24th of July, 476 AD

  Orestes could feel the old restlessness settling in his bones as he led the column of foederati and comitatenses beyond Ravenna’s gates. Early morning light caught the iron tips of spears and the gleam of polished helmets, lending the marching host a dignified, if somber, appearance. Despite the swirl of dust beneath the horses’ hooves, despite the hush that befell the soldiers as they passed beyond the city walls, there was an undercurrent of anticipation—perhaps even eagerness to see what lay ahead. They knew the stakes: a decisive strike, or at least a show of force, might turn the tide in favor of Emperor Romulus.

  Orestes rode at the front, his posture fixed and upright. He was no stranger to such journeys—long hours on horseback, scanning the horizon for enemy movement, counting on scouts to fan out along the roads. Yet there was a subtle difference now, a hum of anxiety in his chest. This sortie was as much about reasserting his authority as it was about combating Crassus and Odoacer.

  He cast a glance behind him. Three thousand foederati, a mix of Germanic and Hunnic cavalry interspersed with some Romanized foot soldiers, trudged in loose formation. Toward the rear trailed fifteen hundred of his own comitatenses—veterans who had marched with him before, men who still remembered the sting of defeat at Pavia. Their faces were grim, but their eyes held a spark of renewed determination. Among them rode the centurions he trusted most, men who had not deserted when his fortunes had wavered.

  From the corner of his eye, he spotted movement on a distant road—perhaps a large group returning to the city. He recognized the distinctive crossbow-laden cohorts of Flavianus’s legion, escorting a slow-moving column of peasants, children, and livestock. Wagons overladen with sacks of grain and personal possessions rattled along, driven by anxious families. Orestes’s jaw tightened. A fool’s errand, he thought. The Romulus’s so-called “evacuation” only drained precious manpower from the front. Perhaps it was well-meaning or even tactically sound—Romulus wanted to deny the enemy supplies by hauling the peasants and resources behind the walls—but it looked painfully inefficient to Orestes’s eyes.

  “Better to levy them,” he muttered under his breath. “At least the men could bear arms rather than weigh down our stores.” He could imagine how the supply lines might strain if the Eastern army were delayed. Food might run short, discipline might crack. But that was Flavianus’s problem to manage, apparently. Orestes turned back to the open road, resisting the urge to spur his horse and leave the sight behind him. They had enough real enemies to fight without dwelling on the disputes within Ravenna’s command.

  A pang of regret slid through his chest—a moment’s yearning for Paulus. If only my brother were here. Paulus had possessed a certain genius for defending strongholds and orchestrating supply lines. He’d have known how to organize these scattered peasants more effectively, how to fortify local villages or create blockades across the enemy’s path. Orestes had always been the negotiator, the opportunist—schooled in subtlety and alliances. Paulus, on the other hand, had been a true soldier, every bit as commanding as Flavianus was now—perhaps more. No, definitely more. Orestes would never have admitted that out loud, least of all to Paulus himself, but the thought glimmered painfully now that it was too late to say so. I hope you’re resting in peace, brother, he thought, pressing his lips into a thin line.

  He blinked away the memory. Stay focused. A short distance ahead, he spotted a fork in the road where the terrain dipped into low hills. He raised a hand to signal a brief halt. An officer—a tall foederatus with braided blond hair—rode forward at once.

  “Magister Militum?” the man asked in accented Latin.

  “We’ll send scouts to either side of that rise,” Orestes said. “Ensure Crassus and Odoacer haven’t advanced their outriders. I want no surprises.”

  The officer nodded, spun his horse, and barked commands in a Germanic tongue. Immediately, half a dozen riders peeled away, cantering off into the hills. Orestes released a slow breath. Caution. He must not let his frustration with Flavianus’s methods push him into recklessness. Yet he knew a triumph here—some swift blow against the enemy’s flank—would bolster his standing once again. He could almost taste the relief of riding back into Ravenna with good news.

  He touched the scar near his temple absently, the habit of a man who had long used it to project an air of seasoned confidence. The official story, told over goblets of wine at banquets or in hushed corners of the palace, was that Orestes had earned it battling some towering Germanic chieftain. He’d even let slip once or twice that it happened in open combat, deep in barbarian lands. The truth was more… prosaic, and in some ways more embarrassing: Attila himself, in a fit of rage, had hurled a wax tablet across the tent, striking Orestes as he tried to placate the Hun’s demands. That day, Orestes had learned two crucial lessons: never anger a warlord so thoroughly that he loses composure, and never pass up an opportunity to spin misfortune into an advantageous legend.

  He found himself smiling wryly. Had Flavianus or Romulus known that, perhaps they would mock me. But the myth had proven invaluable in forging his image as a hardened survivor. Let them believe I bested a giant barbarian. In the end, the results mattered, not the details.

  A courier rode up, dirt smeared across his face, saluting smartly. “Magister, the scouts see no sign of the enemy within a league, save for a few suspicious tracks leading west—possible light cavalry. They might be from Crassus or Odoacer.”

