23th of July, 476 AD

  Orestes stood by the open window of his private office, the cool dawn air brushing against his unshaven jaw. In his right hand, he held a small keepsake—his brother’s signet ring, a simple band with the faintest inscription. Once, Paulus had worn it proudly. Now it was all that remained. Orestes’s eyes, bloodshot from grief and too little sleep, lingered on the waking city beyond the palace walls. He could see Ravenna stirring: a handful of merchants opening their stalls, a few house-servants venturing to the wells, stray dogs searching for scraps before the streets filled with life.

  He exhaled in a slow, shuddering sigh. The ring pressed into his palm, a silent reminder of the brother he had lost. For a moment, he felt the old anger and sorrow flare in his chest—guilt over not having protected Paulus, fury at the treacheries that had made every alliance so fragile. Then he swallowed hard, bowed his head, and placed the ring gently on the windowsill. It gleamed weakly in the rising sunlight.

  “Bring me a mirror,” he commanded, summoning a servant who stood just outside the doorway. The man—pale, wide-eyed—hurried to comply.

  Orestes moved to the table in the corner, his posture weighted by exhaustion but his movements still purposeful, as if the habit of command refused to let him bow under grief. By the time the servant returned, holding a polished bronze mirror with both hands, the sun had climbed higher, its rays illuminating Orestes’s reflection.

  He studied himself: the coarse stubble of several days, dark circles under determined eyes, and a single streak of gray standing out in his hair—just near the scar at his temple. “Enough,” he murmured, picking up a razor. With quick, sure strokes, he shaved away the unkempt beard, pausing only once to inspect the fresh lines of his face. The reflection gazed back at him, looking a shade older than he remembered. But behind the fatigue, he found that familiar glint of resolve.

  When at last he was done, Orestes set down the razor. He rolled his shoulders, as though casting off a weight that had pressed on him through the long night. “Have the kitchen prepare a breakfast,” he said, voice low but firm. “And send word to Bishop Felix. I will receive him here.”

  The servant bowed, disappearing into the corridor. Alone, Orestes glanced at the ring once more. His brother was gone, but the empire still demanded his strength.

  He stood there in silence, letting the cool air of morning wash over him while the city stirred beneath the rising sun. For the first time in weeks, he truly paused to take stock of everything—the losses suffered, the plots spinning in every quarter, and the precarious state of Ravenna itself. So many chess pieces in motion, yet he felt the burden of each one more acutely than ever.

  His gaze returned to the ring, glinting on the windowsill. “Paulus…” he murmured under his breath. Then, squaring his shoulders, he turned away. What was done was done—Factum fieri infectum non potest. Such was the old saying, the Roman way of acknowledging that regrets could not alter the past. He had left Romulus behind, and Crassus’s treachery had taken root in that gap. No amount of lamenting would rewind events. He could only move forward, fortifying his son and crushing this rebellion.

  At that thought, a flicker of pride touched his features. Despite every misjudgment, Romulus had grown into a remarkable young emperor, bolder and more capable than anyone had foreseen. Orestes knew it in the marrow of his bones: give the boy a few more years and he would outmaneuver half the Senate, subdue the foederati, and redefine what it meant to rule in Rome’s twilight. Yet that promise had come at a cost. Romulus had charged ahead with ambitious reforms—especially the tax overhaul—too abruptly, too forcefully. Had Orestes been there, he might have tempered those edicts, buying time and lessening the backlash that had ignited whole pockets of resistance.

  But now the empire was paying for those sudden decrees in open revolt. “A firm hand,” Orestes whispered, “would have tempered his haste.” He allowed himself a moment of bitterness, wishing he’d stepped in sooner rather than chasing illusions in Pavia. Still, the future remained in his grasp, so long as he guided his son from here on out. Together they would break Crassus’s forces—grind them into the dust if need be—and once that threat lay quashed, Orestes would see to it that Romulus’s policies, however necessary, were softened into something the people could endure.

