25th of July, 476 AD

  Romulus Augustus stood in the middle of his audience chamber, the tapestries drawn tight against the windows so that only faint light glimmered on the polished marble floors. Moments earlier, a messenger had delivered grave news: Orestes was returning with his army, or what remained of it—battered and diminished. The messenger’s trembling voice echoed still in Romulus’s mind:

  “They have lost…nearly half their force, Caesar.”

  As soon as the man had bowed and departed, Romulus’s composure snapped. He swept his hand across a nearby table, sending an inkwell and wooden scroll case clattering to the ground. Ink splattered in dark arcs; the scrolls rolled away, unspooling half their contents. A hush fell in the chamber, the only sound his ragged breaths. For a moment, the young emperor allowed pure frustration to seize him.

  I told him— The words beat in his skull like a war drum. I explicitly ordered him not to engage. His father, Orestes, had once dictated every move in Romulus’s life. Now, the tables had turned, yet Orestes still disobeyed him.

  Reining in his fury, Romulus inhaled slowly. The swirl of ink around his sandals reminded him that an emperor must remain in control, never letting anger master him. He forced his hands to still. A scattering of minor palace staff lingered at the edges of the hall, none daring to speak. At last, Romulus cleared his throat.

  “Send word,” he said in a cold, quiet voice. “Bring my father, the Magister Militum, to me. And…Dux Flavianus as well, though he must wait outside until I am done speaking with my father.”

  The staff rushed to obey. Romulus turned away from them, stepping to the wide window behind his throne-like chair. He flung open the shutters, letting in the pinkish hue of dawn that silhouetted Ravenna’s rooftops. Beneath him, the city awakened in plumes of hearth-smoke and the faint clang of forge-hammers—ordinary life continued, ignorant of the drama unfolding in the palace.

  For minutes he stood there, breathing slowly, trying to quell the tumult in his chest. I am the emperor, he reminded himself. I rule. If my father defies me, what does that mean for everyone else? His chest constricted at the thought. To punish the Magister Militum for ignoring direct orders was well within his right. Yet to punish his own father…?

  He heard the heavy doors open behind him. Footsteps—measured, but uneven, as if the man’s pride was shaken. Romulus did not turn. He let the silence stretch, let Orestes feel the weight of waiting, reversed from their past roles. Only when he sensed his father’s presence close behind did Romulus speak, voice cool and steady.

  “You may step forward, Father.”

  Orestes approached, and Romulus caught a faint glimpse of him in the window’s reflection: battered armor, dust-laden cloak, a shadow of fatigue under his eyes. The older man halted several paces away, unsure, for the first time in memory, whether to embrace his son or bow.

  Orestes cleared his throat. “I…remember not so long ago,” he began softly, “when it was I who made others wait. You, especially. How quickly our fates shift.” The slightest tremor clung to his words. He tried a thin smile. “But I see you stand strong, Romulus. Emperor indeed.”

  Romulus stayed silent, fingers tracing the window’s frame. At length, he turned, folding his arms across the front of his purple-hemmed tunic. “You’ve returned with half an army,” he said. “Almost half lost, from the reports.”

  A flash of pain crossed Orestes’s face. “It’s not…not half, truly. We took casualties, yes, but there are stragglers who will rejoin soon. We inflicted severe damage on Odoacer’s forces as well,” he added, raising a hand as though to calm the storm. “I assure you, I—”

  Romulus’s hand rose, halting Orestes’s explanation mid-sentence. “Enough.” His voice was surprisingly firm for an eleven-year-old, the timbre cold as a winter breeze. “You were supposed to avoid open battle. My orders were clear: hold out until the Eastern reinforcements arrive, do not engage Odoacer or Crassus. We can’t afford more losses. We must preserve our strength.”

  Orestes’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged at first. He let the pause linger, gathering an answer. “It…it was an opportunity,” he managed. “I believed a swift strike would cripple Odoacer’s vanguard. The early success gave me confidence, but an unexpected flank—an ambush—forced our withdrawal. We inflicted far more losses than you might—”

  Romulus narrowed his eyes. “So you disobeyed your emperor. Your own son’s direct command. And in so doing, you’ve cost us men, morale, and time.” He took a step forward. There was something raw in his eyes, a flicker of hurt that overshadowed the anger. “Tell me, Father. What should I do with an officer who flagrantly defies the Emperor’s strategy?”