  Orestes nodded. “No direct confrontation, then. Good.” He paused, thinking. “We’ll proceed to the next village, see if any stragglers remain. If Crassus’s men left a garrison, we’ll root them out and make an example. We need to sow fear in their hearts, keep them off balance.”

  “Yes, Magister.” The courier spurred his horse away.

  For a moment, Orestes let his gaze sweep over his assembled troops. Good men, though some were uncertain about the changes Romulus had introduced—this new synergy between crossbows and pikes, the emphasis on smaller cavalry units. Orestes had no wish to sabotage the emperor’s reforms outright, but neither would he place blind faith in them. For this mission, he had clung to proven methods: swift harrying raids, avoiding set-piece battles, leaning on the cunning of his foederati.

  Flavianus might call it rash, Orestes mused, but I call it decisive. If he could catch even a small detachment of Crassus’s men unawares—burn their supplies, scatter their ranks—he might achieve a propaganda victory. Then perhaps the city would see him as more than a battered commander returning after a humiliating retreat. Then he could stand in front of Romulus without feeling overshadowed by a “commoner” commander’s winning streak.

  He flicked the reins, urging his horse forward down the dusty path. His body tensed with the adrenaline of anticipation, that old spark that used to ignite in him whenever he rode out with Attila’s forces to collect tribute or quell rebellious tribes. Back then, he had been a secretary, a translator, but he had learned the importance of presence—of letting the enemy see your confidence, even if half of it was feigned.

  As the column advanced, Orestes caught sight again of Flavianus’s evacuations across the plain. Scores of peasants and wagons on the move, heading for Ravenna. A thick line of crossbowmen flanked them, eyes wary for any raiding party. A pity we cannot gather those peasants into a levy or militia right now. Orestes shook his head. The idea of those men, bolstering the ranks, felt so painfully obvious. But Romulus insisted on preserving civilian life—earning the goodwill of the population, perhaps. That was the boy’s style. Soon enough, if the Eastern army tarries, we might have no choice but to conscript them. He pressed the thought aside, focusing on the mission at hand.

  They passed into a stretch of farmland dotted by vineyards. Broken fences and abandoned huts attested that Crassus’s or Odoacer’s scouts had likely taken advantage of these fields, stripping them for fodder. Orestes cursed under his breath. We’re behind them already. But maybe not by much.

  The sun climbed higher, beating on helmeted heads and making the horses stamp impatiently. Orestes had them slow their pace, mindful that a forced gallop would only exhaust the animals if no enemy was in sight. As they neared the next rise, a scout galloped back from the forward group, breathless.

  “Magister, we spotted a small encampment in the valley ahead. Maybe fifty men. They bear Crassus’s banners and look to be foraging or resting. Some cavalry, too.”

  Orestes perked up. A small detachment, potentially vulnerable. “Good. We’ll approach carefully. Surround them if we can—prevent any messenger from warning the main force.”

  Quickly, he issued orders: a portion of the foederati cavalry would circle to the south, the comitatenses would form a blocking line to the north. If everything went well, they could ambush or encircle the encampment. A swift strike, minimal risk. Precisely the kind of victory Orestes yearned for.

  He reached up and touched the scar near his temple again, mind flitting back to Attila, to the humiliating moment turned legend. Let this be my own little demonstration—to Flavianus, to Romulus, and to all who doubt me—that I am no relic. He turned to the officers around him, voice steady. “Move quietly. Spread out and keep the signal horns ready. We strike fast.”

  As the troops fanned out, Orestes kicked his horse into a canter, scanning the horizon for any movement that might betray enemy pickets. A surge of adrenaline fluttered in his stomach. The plan was simple: overrun them, seize their supplies, maybe capture a few prisoners. It wouldn’t be a grand triumph, but in a war balanced on morale and optics, even small successes could sway allegiances.

  He took a calming breath. Just a small push, a small vindication. Then back to Ravenna, head held high. The sun blazed overhead, reminding him of the inexorable passing of time. He nodded to himself. Crassus, Odoacer, it matters not. I will show them all that the Magister Militum is neither beaten nor obsolete.

  Hooves thundered on packed earth as the formation closed in. Orestes gripped the reins, half-smiling to himself. This is how I defend Rome, Paulus. By forging my own path—flawed though it may be. He pictured his brother’s wry grin, remembered the old arguments about tactics. You would have told me to wait for reinforcements, to build barricades, to manage supplies carefully. But you’re not here, dear brother. So I’ll do this my way.

  And with that final thought, Orestes let the momentum carry him forward, cresting the rise to glimpse the unsuspecting rebel detachment in the valley below. The time for hesitation was done; only action remained. He raised a hand, signaled the charge, and felt his men surge around him. In that rush of hooves and heartbeats, he tasted the faint promise of redemption—proof that he could still shape his destiny, that he had not yet been overshadowed by the new order rising in Ravenna.