  He stepped away from the window at last. The ring caught the corner of his eye, but he did not look back. A brief knock on the door announced the arrival of breakfast, and with it, the reminder that Bishop Felix would be brought before him soon. Orestes inhaled deeply, feeling the hollow ache of loss twist inside him, but also the kindling of his old determination.

  The city beyond might be fragile, alliances cracking and conspiracies simmering, yet he still had power to wield—power to save Ravenna from ruin, power to guide his son, power to teach Romulus that even an emperor’s grand vision must be anchored in shrewd, measured steps. He would not falter again. If Rome’s last hours were upon them, then he would fight for every moment, seeing that his son grew not just into a dreamer of reforms, but a ruler who knew how to keep them from sparking rebellion at every turn.

  He permitted himself one final sigh before beckoning the servant forward. “Leave the tray there,” he said softly. “And show Bishop Felix in when he arrives.”

  He ate the simple breakfast with the methodical disinterest of a man completing a chore—each bite a necessity, nothing more. The smell of bread and boiled eggs drifted in the cool air, but Orestes could scarcely taste any of it. His mind remained on last night’s reflections, on the battles still to come, and on Romulus’s precarious position.

  Before long, the guard outside announced Bishop Felix. The office door opened, and Felix entered with measured steps, robes whispering against the floor. Orestes glanced up, swallowing the final mouthful. He did not rise to greet the bishop; Felix, ever composed, inclined his head in a gesture both respectful and self-assured.

  “My sincerest condolences for your loss,” Felix said softly, allowing his gaze to linger on the untouched portions of breakfast. He took a moment to observe the faint lines around Orestes’s eyes, the weariness still etched in his features. “All of Ravenna shares your grief at the news of Paulus’s passing. I pray you find peace in these difficult times.”

  Orestes nodded once, not trusting himself to speak. He tore off a last piece of bread and washed it down with water. The bishop, hands folded before him, let his eyes roam over the spare furnishings—the table, the chair, the ring glinting on the sill—before continuing.

  “I remember Paulus from a simpler time,” he added softly. “He had a spirit that could brighten even the darkest moments.”

  Orestes steeled his jaw, forcing that flicker of memory away. Enough, he thought. Guilt would serve no purpose. “Thank you,” he said at last, his voice holding steady. Then he gestured vaguely at the tray. “I’m afraid my appetite is short these days.”

  Felix bowed his head, as though in prayerful sympathy. “Grief does that.” A quiet pause, and then, with a small smile that seemed almost kind: “I trust you will let the Church provide any solace or aid you require.”

  Orestes waited until the servant cleared away the last remnants of his breakfast and departed, leaving them alone with only the distant noise of Ravenna’s waking streets. Felix, still standing, allowed his gaze to settle back on Orestes, his hands clasped lightly in front of him. Silence held for a moment longer—tense, expectant.

  Then Orestes lifted his head, speaking with cool precision. “Bishop,” he began, “it is kind of you to mention the Church’s willingness to extend aid. Yet I have observed that your generosity found its way, in equal measure, to Crassus. To the man who dares style himself an emperor.” His eyes, cold with accusation, pinned Felix where he stood. “Care to explain the reason behind it?”

  Felix’s expression did not so much as flicker. “Magister Militum, perhaps you refer to those rumors that food and medical comforts from certain monastic houses fell into his hands. The Church ministers to all souls, no matter their loyalty.”

  “Spare me the sermon,” Orestes said, keeping his voice low but carrying a razor edge. “Crassus is no mere lost lamb. He is a pretender with enough ambition to burn half of Italy, if it suits him. So tell me,” he pressed, leaning forward slightly, “did your clergy supply him in ignorance, or out of a more…expedient arrangement?”

