. A single supply convoy and five hundred cavalry had turned despair into cautious hope. If that could happen in the space of two days, who knew what tomorrow might bring?

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Odoacer sat in his command tent near Pavia, lounging on a carved wooden chair draped with furs. The late-afternoon sun poured through the canvas flaps, picking out the sheen of his armor and the faint scars on his strong forearms. A smug half-smile tugged at his lips. He’d been born among the foederati—raised with enough Roman influence to learn their language and manners—yet he found their endless pomp and posturing absurd. For all their claims of grandeur, the Western Empire was in tatters. Soon, he and his people would carve out something new from the wreckage, no longer content to survive on scraps.

  He thought back to his recent conquests with a certain delight. Beating Orestes had been almost too easy, catching him off guard near Pavia. Orestes’s brother, Paulus, tried to hold the city while Orestes escaped with the majority of their army but Odoacer’s cavalry outmaneuvered him and starved him of any chance at escape. One brief skirmish in the streets and the man lay at Odoacer’s mercy—mercy that Odoacer had no intention of granting. The execution, swift and public, served as a warning to anyone else who might dare resist him.

  He idly traced the rim of a wine cup with his thumb, remembering how the Senate, in all its arrogance, had refused to hail him as sole ruler. Instead, they dredged up Crassus—a pompous senator with ambitions of seizing the throne for himself. Odoacer had half expected the Senate to bow to him after the collapse of Romulus’s father’s power, but apparently these old patricians couldn’t fathom a “barbarian” leading them. The thought made him chuckle. Soon enough, titles and purple robes would mean very little when he proclaimed himself King of Italy. Let the Romans cling to ceremonial illusions; he would hold the real power.

  He had watched Crassus’s schemes from a distance with mild amusement. Fourteen thousand men, they said. Some were reluctant peasants coerced into service, others were bored senators’ sons playing soldier, and still more were idle mercenaries drawn by promises of gold. To his delight, he’d heard that Romulus—the so-called boy-emperor—smashed Crassus’s ragtag forces in a series of raids and ambushes. Now Crassus came limping west, half his army starving or deserting, begging to ally with Odoacer at last. It was better than any farce performed on a Roman stage.

  A junior officer pushed aside the tent flap, interrupting Odoacer’s reverie. The man bowed stiffly. “My lord, the scouts report that Crassus’s vanguard has reached within a day’s march. They carry banners asking for an audience.”

  Odoacer didn’t rise from his chair; he merely ran a hand over his jaw, scratching lightly at the stubble. “So the pretender finally crawls,” he remarked. “Let him. I’ll grant him an audience, after he’s waited long enough to sweat on the roadside.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The officer backed away, letting the flap fall.

  Alone again, Odoacer raised his wine cup and drank deeply. Soon, Crassus would stand before him, no doubt spinning promises of wealth or titles in exchange for help against Romulus. But Odoacer had little interest in helping Crassus or the Senate. Once Romulus and Crassus destroyed each other, he’d step in and claim whatever remained. His tribes—and the other foederati who’d flocked to him—would finally have the lands and the authority they deserved.

  He allowed himself a small laugh at how thoroughly fortune had favored him. The Romans squabbled among themselves, ignorant of the fact that the real victor lay hidden behind their petty rivalries. He glanced at a rough map pinned to a makeshift table. All roads led to Ravenna, eventually. That was where the final blow would land—where the boy-emperor stood, supposedly growing stronger by the day.

  But Odoacer had time. Let Crassus struggle and starve a little longer. Let Romulus think he held the upper hand. In the end, Odoacer would be the one wearing the crown of Italy. He could almost taste the moment when the Senate had no choice but to acknowledge him. Smiling to himself, he drained the last of the wine and rose, stepping outside into the evening air with the assured stride of a man who believed his destiny lay well within reach.

  The following morning dawned hot and bright over the makeshift encampment at Pavia. Even from inside his tent, Odoacer heard the shouts of agitated Romans outside, demanding an immediate audience. His guards, following his explicit instructions, refused them entry. Hours passed, and as the sun climbed higher, the voices outside grew more insistent.