  The sun stood high as Orestes led his men over the rise, the air crackling with anticipation. Below in the valley, a small force—fifty riders and foot soldiers, their tents huddled around a few tethered horses—continued to go about their midday business, evidently oblivious to the advancing threat. Banners lay bunched on the ground, bearing Odoacer’s emblem: a half-worn golden eagle upon a dark background. Closer, a group of men crouched by a cooking fire, while others lounged around battered shields or rummaged through sacks of grain.

  Orestes inhaled slowly, scanning the terrain. It was a patch of open farmland leading down into the shallow valley, with a thin line of scraggly trees forming a partial windbreak. Perfect for a swift, envelopment tactic if timed correctly.

  He raised his hand, a silent command. Instantly, the foederati cavalry on the southern side of the ridge began to peel away, galloping in a wide arc to encircle the camp from behind. Meanwhile, the comitatenses—largely infantrymen armed with spears and oval shields—came around the north, hugging the low ground for concealment.

  A faint breeze carried the smell of horse sweat and distant smoke. Orestes urged his mount forward at a careful trot, ensuring the foe did not glimpse them too soon. Once his cavalry was properly positioned, he raised his arm higher—a single sharp gesture.

  With the sudden blare of a signal horn, the entire Roman line burst into a charge. Orestes spurred his horse, adrenaline surging through his veins. Hooves thundered; dust clouded the bright midday sun.

  At the foot of the slope, one or two of Odoacer’s scouts finally looked up, eyes going wide. They scrambled to mount, shouting warnings—but it was too late. The Roman cavalry slammed into the camp in a formation known to old legionaries as a wedge: the horses in front lanced forward with spears, forcing a break in the enemy lines. Behind them rushed the second wave, some with swords drawn, others with bows or light javelins, finishing any foe left standing.

  The small cluster of infantry in the camp was caught unprepared. Those unlucky enough to be near the cooking fire found themselves trampled or driven back under the pounding of hooves. A handful managed to grab weapons, but the speed and precision of the foederati charge overwhelmed them.

  Meanwhile, the comitatenses infantry blocked off the northern edge of the encampment, forming a tight cordon of shields and spears—an impromptu curtain to prevent any breakout. Several of Odoacer’s men tried to dash that way, but were met by a bristling hedge of iron. The Romans advanced in disciplined ranks, cutting them down or forcing their surrender.

  A small knot of enemy cavalry attempted to rally. About a dozen horsemen scrambled to form up behind a stand of wagons, hoping to launch a quick counter-charge. But the Roman wedge shattered them almost instantly. Orestes’s foederati, adept at close combat from years of skirmishing under various tribal banners, harried them with thrown spears and well-placed sword strikes. Within moments, the last of the defenders abandoned their posts, dropping weapons to beg for mercy or gallop away at breakneck speed.

  It was over in minutes. Orestes’s men fanned out across the site, seizing sacks of grain, small crates of arrows, and half-a-dozen skittish horses. A few huts and tents had been hastily erected; Roman soldiers tore them down and rummaged for intelligence. All told, the bodies of roughly thirty Odoacer men lay scattered, with a similar number taken captive, many of them wounded. Roman casualties appeared minimal—hardly more than a few men knocked from horses, or cut by a lucky sword thrust.

  Orestes halted his mount near the largest tent, surveying the victory. Even the short skirmish had left the air thick with the tang of sweat and iron. He allowed himself a moment’s satisfaction. The success was swift, decisive—just as he’d wanted.

  A centurion came forward, saluting. “Magister Militum, we have two prisoners of interest. One claims to be an officer.”

  Orestes nodded. “Bring him.”

  Within moments, two Roman soldiers dragged a bruised, dark-bearded man forward, his right arm streaked with blood. The prisoner’s gaze flicked nervously to the ring of armed Romans. He swallowed hard, then raised his voice in shaky Latin. “I yield, I yield!”

  Orestes fixed him with a cold stare. “Your name and rank?”

  “C-Celsus, sir,” the man stammered, “one of Odoacer’s cavalry lieutenants.”

  “And what is a cavalry lieutenant doing with a paltry force like this?” Orestes pressed.

  Celsus winced, gesturing at his wounded arm. “We are just a foraging party, Magister. We gather supplies… scouting for the main vanguard.” His voice trembled. “They are not far. Half a day’s ride, perhaps less.”

  Orestes exchanged a keen glance with one of his officers. A vanguard that close could pose a real threat—yet also a real opportunity if it’s isolated. “How large is this vanguard?” he demanded.

  “Two thousand men,” Celsus managed, blinking sweat from his eyes. “A thousand cavalry, the rest infantry.”

  A low murmur rippled among the gathered Roman soldiers. Orestes, heart pounding, seized on the notion: if he could scatter or destroy that vanguard before it combined with Crassus’s main host, he might earn a decisive advantage. He felt an almost euphoric sense of possibility.