  Felix took a measured step, crossing from the doorway into the middle of the room. “I understand your suspicions, Orestes. However, the Church’s charge is to uphold charity wherever human suffering abounds. That Crassus capitalized on it—that is the tragedy of war. Bread meant for starving peasants and forcibly conscripted men may have also benefited Crassus’s officers. We cannot always choose which hands deliver relief onward.”

  Orestes’s lips curved into a mirthless half-smile. “A pity indeed that it happened to strengthen an army bent on toppling my son.” He paused, letting his words hang in the air. “You realize this complicity—unintentional or not—could be seen by many as open collaboration.”

  The bishop’s brows knitted, forming slight lines of concern that might have been genuine or might have been part of the polished performance. “If it were collaboration, we would hardly call it unintentional. The Church never declared Crassus the rightful emperor, nor did we endow him with silver from our coffers.” His voice remained steady. “We ministered to Roman citizens among his ranks. Many are common men forced into levy, men who had no choice. That we took pity on them and offered relief does not make us conspirators.”

  Orestes’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned in, letting the tension rise in the cramped silence. When next he spoke, his voice was quieter yet colder. “Fine words, Bishop. But perhaps you can also explain how some of your brethren—holy men in vestments—are riding alongside Crassus in that ragtag army? Not simply feeding the conscripted peasants, but actually marching on Ravenna?”

  He paused for effect, wanting Felix to feel the weight of the question. “The Church ministers to all souls, I understand, but it seems those souls include more than the starving. They include Crassus’s lieutenants, Crassus’s cavalry… men openly declaring him emperor.”

  Felix’s composure flickered, just once, like a faint crack in polished marble. “I have heard those reports,” he said, measured. “And I… regret them deeply. This was not coordinated by the Church as a whole. Certain bishops, I suspect, have allowed their zeal to blind them, or have been swayed by illusions of influence in a potential new regime.” He lifted his chin, as though the admission pained him. “I do not condone such actions.”

  Orestes gave a mirthless laugh. “You say you do not condone them. Yet the fact remains that they are bishops of the Roman Church, wearing their robes, crossing the countryside in the company of a traitor. That is more than misguided zeal. That is complicity.”

  Felix inhaled slowly. “It is an aberration, Magister. Understand that the Church is not a monolith—some men see in Crassus a chance for reform or an end to the chaos. They might be deceived. I have done what I can to call them back to reason and to urge them not to entangle themselves in warlike ambitions.”

  “I see.” Orestes’s tone was flat. “And what, precisely, do you propose we do about it? Shall I dispatch troops to arrest them? Or shall I wait and see if their prayers at Crassus’s side anoint him on the battlefield?”

  Felix’s mouth tightened. “What you propose would cause a major uproar—laying hands on bishops, even if they have strayed, would undermine the Church’s unity and provoke who knows how many more into open sympathy for Crassus.”

  Orestes stepped away, pacing near the window where the sunlight caught the ring on the sill. “I am not fond of undermining the Church’s unity. But I am less fond of those so-called shepherds offering spiritual cover to a ‘pretender,’ as you so delicately put it.” He paused, then turned to fix Felix with a pointed glare. “Your men have chosen a side. They can claim charity, they can claim lofty moral guidance, but they ride behind Crassus’s banner. So how do you spin that into neutrality, Felix? I find it difficult to believe that bread and bandages are their only reasons for accompanying him.”

  Felix’s voice remained calm, though his brows pinched with frustration. “They have made a grave miscalculation, I agree. But do not tar the entire clergy with the brush of a few misguided souls. I myself have written letters—stern letters—urging them to return, to remember their vows to serve the spiritual well-being of Rome at large.” He exhaled slowly. “I had hoped you would understand. Not every bishop is wise in the ways of politics, or strong enough to resist intimidation from Crassus.”

  Orestes barked a short, bitter laugh. “Strong enough? Then they are no better than the senators who cower behind gold. Or the peasants forced to pick up spears. You want me to believe these holy men joined Crassus out of fear, not ambition? I suppose that’s possible, though it hardly changes the fact that they bolster his legitimacy.”