  Orestes inhaled sharply, that rhetorical question landing with crushing weight. “Romulus, you must understand—”

  “Must I?” Romulus interrupted. “You taught me that in Rome, orders are paramount. Did you not once brag about punishing lesser men for ignoring your directives?” He laughed bitterly, the sound too cynical for one so young. “Well, now the empire’s interests hang on my orders. And you’ve dismissed them outright.”

  A flush crawled up Orestes’s neck. For years, he had dominated every conversation with that same unwavering authority. Now Romulus stood before him, no longer a meek child but a boy who wore the burden of rule in every line of his posture. The father recognized the shift of power—however reluctant he was to submit. “Yes, Caesar. You…you have every right to be angry,” he said slowly. “I stand by my experience in warfare, but I see that I placed us all at risk.”

  Romulus studied him, expression unreadable. A part of him wanted to fling the worst condemnation possible—punishment, public disgrace. Another part still longed for paternal comfort, though that felt like a distant memory of a simpler time. “You forced my hand,” he whispered, voice trembling with reined frustration. “Had it been any other general, they would face charges of insubordination—or worse.”

  He turned back to the window, jaw clenched. Is that what my father has become—just another officer to discipline? The thought was nauseating. I can’t show weakness. But do I punish him? Banish him? Execute him? He shook inside, memories of stern Roman examples swirling: the story of Manlius Torquatus, who executed his own son for disobedience in war. Am I so cruel as to replicate that?

  Sensing his son’s turmoil, Orestes stepped closer, adopting a gentler tone. “Romulus…I regret the losses. I was overconfident, yes. Blinded by my own need to prove I can still command. But do not question my loyalty—I sought only to spare you from a future threat. I accept your censure.”

  The young emperor remained silent, staring over Ravenna’s rooftops, the city he must keep safe. His shoulders tensed. “You tell me you accept my censure, Father. Yet how can I trust you not to repeat the same reckless defiance? If you wish to remain Magister Militum…you must heed my word above all else.” He swallowed, forcing the knot in his throat away. “Above your pride.”

  Orestes’s lips pressed into a thin line. He gave a slight bow, a gesture he had rarely shown before. “I give you my word, Caesar. I will not again act against your orders.” He lowered his voice to a near-whisper: “I see how the empire rests upon your shoulders. I see the heavy burdens you carry.”

  Romulus glanced over, glimpsing in his father’s eyes a weary remorse—perhaps even genuine guilt. Could it be he truly respects me now? The moment felt surreal. This was the man who once orchestrated everything, who thrust Romulus on the throne to serve as a puppet. Now, Orestes stood humbled, acknowledging the boy’s authority.

  Rubbing his tired eyes, Romulus exhaled slowly. The anger in his gut ebbed, replaced by a cold resolve. “Very well. I will not punish you before the Council or the army. But the blame for these lost men—these wasted lives—lies with you, Father.” He paused, letting the words settle. “Go. Gather whatever remains of your battered force. Reinforce Ravenna’s defenses. I expect a full, honest report of your numbers and provisions by tomorrow’s midday. No embellishments.”

  Orestes nodded, relief shading his features. “Yes, Caesar.” He bowed again, deeper this time, though it stung his pride. Then he stepped backward, giving his son space.

  Before he reached the door, Romulus cleared his throat. “Father.”

  Orestes paused, glancing back anxiously.

  Romulus shifted, fighting to keep his voice from cracking. “I…do not take this lightly. You nearly forced me to do something I never wanted to consider.” A flicker of sorrow crossed his young face. “I trust that you understand how close we came—how close I came—to a…formal condemnation.”

  Orestes’s gaze dropped. “I do. And I pray it never comes to that.” He lingered, as if hoping for a kinder word or gesture, but none came. With a final bow, he slipped out, leaving Romulus alone with roiling thoughts.