  “You’re sure of these numbers?” he asked, voice dropping. The prisoner nodded frantically. Orestes turned, waving the centurion to take the man away. “Keep him alive. Keep them all. They may yet be useful.”

  As the day wore on, Orestes’s men ransacked the small camp for anything worth carrying back—grain sacks, arrows, even leftover cavalry tack. Orestes conferred with his officers, feeling the pulse of triumph in the air. They had struck down Odoacer’s men with minimal effort—an exhilarating show of force.

  He could sense the hunger for more. One more blow, bigger this time. Orestes reasoned that if he hurried, they might catch the vanguard off-guard before nightfall. A risky move, but the reward would be immense: crippling Odoacer’s forward momentum, and returning to Ravenna with something tangible—proof of his worth.

  His second-in-command, a grizzled tribune named Lucanus, frowned at the intelligence. “Two thousand men is no small band, Magister. Half are cavalry, which might meet us on equal terms. And the infantry could hold ground if they have strong discipline.”

  Orestes nodded, letting the logic surface. “Yes, they could. But we outnumber them nearly two to one with our total force—my three thousand foederati plus fifteen hundred comitatenses. We just overcame their scouts without breaking a sweat.”

  Another officer, a Roman tribune named Marius, bit his lip. “This is a vanguard, presumably part of a larger army. Where is the rest? Perhaps close behind?”

  “We can’t be sure,” Orestes said. “But that’s precisely why a quick strike might be our best chance. Shatter them before they link up. Even a partial victory would hamper Odoacer’s advance. Morale is on our side right now.” He let his eyes flick to the wreckage of the enemy encampment. “We already proved that Odoacer’s men can be caught off-balance.”

  One of the foederati chieftains, still perched on horseback, grinned broadly. “We thirst for another fight,” he said in thickly accented Latin. “Give the order, and we will ride.”

  Lucanus still hesitated. “We’d be fighting nearly equal numbers of cavalry, Magister. They might not be so unprepared next time. If they fortify or set pickets—”

  “Then we strike with cunning,” Orestes cut in. “Night approaches soon. We’ll arrive in darkness, use scouts to gauge their layout. If we find a gap, we hit them hard before they can form a cohesive line.” His voice was electric with that old, self-assured ring. A single victory can tilt the entire narrative.

  By late afternoon, Orestes’s force had regrouped and set off, leaving behind a few men to keep watch over the captured camp. The rest advanced swiftly, guided by the prisoner’s rough directions. The day stretched on, dusty roads winding between farmland and sporadic copses of trees, until finally, near nightfall, their scouts signaled the presence of a larger encampment ahead.

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  Orestes and a handful of officers dismounted a short distance away and crawled up a small knoll to observe. Below, in a shallow valley enclosed by gentle slopes, an extensive encampment sprawled. Torches glowed among tents and rudimentary fortifications—timber stakes hammered into the ground, a partial ditch. Horse lines extended toward the western perimeter. It looked big—larger than one might expect for two thousand men. A large portion of the campsite seemed empty, either recently vacated or never fully used.

  “Odd,” muttered Lucanus, narrowing his eyes. “That’s too big for a mere two thousand. Have they already marched out a portion of their force?”

  Orestes studied the scene. Indeed, entire rows of tent spaces were unoccupied. “Possibly. They could be out on a foraging raid. Or maybe—” he paused, considering. “Maybe it’s a ruse, making themselves look more numerous than they are. The prisoner said it’s about two thousand total, so presumably half their cavalry is present.”

  The tired sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of orange and purple. The Roman column halted in hushed anticipation a few hundred paces behind the rise. Horses stamped and snorted, men murmured quietly. Orestes felt a tingle of excitement. A full-on strike at night, if done properly, could become the resounding victory I need.

  One of the centurions, older and pragmatic, cleared his throat softly. “If a chunk of them is absent, that might mean they’re on patrol or scouring the countryside. Could return at any moment.”

  Orestes’s gut churned with the thrill of possibility. “So we move fast,” he decided. “We strike from two directions again—foederati cavalry on their flank, comitatenses forming a front on this side. Pin them against those stakes or drive them outward. If they retreat, we chase them down. If they stand, we break them with discipline. Our success at the smaller camp shows Odoacer’s men can be rattled.”

  One of Orestes’s centurions, a lean veteran named Pacius, cleared his throat. “Magister, the men are exhausted. They marched all day, fought that skirmish… Even the horses are near their limit. Perhaps we should wait until morning. Let them rest.”

  Some of the other officers nodded; they had seen the men yawning, eyes glassy from the day’s heat, even as they tried to muster excitement for a second battle. But Orestes’s expression hardened. He could sense the quiet dissent swirling beneath the surface.

  “Strike now,” he said firmly, gaze never leaving the valley. “If we wait, the enemy might move away or reinforce. Our advantage is surprise. A night assault will break them before they’re fully aware. We can’t afford to let them slip through our fingers.”