  Felix’s composure cracked another sliver, his jaw setting. “Let me be clear, Orestes: I do not share their stance. My counsel has been—and remains—loyal to Emperor Romulus. I have preached that to every congregation within my reach. As for the misguided bishops who ride with Crassus, I consider them in grave error.” He hesitated, then added, “Their presence, I fear, stems partly from a misreading of events. They believe Rome is on the brink of collapse, that the Senate is corrupt, that your son’s reforms were too sweeping—”

  “Do not place this on my son,” Orestes snapped. “Or do you suggest Romulus be dethroned simply because he tried to save a dying empire?” His eyes flashed with anger. “No. This is Crassus’s ambition, and these bishops have decided to gamble on it.”

  A long moment passed in silence. Felix pressed his lips together, gathering himself. “I do not excuse them, Magister,” he said eventually. “I only wished you to see how fear and confusion can warp a man’s loyalty—even a bishop’s.”

  “Fear. Confusion.” Orestes spread his hands in a dismissive gesture. “And how many have they led astray? Are these wandering bishops baptizing Crassus’s recruits, chanting prayers at his mock coronation?”

  Felix’s cheeks colored faintly. “They have no authority to coronate anyone, and if they do so, they do it against every directive the Pope has issued. Mark my words, it is not compassion that drives them—it is opportunism or intimidation.”

  “Indeed,” Orestes said, voice cooling. “So here is what I want. The Church must declare Crassus what he is: a false emperor, a pretender, a rabid dog who should be put down for the good of Rome. I want it announced from the pulpits across the provinces, posted on church doors—wherever your priests can make it known. And I want your clergy who cling to Crassus recalled—publicly. Let it be clear they stand in defiance of the Church’s will.”

  Felix’s eyes widened. “You ask a harsh measure. One that wades directly into politics.”

  “Isn’t that what your bishops did the moment they marched with Crassus?” Orestes snapped. “Don’t speak to me of staying above politics—this is war. Either the Church stands with the rightful emperor or it stands in treason. Choose.”

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  For a heartbeat, Felix said nothing, absorbing the demand. Then he exhaled. “I stand with Romulus already. But for the Church to brand Crassus a rabid dog, to declare him anathema—that is no small thing. We have not done so lightly, even in the empire’s darkest hours. Such a pronouncement—”

  “Is exactly what is needed,” Orestes interjected. “Don’t pretend you’re squeamish about politics, Felix. You want to preserve the Church’s moral authority? Then you can prove it by severing all ties to a traitor. And if some bishops still cling to him, name them as well, excommunicate them—whatever methods you use to rein in your own.”

  “And if I refuse?” Felix asked softly, though tension braced his voice.

  Orestes lifted his chin. “Then you refuse to stand with the empire. You refuse to stand with Romulus. And you force my hand.” He let a brief silence stretch, letting the weight of that threat speak for itself. “Crassus and Odoacer will be at Ravenna’s gates soon. When that happens, I will not have the luxury of differentiating between loyal clergy and turncoat clergy. You understand?”

  Felix inclined his head slightly, bitterness warring with resignation in his eyes. “You threaten the Church’s safety if we do not publicly denounce Crassus?”

  “I threaten nothing,” Orestes said, though it came out with a bite. “I merely point out that in the chaos of a siege, mobs sometimes lash out at those perceived to have aided the enemy. And if the Church’s stance remains ambiguous—if some bishops remain among Crassus’s ranks—well, I might not be able to protect you from that anger. You could be swallowed by it like a spark in dry brush.”

  A hush fell, broken only by the faint clamor from the street below: merchants haggling, a donkey braying, footsteps on cobblestones. Felix drew himself up. “Your ultimatum is clear,” he said. “Yet you presume I am unwilling to comply. Let me be frank, Magister: I loathe Crassus’s ambition. I see no future in his cause. My sources tell me Emperor Zeno in the East has already dispatched forces to support Romulus. To side with Crassus now would be folly. We all know it.”