  The heavy door closed. Silence reclaimed the chamber. Romulus exhaled, pressing his palms into the windowsill for support. I had to let him go. For now. He raised trembling fingers to his temple, massaging away the tension. What if he defies me again? Could I truly punish my own father to the fullest extent of Roman law?

  He drew a shuddering breath, recalling the old Roman tales of paternal power and the unstoppable might of the emperor’s decree. Punishing him might tear me apart, but ignoring his disobedience would tear Rome apart. Such was the precarious line he walked—child and emperor, scion and sovereign.

  A soft rap at the door intruded on his brooding. A guard announced that Dux Flavianus waited outside, summoned as instructed. Romulus squared his shoulders, forcing away lingering doubt. One crisis at a time. Perhaps Flavianus would bring fresh arguments or hidden triumphs. Or perhaps he would bring bitter condemnation of Orestes’s actions. Either way, I must be Emperor first.

  Straightening his tunic, Romulus nodded to the guard. “Show Dux Flavianus in,” he ordered, voice now calmer. Before the next wave of conflict entered, he allowed himself a moment’s reflection: he had passed a test that few boy-rulers ever faced. He had confronted his father’s disobedience and held firm. The cost—emotionally and militarily—was high. But so long as Rome stood, so would he.

  I am the emperor, he repeated inwardly, ignoring the faint trembling in his hands. No matter who stands before me—even my father.

  A hush settled over the chamber after Orestes left, as though the very air were trying to calm itself from the tension he had left behind. Romulus remained by the tall window, staring down at the city rooftops. The young emperor inhaled, willing his heart to steady. This was no time for lingering emotions; another commander awaited him, and he had to present himself as resolute—every bit the emperor he was struggling to become.

  At last, the heavy door opened again, admitting Dux Flavianus. The man stepped forward, his posture crisp but respectful, and gave a short bow. Despite the reverence of his gesture, there was an unmistakable fire in Flavianus’s eyes—the fervor of a seasoned soldier who, for all his directness, did not mince words.

  “Caesar,” Flavianus said with a nod, then straightened. “You summoned me.”

  Romulus turned, arms folded across his chest. “Yes, Dux. I assume you’ve already heard the news: my father returned from his mission in tatters. Half his force lost. At best, we can call it a disaster.”

  Flavianus inclined his head, meeting Romulus’s gaze squarely. “We cannot afford disasters. Not with Crassus on one side and Odoacer on the other. And to lose troops from…pride,” he said the word with cool bitterness, “it weakens us at the worst possible time.”

  Romulus sighed, a flicker of relief in his eyes. Someone who shares my frustration, he thought. “I see we’re in agreement. This was not a battle we needed.”

  He let silence stretch for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Dux Flavianus, I’m reassigning the comitatenses who marched with the Magister Militum to you. They remain Roman forces, after all, and we can’t have their discipline compromised by…ambitions or poor decisions. My father will retain command of his loyal foederati. But the core of the Roman infantry—indeed, all the comitatenses—shall now be under your leadership.”

  For a heartbeat, Flavianus’s eyes widened, though he quickly bowed. “I hear and obey, Caesar. We must mend their morale if half of them are still shaken from that defeat.”

  “Yes,” Romulus acknowledged. He ran a hand through his dark hair, a gesture that belied his youth. “My father’s losses could cripple our city’s hopes right now. Morale among the troops will plummet unless we handle this with care. I need you to reinforce discipline, keep them busy, ensure they understand they’re still Rome’s best chance. We have to hold until the Eastern forces arrive.”

  Flavianus nodded firmly. “I will see it done. I suspect many men are resentful—some at Orestes, some at fate—but a direct hand can steady them. Meanwhile, I’ll continue the evacuation plan you and I discussed. We’re nearly done relocating families from the surrounding villages.”

  Romulus softened a fraction at the mention of the evacuation. “Good. Finish tomorrow if you can. After that, I want you to gather anyone from Ravenna’s outskirts—farmers, laborers, their stores of grain, livestock—and bring them behind the walls. Deny the enemy any advantage.” He paused, thinking. “With luck, that will starve out the invaders, or at least hinder them.”