  Pacius’s jaw tightened, and he exchanged a look with the tribune Lucanus. Orestes recognized the hint of disapproval in their eyes. “These men aren’t fresh, Magister,” Pacius ventured.

  “I gave my order,” Orestes snapped, his tone low but sharp. Then, more quietly, “I know they’re tired, but battle often rewards boldness. We must catch them off-balance.”

  The officers glanced at each other, grim determination passing between them. They might object, but the Magister Militum had spoken. And after the earlier success, they felt uneasy pressing the point. So they saluted and moved off, relaying commands to rouse the men and assemble for a stealthy approach.

  It was well past the first watch of the night when Orestes’s troops descended from the knoll in silence. The moon had yet to rise, so the starlight alone guided their slow progress. Torch flames were kept hooded until the last moment. A gentle wind rustled the dry grasses, muffling the clink of mail and the scrape of sword hilts.

  In the front line, the comitatenses formed up, shield edges overlapping in a loose formation. Behind them marched lighter-armed foederati infantry, ready to exploit openings. On the flanks, two wings of cavalry—each about two hundred strong—hugged the darkness, preparing to ride in from either side as soon as the alarm was raised.

  Traditional roman night assaults demanded discipline: no shouting or rampant torchlight until the moment of contact. That was precisely Orestes’s plan. He hoped to replicate the wedge tactic from earlier but on a larger scale—surge into the heart of the camp, scatter the defenders, then push them into the comitatenses’ waiting line. Meanwhile, the cavalry would sweep around to seal off any escape.

  As they closed in, Orestes could see the flicker of the enemy’s watch-fires. Now and then, a silhouette emerged, presumably a sentry pacing the perimeter. The makeshift palisade and ditch, half-completed, might not fully repel an assault if the defenders were caught sleeping.

  Behind him, he felt the tension in his men, the raw energy that often came before a battle. But also the frayed edges of fatigue. Some stumbled in the dark, cursing softly. Pacius shot Orestes a worried glance, but the Magister pressed on, ignoring the hint of doubt. I have to do this. A second triumph will secure my place.

  At about fifty paces from the ditch, Orestes motioned for his archers—scattered among the infantry—to string their bows. A few seconds passed. Then he gave a single, curt gesture. The first volley hissed through the air, black shafts silhouetted against the torchlit camp. Moments later, startled cries echoed from within. Torches were dropped. The watchmen scrambled to raise an alarm, but it was too late: the Roman line surged forward with a collective roar.

  The comitatenses dashed over the ditch or found spots where it was little more than a shallow scoop. Some stumbled or fell, but enough poured through quickly to overwhelm the few sentries. Sword blades flashed in the torchlight. The defenders, roused from half-sleep, lurched into a disorganized response. Orestes could almost taste their panic, reminiscent of the smaller skirmish that afternoon.

  Cavalry horns sounded from both flanks. The foederati riders pounded into the camp’s sides, sabers and spears cutting down any who tried to form up. Many of Odoacer’s men wore only partial armor or none at all, having not expected a nighttime engagement. Tents collapsed under the hooves of charging horses. Romans tossed torches into the midst of pavilions, setting them ablaze to sow chaos.

  For a time, it all seemed to mirror Orestes’s earlier success. Men shouted, steel clashed, and Odoacer’s infantry retreated in confusion. Some of them attempted a shield wall near the center of camp, but the Romans hammered at it from both sides, forcing gaps. The cavalry’s approach from the flanks pinned them in place, denying them an orderly fallback.

  Then, as Orestes rode deeper into the camp, he remembered Lucanus’s earlier concerns: the campsite was too big for two thousand men. Where are the rest?

  But the immediate battle demanded his focus. He pressed forward, encouraging his men to keep momentum. “They’re breaking!” he shouted, voice hoarse. “Push them! Don’t let them form ranks!”

  And indeed, many of the defenders looked on the verge of collapsing entirely. Roman discipline—though tested by fatigue—still outshone the disorganized stands that formed beneath Odoacer’s banner. Bodies littered the ground, campfires spat sparks into the smoky air. Shouts and cries echoed across the night.

  Suddenly, a horn’s shrill note cut through the chaos, but it wasn’t Roman. Orestes turned, heart pounding, as a new wave of torches appeared on the ridge behind them—on the side from which the Romans themselves had advanced. A chill ran down his spine. He saw outlines of cavalry streaming down the slope. A lot of cavalry.

  Shouts of alarm spread among his rearguard. The newly arrived force crashed into the Roman rear with terrifying speed. Orestes had no time to count their numbers, but the thunder of hooves and the swirl of glinting spears told him this was more than just a small detachment. Possibly the absent half of the vanguard, or Odoacer’s foraging parties returning. And they had chosen exactly the right moment to strike.

  “Rear attack!” a tribune roared nearby. “Form a line—!”