  Orestes’s eyes narrowed, hearing the realpolitik behind Felix’s statement. “So you disavow Crassus because you deem him a losing bet?”

  “If you wish to call it that.” Felix’s lips thinned. “I prefer to see it as preserving stability. If Crassus topples Ravenna, the Church’s unity is jeopardized. If Odoacer seizes Italy, we risk plunging into barbarism. I have no illusions that Crassus will triumph over both you and the Eastern forces. Therefore, the Church’s wise path is to stand with Romulus. I have already urged every bishop I can sway to reject Crassus’s claims.”

  “And the official condemnation?” Orestes demanded. “The formal declaration that Crassus is a false emperor, a traitor?”

  Felix seemed to weigh his words. “I will draft a statement, to be read in Ravenna and in every diocese under my jurisdiction. It will name Crassus as a pretender and caution the faithful to withhold allegiance. As for calling him a rabid dog—” He paused delicately. “I suspect I can express that sentiment more diplomatically. The effect will be the same.”

  Orestes’s mouth curved in a tight, humorless smile. “Diplomacy if you must. I only care that the meaning is unmistakable. And do not neglect to denounce those clerics at his side. Make it known they act against the Church’s will.”

  Felix inclined his head. “Yes, Magister. They shall be chastised, and their flocks urged to abandon their false path.” A hint of frustration sharpened his tone. “I do not relish condemning fellow bishops, but I see no other way to maintain a unified stance. I will do what must be done.”

  “Indeed,” Orestes said, letting a hint of triumph color his voice. “Now, understand me: once Crassus and Odoacer are at our gates, there will be no time for half-measures. If the Church tries to waffle or stall, we will see it as open betrayal. Make certain your condemnation is swift and visible.”

  Felix frowned. “I will require a few days, at least, to gather scribes, to circulate the letters—”

  “Then do it swiftly. Time is not our ally.”

  “And you, Magister,” Felix ventured, “will in turn ensure that no harm comes to the faithful or to those clerics who remain loyal to Emperor Romulus?”

  Orestes inclined his head. “So long as they are indeed loyal—and do not feed or follow Crassus—I will guarantee their safety. You have my word.”

  A moment’s silence, taut with everything unsaid, stretched between them. Felix glanced at the ring still on the windowsill, perhaps reminded of the mourning that weighed on Orestes’s soul. Then he straightened, voice quiet. “Your grief for Paulus—and your concern for Romulus—are not lost on me, Orestes. I know this has hardened your resolve. Let us pray this approach spares more bloodshed.”

  Orestes stood rigid as stone. “Spare me your prayers. Actions will suffice. Now go. Craft your condemnation. Show me and every citizen of Rome that the Church stands firmly behind the true emperor. Words are cheap, but they do echo far if they come from every pulpit.”

  Felix bowed with stately grace, though the line of his mouth remained tense. “Then I take my leave. May God grant us a swift end to this conflict.”

  “See to it you hold up your end, Bishop,” Orestes muttered, his voice low. “That is the surest path to ending this conflict. And remember: time is slipping away.”

  Felix offered no further reply. He turned, gathering the edges of his robes, and made for the door. Orestes listened to the echo of retreating footsteps, feeling a swirl of grim satisfaction and caution churn in his chest. The bishop might lament or begrudge the Church’s forced alignment, but necessity had drawn him into it. Another piece on the board was in place, if precariously.

  For a moment, the Magister Militum stared at the ring on the windowsill, the sunlight gleaming on that faint inscription. “Paulus,” he murmured, “this is how we defend Rome—even if it means shackling men of faith to the cause.” He closed his hand around the ring, the metal cool in his palm, then turned away from the window.

  Orestes did not have to wait long for the next confrontation. Moments after Bishop Felix’s departure, a guard knocked firmly on the door, announcing the arrival of Dux Flavianus. Orestes exhaled once—resolving to keep his temper—and bade the guard admit the man. The door swung open, and in strode Marcus Flavianus, the soldier who had risen from centurion to Dux in Orestes’s absence.