  Odoacer sipped watered wine and examined a crudely drawn map, feigning deep thought. In truth, he concentrated on the muffled grumblings carrying through the canvas: Crassus’s men—likely half-starved and exhausted—complaining of insult after all the gold their leader had paid. Let them sweat. Let them fume. It only amused him further.

  When the sun reached its zenith, an officer poked his head into the tent. “My lord, they are here again, demanding you receive them.”

  Odoacer stood at his leisure. “Very well. Send them in.”

  The flaps parted, and Crassus swept inside, his face flushed red—whether from the heat or sheer fury was hard to tell. Behind him strode two senators, Lepidus and Pollio, both looking equally displeased. Their ornate, sweat-stained tunics had seen better days. Odoacer crossed his arms over his broad chest, meeting their glares with cool detachment.

  Crassus wasted no time. “I am Emperor Crassus,” he declared, voice trembling with affront. “I will not be treated like some common petitioner forced to wait in the sun! You have my gold, do you not? You pledged your aid. I demand your cooperation now, if not your respect!”

  Odoacer regarded him with a flat stare. “Demand?” he repeated, letting the word roll off his tongue. “You think you can walk in here and speak to me of demands?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, amusement mixing with a low, simmering contempt. Crassus’s bravado struck him as laughable. This was the ‘emperor’ who had been pummeled by a boy? A boy who only saw 11 summers so far?

  Crassus drew himself up, knuckles whitening at his sides. “Yes, demand! I’ve paid you a king’s ransom—gold and promises of land for your followers. You swore to support my campaign against Romulus. My men are on the brink of collapse, and your tardiness may cost us all.”

  Odoacer’s amusement vanished. He fixed Crassus with a cold glare. “Your men’s suffering is your own doing. You marched them too fast, promised them food you didn’t have, and now you come groveling here. What is it you truly want from me, Crassus?”

  Lepidus tried to interject, brow creased with worry. “We ask for immediate reinforcements. Supplies. Anything to bolster our cause. We are an alliance, after all.”

  “An alliance,” Odoacer echoed. He thought of how the Senate had turned its back on him before—these same haughty patricians who once refused to even consider him as ruler. Now they stumbled into his camp, covered in dust and sweat, talking of alliances and pacts. “You forget that alliances require respect on both sides.”

  Pollio cleared his throat, keen to calm the tension. “We do respect you, Dux Odoacer. But time is pressing. We must strike soon, or else—”

  Odoacer snorted, and a sudden tension rippled through the tent. He shifted his weight, leaning back into his chair with an air of casual menace. His gaze flicked over Crassus, Lepidus, and Pollio in turn.

  “Else what?” he asked, voice low. “Do you threaten me? Do you dare threaten me here, in the midst of my own army—an army still intact, unlike your ragged ranks?”

  Crassus’s eyes blazed, but he hesitated under Odoacer’s cutting stare. Lepidus and Pollio exchanged uneasy glances, clearly realizing how precarious their situation had become.

  “We are not equals, Crassus,” Odoacer said, his tone hardening. “And before you demand I call you Caesar, you should at least have the power to demand it. What you do not have.” He spread his arms in a mocking gesture that took in Crassus’s sweat-stained tunic, the dusty sandals, the half-starved men waiting outside. “You failed. Miserably. Why shouldn’t I just capture you here and now—perhaps hand you over to that child emperor you so fear?”

  He smirked at the idea, though he had no real intention of handing anyone over. For all his scorn, he wanted them to bleed each other further, weakening Rome until he could carve off the richest pieces for himself. But he wouldn’t let them see that. He kept his expression icily controlled, waiting for Crassus to squirm.

  Crassus’s lips pressed into a thin line. “If you did such a thing, you’d forfeit the chance for any share in the spoils,” he managed, voice quavering with suppressed anger. “We—”

  Before he could continue, Lepidus hurriedly thrust a scroll of parchment toward Odoacer. The senator’s hand trembled with urgency. “My lord, read this,” he insisted. “It just arrived by courier a few days ago. You must see it.”