  But it was too late. The fresh cavalry slammed into the tired Romans who had not even faced that direction. These were likely Odoacer’s lighter horsemen, but in the darkness and confusion, they wreaked havoc. Their horns and war cries sapped Roman morale in an instant. Some of Orestes’s men tried to pivot to meet the threat, but too many were tangled among the tents or locked in melee with the original defenders.

  Flashes of steel, screams of fright, horses rearing. Orestes watched in horror as entire knots of Roman infantry broke away from the fight, turning to see a wave of riders bearing down from behind. Soldiers who had been on the verge of victory a moment ago now found themselves attacked on two fronts: the initial defenders, heartened by new allies, and the newly arrived cavalry that hammered the Roman flank and rear.

  Orestes yanked his horse’s reins, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Hold formation! Stand fast!” But fatigue and shock undercut his orders. Units that had pressed deep into the camp now saw their route of retreat threatened. A creeping terror set in, swirling among the ranks.

  The foot soldiers, already worn from marching all day and the earlier assault, began to falter. Odoacer’s cavalry, agile under torchlight, darted through the chaos, picking off isolated pockets of Romans who tried to regroup. Some foederati cavalry attempted to wheel around and countercharge, but it quickly devolved into scattered skirmishes in the dark. Without a proper rally point, they couldn’t mount a cohesive defense.

  Lucanus appeared at Orestes’s side, face grim. “They’re rolling up our rear, Magister—we must pull back or risk encirclement!”

  Orestes’s heart hammered. “But we have them almost beaten here!” He gestured at the original defenders, many still cowering behind half-burnt tents. Yet even as he spoke, he saw that the initial foes were regrouping, emboldened by the reinforcements. Their officers were rallying them for a counterstrike.

  “We’ll be crushed,” Lucanus insisted, desperation creeping into his voice. “Our men are too tired, they can’t fight on two flanks in pitch darkness.”

  Behind them, the newly arrived cavalry unleashed a series of short, piercing horns blasts—likely signals. More horsemen spilled in from the sides, some carrying short bows, loosing arrows into the tangle of men and horses. Roman morale cracked. Groups that had marched confidently into camp just minutes before now yelled for retreat.

  A roiling sense of dread enveloped Orestes’s forces. He heard the panicked calls of centurions trying to form lines, the crash of shields, the whinnying of terrified mounts. In the flickering torchlight, dust and smoke mingled into a choking haze. He tried to ride to the center, to rally them, but a surge of fleeing soldiers almost knocked him from his saddle.

  “Rally on me!” he bellowed. “Form a wedge! We can still—” But the words drowned in the cacophony of men shouting “Retreat!” or “They’re upon us!”

  An arrow hissed past, grazing Orestes’s cloak. A javelin from an unseen foe thunked into the ground near his horse’s hooves. He felt the beast rear in alarm. Soldiers shoved by, ignoring his pleas. The line was collapsing on all sides, scattering into the night.

  “Fall back!” Lucanus roared, voice cracking from exertion. “There’s no order left!”

  In the blink of an eye, the Roman assault turned into a desperate scramble to escape the sudden pincer. The newly arrived cavalry pressed from behind, while the once-faltering defenders lunged forward. Surrounded by swirling chaos, Orestes saw the corpses of his men littering the ground. A wave of guilt slammed him. I should have let them rest. But there was no time for regret—only survival.

  Orestes forced his horse away from the densest fighting, shouting for a handful of cavalry to follow. Some did, others simply galloped off in their own panicked direction. He caught a glimpse of the comitatenses standard toppling as its bearer was cut down. It vanished among the fray. Torchlight flickered on faces contorted with terror.

  He cursed, swiping at an enemy rider who lunged near him. The man’s spear scraped Orestes’s cuirass but slid off. Orestes brought his sword around in a wide arc, slashing the foe’s arm. The rider tumbled away into the darkness, but more pressed in. In the distance, horns howled. We’re undone…

  Lucanus came hurtling past, his mount lathered in sweat. “This way, Magister—back up the slope! The men are fleeing, but we can regroup near the ridge!”

  Seeing no alternative, Orestes spurred his horse. He cast one last glance over his shoulder: the once-dominant Roman line now a roiling mess of men trying to break free from the swirling cavalry that hounded them. The half-burnt tents flared angrily, spitting sparks against the night sky. Gods, it’s worse than Pavia…

  He and Lucanus led a battered knot of soldiers out the way they’d come, pursued by shrill war cries. Some fell behind, cut off by Odoacer’s horsemen. Arrows whistled overhead, and Orestes ducked low, clinging to the saddle. The reek of blood and smoke thickened.

  The pursuit lasted for a harrowing stretch, Odoacer’s riders nipping at their heels. Yet the darkness that had once aided Orestes’s ambush now turned to his favor in retreat. Some of the enemy horsemen hesitated to plunge too deep into blackness, uncertain of the land. Others became entangled in their own lines or spooked by the swirling dust. Gradually, the chase thinned.