  “Magister Militum,” Flavianus said, giving a respectful nod. He wore the plain, rugged tunic and cloak typical of a field commander—practical, unadorned armor shining at his shoulders. Though he was no aristocrat, something about his stance carried dignity, as though the battlefield itself had conferred authority.

  Orestes studied him with a narrow gaze. Flavianus had faced Crassus’s rabble in skirmish after skirmish and beaten them soundly. The ring on Orestes’s palm felt heavier for some reason; he placed it on the desk behind him. “Dux Flavianus,” he began, voice calm but edged with tension, “I have heard some…encouraging news regarding your efforts. Harassing Crassus’s troops, securing outlying farms—impressive feats, no doubt.”

  Flavianus inclined his head politely. “Thank you, Magister. My men and I have done our utmost to keep the city safe from infiltration and sabotage.”

  “Yes,” Orestes said, drawing out the word. “And I commend you for protecting the empire—our empire—during my…necessary absence.” He paused pointedly, letting the unspoken question of ‘where were you?’ hang in the air. “Still, I’d be remiss if I did not remark on the unusual path of your promotion. My son, in his wisdom, decided to elevate you from centurion to Dux of the Second Legion—II Italica, is it not?”

  “It is,” Flavianus said, bracing himself. He heard the subtle barb in Orestes’s tone.

  “Yes,” Orestes repeated. “II Italica, historically commanded by proven patrician generals with decades of campaign experience. Men with… lineage. But, well, times have changed.” His eyes flicked up, measuring Flavianus’s reaction. “I can hardly ignore the results you’ve produced, so let me be plain: you have served well. Yet one might question whether that success stems from your skill…or from the fact that Crassus fields an untrained rabble. Peasants, debtors. Hardly a real army.”

  Flavianus’s face tightened. He recalled the bitterness he had often felt from certain aristocratic officers—men who saw him as an upstart from the ranks. “My legionaries have done more than put down peasants, Magister. We’ve clashed with men who were forcibly conscripted, yes, but also encountered mercenaries, minor nobles, and even cavalry contingents. We beat them. Soundly. If I recall, the rebels withdrew with heavy losses each time.”

  “True enough,” Orestes allowed. “But let us not conflate that with the challenges of a genuine war. A standoff with an army commanded by Odoacer, for instance—trained foederati, seasoned cavalry. That is a beast far different from a ragtag band of conscripts, is it not?”

  Flavianus responded coolly, “I stand ready to face Odoacer, whenever he rears his head. My record so far speaks for itself. Can the same be said for your own?” He regretted the words the moment they escaped his lips, but anger flared inside him: he had spilled sweat and blood in the emperor’s name, while Orestes had retreated after Pavia.

  A pregnant hush followed, the tension crackling between them. Orestes’s jaw clenched, and his hand brushed the scar at his temple almost reflexively. “I see you have grown bold in your success. Let me remind you: I have been fighting wars since my childhood, at the court of Attila the Hun, no less. That scar—” he tapped near the gray streak “—came from a duel with a Germanic chieftain whose name you would not recognize. I have faced cavalry more fearsome than anything Crassus could muster. I know war, Dux. Perhaps better than you do.”

  Flavianus exhaled. He was not about to cower. “Respectfully, Magister, that was then. This is now. We stand on a different battlefield, with different weapons and tactics. Times have changed, as you said. You speak of noble lineage and grand campaigns—yet you were absent when the empire needed a general in Ravenna. In that vacuum, I led, and I won.”

  Orestes’s eyes flashed. “Against peasants and a handful of mercenaries. I repeat, that’s hardly the crucible that tests a real commander.” He paced a few steps, letting the frustration bleed through. “And while you were forging your quick victories, my son, the Empror introduced these newfangled tactics—pike formations, crossbows, cavalry stirrups. Ambitious, yes, but unproven. You claim they work, and perhaps they did… against scythe-wielding peasants. Will they fare as well against a disciplined host of barbarian horsemen?”