  Frowning, Odoacer snatched the scroll. The seal was already broken and started scanning the contents with growing incredulity. Pollio, sensing the shift in Odoacer’s demeanor, moved a step back as if expecting violence. A murmur of confusion rippled through the guards by the entrance.

  At first, Odoacer frowned. Then his breath caught in his throat. His eyes darted over the lines again and again. The Eastern Empire… sending reinforcements to Romulus… possibly already en route.

  “This is a lie,” he snapped, slamming the scroll down on the small table beside him. “You think to deceive me with rumors?” His composure cracked; in one violent motion, he kicked up the table, sending cups and a platter clattering across the tent floor. One of the guards flinched, hand going to his sword hilt.

  Crassus raised his palms. “It is no lie! We have word from our sources in Constantinople. The Emperor Zeno apparently has reconsidered ignoring the West’s plight. He might even already have troops on ships sailing this way.” He paused, measuring Odoacer’s reaction. “Don’t you see? If Romulus gets the East’s backing, he will crush us all. You, me… none of us will be safe.”

  The veins on Odoacer’s neck stood out. “Safe? I am not the one who lost battles to a whelp. And I’ll not cower just because some eunuchs in Constantinople decided to dispatch a handful of mercenaries.”

  Lepidus was quick to speak up. “My lord, they could be more than a handful. And if Romulus has them in time, he’ll march out of Ravenna with a force none of us can match. He would bury your petty tribes—along with us all.”

  Odoacer’s jaw clenched. He wanted to dismiss it, but the apprehension twisting in his gut told him better. Eastern armies were formidable, well-funded, and capable of crossing the sea faster than any overland march. If they truly lent their aid to Romulus…

  Crassus seized the opening, his tone growing urgent. “We have to strike Ravenna before they arrive. Together. My men are weary, yes, but with your cavalry and what remains of my force, we can force the city’s surrender quickly. Once we hold Romulus at sword point, the Eastern Empire will have to negotiate on our terms. Otherwise, they risk a protracted war. A war they can ill afford.”

  The logic prickled at Odoacer. Before he could retort, Crassus continued, voice low and thick with bitterness. “You think you’re beyond Romulus’s reach, but you killed his uncle in cold blood. The boy-king is rumored to have a vengeful streak—he’ll see you flayed if he can. Don’t imagine you can parley with him on better footing now that he’s tasted victory.”

  For a moment, the tent was silent aside from Odoacer’s labored breathing. His mind raced with the possibilities: If the East came in force, it would jeopardize everything. He had planned to let Romulus and Crassus ruin each other, then stroll into Ravenna unopposed. Now time worked against him.

  Stepping toward Crassus, Odoacer lowered his voice, though anger still simmered in every syllable. “Very well,” he managed. “We will discuss the matter further. You claim there is still time to break Romulus before the East arrives? Then prove it.”

  Crassus took a step closer, clearing his throat as though warding off a final bristle of fear. “We have two paths,” he said. “One is to try starving Ravenna out, forcing the boy-emperor into open battle. But if this message reached us, it certainly reached him. He knows the East might come to his aid. He’d be mad to leave the safety of those walls. He’ll hole up, wait for reinforcements, and then bleed us at his leisure.”

  Odoacer folded his arms, brow creasing. “So your solution?”

  Crassus’s mouth twisted bitterly. “We storm Ravenna. We take it by force—and quickly—while Romulus is still scrambling to reinforce his defenses. If we hesitate, we’re finished.”

  Pollio, hovering behind Crassus, looked aghast. “Storm Ravenna? It is the most heavily fortified city in Italy. We have no siege engines, no ballistae or catapults. Perhaps a few crude ladders, a ram or two we might cobble together from felled trees, but—”

  “Exactly,” Odoacer cut in, gesturing toward the senator. “You speak of an assault on a fortress ringed with walls and marsh. Its channels can flood at a moment’s notice. How do you expect to crack it with peasants wielding half-rusted blades?”