  Under the moon’s faint glow—which had finally begun to rise—Orestes and what remained of his battered force reached a shallow ravine. Panting, trembling, they realized the enemy cavalry no longer pressed so tightly behind. The night had saved them from complete annihilation.

  The survivors gathered in ragged clusters, bloodstained, weapons in shaky hands. Orestes rode among them, trying to project some semblance of authority, but his voice was hoarse. Lucanus’s face was pale as he reported that at least a third of their number was missing or dead, possibly more. Many of the rest were scattered, separated in the confusion.

  Orestes dismounted, swallowing the bitter taste in his throat. A rout. They had gone from triumphant invaders to fleeing refugees in the span of half an hour. He glared at the ground, unable to meet his officers’ eyes. Paulus would have told me to wait, to recon properly… He clenched his teeth against the welling despair.

  In the dim moonlight, the men said nothing. Some wept quietly, others nursed wounds. The hush was broken only by the distant wailing of the injured, or the occasional stamp of a horse’s hoof. Orestes forced himself to speak. “We— we must make for a safer position. Rally any stragglers. We… we’ll regather near the old villa we passed at sundown.”

  His words felt hollow. The soldiers nodded, too battered and exhausted to argue. They trudged off in small squads, eyes downcast. Orestes lingered a moment longer. He touched his scar, but it offered no comfort now—just a mocking reminder of how illusions could unravel. I have gambled, and I lost. Rome needed a hero, but I played a fool’s part tonight.

  At last, he turned, mounting his horse again. The night stretched before him, cold and silent except for the faint smell of smoke drifting from the vanquished camp. Flavianus was right about caution. But how can I face him, face Romulus, after this? The question ate at him like a canker, made all the more bitter by the memory of earlier confidence.

  With a heavy sigh, he led the remnants of his force into the darkness, leaving behind the burning wreckage of their attempted victory. The dread lingered in every footstep: they had not merely lost a battle; they had lost face and men—and Odoacer’s army, now emboldened, might soon press onward toward Ravenna.

  By dawn, faint shafts of gray light revealed a dispiriting scene. The scattered remnants of Orestes’s force drifted into the makeshift rally point near that old, half-collapsed villa they had passed the previous evening. Men came in pairs or small knots, limping and hollow-eyed, some leaning on broken spears as crutches. A handful had horses, the animals’ flanks caked with grime. Most trudged on foot, searching anxiously for any sign of their friends or officers.

  Orestes, sitting stiffly in the villa’s open courtyard, watched them arrive. Dark circles shadowed his eyes from lack of sleep. What little rest he had snatched was marred by nightmares—images of the swirling cavalry, the shock of horns in the rear, the snap of torches flaring in the dark. Now he rubbed his temples, trying to quell the ache that hammered behind his brow.

  At least they were alive, he told himself. Not all of them, but enough. Some of the tension in his chest eased every time a new handful of survivors emerged from the tree line. He rose to his feet, wincing at how stiff his muscles felt. As though I aged ten years in a single night, he thought bleakly.

  Lucanus approached with a grim salute. The tribune’s tunic was torn, a slash across the shoulder caked with dried blood. “Magister,” he said quietly, “our tally is incomplete, but we’ve begun to count the men.”

  Orestes braced himself. “Go on.”

  Lucanus consulted a scrap of parchment, carefully noting what a few junior officers had reported. “From the original four thousand five hundred—three thousand foederati, fifteen hundred comitatenses—we’ve counted about twenty-six hundred present.” He grimaced. “Roughly eight hundred confirmed dead or gravely wounded, left behind in the chaos. Another… thousand missing, possibly still wandering. Some might be captured. Some might slip back to Ravenna on their own.”

  Orestes’s hands clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening. Eight hundred dead? Possibly more if those ‘missing’ never reappear. He swallowed, his mouth too dry. He had lost a significant chunk of the force he had personally led out here, all for a gamble that had turned disastrous. Yet not catastrophic—the rational side of him insisted. They still had more than half their total. Some missed men might trickle in with the sunrise.

  “And the enemy?” he asked, forcing neutrality into his tone.

  Lucanus exhaled. “We spotted no pursuit at dawn, so perhaps they retreated. But we have no real measure of how badly we hurt them. This ambush… well, it seemed the cavalry that struck us from behind was fewer in number than we feared, maybe just a few hundred. They sowed panic at the right moment, though.” He hesitated. “They outplayed us.”

  Orestes nodded stiffly, jaw tight. “So they did.” A reflection he’d spent all night trying to suppress crashed back anew: I was outmaneuvered. He unclenched his fists, only to clench them again. “Bring the officers to me,” he said finally. “We march for Ravenna once we gather any more stragglers.”

  A few men overheard the declaration, and the murmur that rippled through the courtyard was one of weariness and relief. They wanted a city’s walls around them, not another night of blind terror.