  Flavianus drew a steadying breath. “We will soon see, no doubt. My men have been drilled extensively. We have a synergy of pike and crossbow that can repel cavalry charges, if done correctly. The emperor himself has seen it in action.”

  Orestes let out a derisive snort. “The emperor—my son— is young and enamored with innovations he reads about in obscure treatises. Sarissas, crossbows, combined arms… I respect the attempt, but I see glaring flaws. Your so-called ‘pikes’ are neither as long as Alexander’s sarissas nor as versatile as traditional Roman spears. And to hold a shield while wielding a pike? It defeats the purpose of having that greater reach.”

  Flavianus bristled. “We have adapted. The shield is smaller, oval shaped to work in tandem with the longer weapon. We gained ground in every engagement so far—my men inflicted casualties before the enemy could close in.” He forced himself to remain calm. “As for the youth and inexperience you mention, the emperor has more sense than many older generals who lost battles clinging to outdated methods.”

  A muscle twitched in Orestes’s jaw. “Is that a jab at me, Dux?” He advanced a step, looming close. “Because I have lost battles, yes—any soldier worth his salt has. War is not a tidy set of field exercises. But let me assure you, the difference between a noble or well-seasoned general and an upstart is how quickly one recovers from defeats. So far, you have not tasted real defeat, but that day may yet come.”

  Flavianus held his ground. The faint smell of the morning’s bread and the drift of incense from somewhere deeper in the palace lingered in the air. Outside, he heard a distant clang of metal—perhaps the armory. “I do not claim invincibility. But I do claim loyalty, skill, and the trust of the emperor. He has recognized that on the battlefield. If you doubt me, look to the men I command—veterans who have pledged themselves under me, not out of fear or bribes, but respect.”

  Orestes narrowed his eyes. “And that is precisely why I’m speaking to you now, Flavianus. I intend to reassert my role as Magister Militum. I will not stand by while the empire’s legions are shaped by someone who, but a few months ago, was a mere centurion. Nor will I watch you run the war in ways contrary to my experience.” He paused, letting that land. “I have loyal foederati who followed me from Pavia, along with my comitatenses—men who answer to me personally. I plan to ride out with them to harass Crassus and Odoacer’s forces before they mass. My strategy is to break up their vanguard, keep them scattered, stall their advance.”

  Flavianus crossed his arms. “With respect, the emperor’s last directives were clear: avoid direct engagements. We are to evacuate villages and gather provisions, denying the enemy resources. Odoacer’s cavalry outnumbers ours, and we can’t risk open battle on unfavorable terms. The Caesar told me—”

  Orestes’s laughter was short, scornful. “Caesar told you. My dear Dux, my son, for all his zeal, has not marched with Attila nor clashed swords with barbarian kings. He relies on these new tactics, ignoring that war also demands cunning, unpredictability. Pavia taught me that direct confrontation might be exactly the step we need—if we strike on our terms.”

  Flavianus’s voice rose a notch, no longer able to contain his frustration. “You lost men at Pavia, Magister. Many of them. And we only have so many left to spare. The emperor wishes to preserve our strength until we can form a proper line or until Eastern reinforcements arrive. This is not fear; it’s caution borne of experience, as your defeats should confirm.”

  A hush fell over the room. Orestes’s nostrils flared, and for a heartbeat, Flavianus wondered if he had crossed a line. The older man’s knuckles went white around the edge of the table.

  Orestes drew a slow breath. “You speak too freely, Dux. Let me remind you who commands the armies of the West. I am Magister Militum, sworn to defend Rome and guide its strategy. Yes, my son is emperor, but I outrank you in all military matters. Consider that before you lecture me on the meaning of caution.”