  Crassus’s eyes flashed. “We’ll pay a heavy price, yes. But do we have another choice? Waiting is suicide. Starvation, desertion, or the Eastern armies—take your pick. We succeed, or we die.”

  A tense silence choked the air. Lepidus glanced at Crassus, swallowing nervously. “But the casualties…”

  Crassus gave a dismissive shrug. “Casualties are inevitable. We have thousands of levies who’d rather desert than fight. The strong among them can climb ladders, breach gates—die if they must, so that real soldiers can press through. Romulus has … I have to admit … capable troops, but he can’t defend every wall in the face of a determined assault.”

  Odoacer’s gaze darkened. He recognized in Crassus’s tone the same disdain for common folk that had poisoned the Empire for years. These were the men he marched with, the half-starved families living in ragged tents on the outskirts—expendable fodder for Crassus’s ambition.

  “So your strategy,” Odoacer said slowly, “is to hurl your desperate peasants against Ravenna’s battlements until the defenders run out of arrows and stamina? While my cavalry, presumably, stand ready to seize the gates once they’re opened?”

  Crassus’s lips twitched at the corners, a wolfish acknowledgment. “You supply your horsemen and disciplined core. My men will—take the brunt. We lose the dregs in the process, the worthless ones who barely march anyway. Then, once inside, we force Romulus to surrender. Or kill him outright.”

  He paused, letting the brutal logic hang between them. Lepidus and Pollio lowered their eyes, unwilling to challenge the plan. These were the same patricians who’d once championed lofty ideals in the Senate, yet they offered no protest now that Crassus proposed using the rabble as cannon fodder.

  Odoacer stared hard at Crassus. He could almost feel the last of his alternatives slipping away. If he did nothing, Romulus might ally with the East and come for Odoacer’s head in retribution for Paulus’s death. If he tried to back out, Crassus’s desperation might push him to sabotage Odoacer from within, rallying whatever pockets of Roman loyalty lingered. And if Odoacer simply walked away, he’d gain nothing—no land, no spoils, no seat of power.

  At length, he exhaled, bitterness weighing down his voice. “Very well,” he said. “Have your levies build their ladders and rams. My cavalry will be prepared for whatever breach you manage to force. But make no mistake, Crassus: if your plan fails, or if you attempt to double-cross me—”

  Crassus tilted his chin up. “I won’t,” he said, though his tone carried that same chilly ambition. “I know what’s at stake.”

  “Good.” Odoacer’s eyes flicked to Lepidus and Pollio. “You two, see that rations and tools are assembled without delay. Get your men to gather timber, ropes—whatever’s needed. We move at first light.”

  Pollio bowed stiffly, sweat lining his brow. Lepidus muttered assent, both men looking pale at the idea of leading thousands of frightened, half-starved peasants to the walls of Ravenna. They backed out of the tent, leaving Crassus to offer a final curt nod.

  “You won’t regret this, Odoacer,” he said. “This is the only way.”

  But Odoacer said nothing more. He simply watched as Crassus left, shoulders set with grim purpose. Then, alone in the tent, he allowed the anger and anxiety to return. His plans had closed in around him, leaving only one path forward—a brutal assault on the strongest fortress in Italy, using pitiful conscripts as fodder. He despised Crassus’s cruelty almost as much as he despised Romulus’s illusions of a restored empire.

  Still, he reasoned, what choice was there? They had to act, or soon enough the Eastern galleys would land on Italy’s shores, toppling them all. If the peasants had to die so that he might one day place a crown upon his head, so be it. His knuckles whitened around the edge of the toppled table, thinking of how precarious power could be.

  Outside, the camp buzzed with renewed urgency—orders barked, timber chopped, men roused to the notion of one final push. None of them quite understood the full horror of what they faced on Ravenna’s walls, but desperation would drive them. And if Odoacer got his way, desperation alone might be enough to tear open the city’s gates… or bury every last one of them in the attempt.