  By midmorning, the scattered arrivals slowed. The battered legion officers made their rounds among the survivors, quietly asking if anyone had seen this or that centurion, that cavalryman. Some men recognized the bodies of fallen comrades from descriptions, their eyes misting as they recounted last glimpses in the dark. Others clung to hope that friends might find their way back.

  The final approximate count from Lucanus was sobering enough. “Twenty-nine hundred here in total, Magister. Maybe a few more lurk in the hills. But we’ll lose more if we linger. The men are in no condition for another fight, and I fear Odoacer might send parties to finish us off.”

  Orestes studied his men from a distance: lines of hunched shoulders, sweat-streaked armor, bruised or bandaged limbs. A good number of the foederati eyed him with guarded expressions, their confidence in his leadership plainly shaken. Orestes caught scraps of quiet talk in Germanic tongues, a few riders nodding with harsh gestures—dissatisfaction was brewing, if not open mutiny.

  He forced a stoic mask, summoning what was left of his presence. Better to appear unruffled, in command. He had to own the fiasco, but not let it overshadow him. “We’ll depart at once,” he announced, voice carrying through the courtyard. “Those still missing must find their own way, or return to Ravenna by roads we’ve left behind. We can’t linger here while Odoacer gathers strength.”

  A hush settled. Then, in a scattered wave, the men began to pack up, tie bandages, remount horses, or shoulder battered shields. They formed a ragged column on the villa’s dirt track, heads low, exchanging few words.

  He nodded as if steeling himself. “Form up! Keep ranks tight,” he barked, voice resonating with forced confidence. “We return to Ravenna. And keep watch for any enemy patrols.”

  They started the slow march. Horses trudged with drooping heads, men stumbled. Occasionally, someone hissed in pain or spat curses about the night’s horrors. Orestes took the lead. Lucanus, flanking him, offered a subdued presence—he spoke little, eyes scanning the horizon.

  Inside Orestes’s mind, a storm raged. Anger at himself for ignoring the advice to rest, shame at the near-disaster that had followed, anxiety about what Romulus and Flavianus would say. He replayed the final moments of the rout: men turning tail, the swirling confusion, that single arrow nearly striking him. Had I only waited until dawn… But regrets changed nothing. The empire seldom forgave a commander’s mistakes.

  His outward expression remained stoic, the practiced mask of a politician and soldier. But behind that calm facade, he was already plotting how to mitigate the scandal. He would emphasize the smaller victory earlier in the day. He would claim they inflicted heavy losses on Odoacer’s vanguard and withdrew once fresh cavalry arrived, preserving Roman strength. He’d bury the details of the panic and the brutal chase in the darkness. Control the narrative, he reminded himself.

  Glancing back at the trudging ranks, he noticed how some of the foederati kept their distance, grouped around their chieftains, speaking in hushed voices. Orestes recognized the signs: they questioned his command, his bold claims that had led them into that chaotic fight. Perhaps they measured the difference between his promises and reality. Could he hold their loyalty?

  He forced a tight half-smile. I’ll make it up to them. Once back in Ravenna, I’ll ensure they receive spoils from our earlier victory, or favorable terms if they fight again. But the uneasy suspicion lingered. They might weigh new alliances, especially if a figure like Odoacer or even Crassus offered better prospects.

  The day wore on. They skirted the same farmland they had marched through with such confidence before, passing trampled vineyards and a few burnt huts. Now, crows circled overhead, drawn by the smell of death. Orestes urged the column to keep a steady pace, mindful that Odoacer might still send out pursuers. The men’s exhaustion was evident in drooping shoulders and heavy steps. The only solace was that the enemy also had to regroup, giving them some measure of respite.

  A group of battered foederati approached Orestes at midday. Their chieftain, a tall warrior with braided blond hair, gave a curt nod. “We lost many last night,” he said bluntly. His eyes flicked over Orestes’s battered armor. “Our men wonder if your commands still promise victory or only more blood.”

  The words stung. Orestes stiffened. “It was an ambush we couldn’t have foreseen. Odoacer’s men outnumbered us.” He forced authority into his tone. “We inflicted heavy casualties on them. When we return to Ravenna, you’ll see that our overall gains outweigh last night’s hardships.”

  A slight frown crossed the chieftain’s face, though he said nothing more. He just withdrew, letting a sense of tension linger. Orestes swallowed, determined not to appear rattled. I will salvage this. One way or another.

  Hours trickled by. The column trudged across the dusty roads, occasionally picking up a stray soldier or two who emerged from hiding, blinking in relief. The final picture grew clearer: the losses were harsh, but not as catastrophic as Orestes had feared in the dark of night. Still, he had gained nothing but the humbling knowledge that Odoacer was not easily cowed by a single raid.

  As the sun dipped westward, they neared the outskirts of Ravenna. Its walls rose like a comforting shield, though Orestes felt a knot twist in his stomach.