  Flavianus let out a measured breath. “I don’t deny your rank, or your place. But in your absence, I was entrusted with the defense of Ravenna. I have proven I can handle the threat, and I do so under Emperor Romulus’s orders. If you want to change the plan, speak with him. Otherwise, you risk fracturing our chain of command.”

  Orestes’s gaze flickered with anger. “Fracture. The only fracture I see is that a legion once commanded by patricians is now led by a man of common birth who claims parity with me. You have skill, yes, but ambition as well, do you not? Or do you truly believe your meteoric rise is normal for a Roman officer?”

  Flavianus kept his voice level. “I have always served Rome to the best of my ability. My loyalty is not contingent on birthright. I was taught—and perhaps you forgot—that a soldier’s merit is measured on the battlefield, not in the genealogical scrolls. Emperor Romulus recognized my worth. Do you think he was wrong?”

  “Not wrong to reward success,” Orestes allowed, “but perhaps too quick to exalt it. Merit or not, the rule in Rome has always been that rank is earned over years, across many campaigns. You have had a handful of pitched battles. Good battles, yes, but hardly the sum of a lifetime’s warfare.” His lip curled slightly. “Better men have waited decades for a command. That tradition, that discipline, is part of what used to keep our empire strong.”

  Flavianus’s eyes flashed. “A tradition that sometimes kept incompetent patricians in power while capable men in the ranks were overlooked. Is that what you wish to restore, Magister? Because if so, we’ll lose more battles than we’ll ever win.”

  Orestes took two steps forward, enough to stand toe-to-toe with Flavianus. “Watch yourself, Dux. You speak of incompetent patricians—some might say you accuse me.”

  Flavianus drew a breath. “I said nothing of the sort. I only pointed out the failings of a rigid system. My men trust me because I stand beside them in the line of fire. That bond is not built on noble birth. Our legion stands for the new Rome the emperor envisions.”

  Orestes leveled a hard stare at him. “Rome is old, boy, older than you or my son. And I remain the one who answers to none but the emperor. This conversation is over. I will muster the loyal foederati and my comitatenses to conduct raids on Crassus’s columns. If the emperor feels otherwise, he may speak to me. But for now, I suggest you hold that precious II Italica in reserve, focusing on the pike-and-crossbow drills you so adore. When Odoacer’s cavalry arrives, we’ll see how your short pikes works in a real fight.”

  Flavianus managed a tight nod, though his anger still simmered. “Fine. But do not blame me if your audacity draws the foe’s entire cavalry upon you. We have strict orders to preserve manpower and deny them supplies, not to ride into their jaws.”

  Orestes snatched up the ring from the desk and closed his fist around it. “We shall see. I did not survive Attila’s court by bowing to caution at every step. As for your recommendations, I’ll factor them in. But let me be clear: my authority stands. I will do what I see fit.”

  A loaded silence followed, broken only by the distant hum of Ravenna’s streets. Then Flavianus inclined his head—just enough to avoid overt disrespect, yet not so low as to betray subservience. “Then if you have no further instructions, Magister,” he said, “I will return to my men and continue preparing them.”

  “Do that,” Orestes said curtly. “And prepare them well, Dux. Because when this war truly heats up, I will expect results from you worthy of your new rank. No less.”

  Flavianus’s jaw tightened. “You will have them. Good day, Magister.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and made for the door, leaving Orestes alone in the office. The Magister Militum stood there, trembling slightly with anger or adrenaline—perhaps both. The ring felt cold in his grasp. He swallowed, forcing a long breath through his nostrils.

  He had reasserted his authority, but the tension was thick enough to slash with a sword. The centurion upstart—Dux Flavianus—would not easily concede the power he had gained under Romulus’s blessing. And Orestes, having lost so much ground, needed to wrest it back for the sake of unity or simply to soothe the old, proud soldier within him. Either way, the path ahead was precarious, filled with looming battles against enemies outside the walls—and potential division within them.