  “Of course,” Flavianus agreed, his expression thoughtful. “And if you’ll allow it, Caesar, I’d like permission to build traps—pitfalls, caltrops, even hidden stakes—across the fields leading up to the city. We can set small outposts for limited harassment, using archers or javelin cavalry to strike at the enemy whenever they stray from main roads. Force them to approach carefully. That alone might buy us a few days if they think we’re ready to sally out.”

  A faint smile pulled at Romulus’s lips. So different from Father, he mused, so much more measured. “Yes, Dux. I trust your judgment. You have my full authority to set defenses outside our walls, as savage as needed. Time is indeed our friend—if we can delay Odoacer, then we stand a chance when the Eastern troops arrive.”

  Flavianus pounded his fist lightly on his breastplate. “They will be done swiftly, Caesar. And I’ll ensure no one tries a half-hearted job. If the enemy attempts a direct assault, they’ll find more than they bargained for.”

  Romulus’s shoulders relaxed. For the first time since the morning’s news, he allowed himself a trace of relief. “Thank you. And…thank you for your continued service, even under these circumstances. I know the men speak highly of you.” He eyed the older commander, a blend of respect and gratitude crossing his young features. “Truly, if we endure this, it’ll be in no small part because of your efforts.”

  Flavianus gave a quick bow at the waist. “You honor me, Caesar. I serve the empire. We must stand united, especially now.”

  “Yes. And as for my father…” Romulus’s voice trailed, tension returning to his jaw. “Well, you’ll see him commanding his foederati. Treat them courteously—Rome still needs their swords—but the formal chain of command is yours. The Magister Militum may outrank most, but he’ll not outrank you in the city’s defenses.”

  Flavianus’s gaze flickered with understanding. “I’ll handle the transition, ensuring no cracks form between the comitatenses and the foederati. I am aware some among them will question this reorganization, but discipline will hold.”

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  Romulus exhaled slowly. “That’s all I can ask. Keep me apprised of any trouble. We cannot allow infighting. Let us focus on the real threat.”

  A firm nod. “By your leave, Caesar. I’ll see to the men now—organize them for the final evacuations. Then we’ll begin preparing the outer ring with traps.” He hesitated, glancing at the scattered remains of the scrolls on the floor, the ink stain from Romulus’s earlier outburst. “And… Caesar, I’m sorry about—” He gestured vaguely.

  Romulus straightened, schooling his expression. “No. It’s nothing.” He managed a small smile, though his eyes still shone with the burden of the day. “Do what must be done. Our city depends on it.”

  Flavianus gave a crisp salute, turned on his heel, and strode from the chamber, his cloak swishing against polished marble. The door closed behind him with a muted thud.

  Left alone, Romulus sagged against the windowsill for a moment, inhaling the faint breeze. At least Flavianus remains loyal, steadfast. The memory of Orestes’s battered armor, that admission of defeat, the unspoken tension—these weighed on him. His father was still out there, stung by failure, forced to answer now to the emperor he once commanded.

  So be it, Romulus thought, forcing his chin up. The city would soon be sealed. Preparations to starve out the enemy. Booby traps and pit defenses. And, overshadowing it all, the boy who must remain unwavering. His heart pounded faster, recalling the final swirl of images: soldiers reeling from Orestes’s fiasco, refugees crowding behind the gates, the precarious hope that the East might come in time.

  He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, banishing the urge to fling inkwells anew. I am emperor. We will survive this.

  Orestes sat in his private office, the air thick with the stale tension of recent defeat. He had dismissed his attendants and tried to focus on the parchments spread across his desk, but his eyes could not keep still. They drifted again and again to the battered breastplate and dusty cloak resting on a nearby chair—the grim reminders of last night’s failure. He ran a hand over the scar on his temple, once a badge of false bravado, now feeling like an emblem of all his missteps.

  A sharp rap on the door jerked him upright. One of the palace guards stepped in, eyes downcast. “Magister Militum, Dux Flavianus is here.”

  For a moment, Orestes’s knuckles tightened around the edge of the desk until they blanched white. So Romulus had already begun to reorganize everything. He forced a neutral tone. “Let him in.”

  The guard disappeared, and within seconds, Flavianus crossed the threshold. The Dux paused just inside, the door closing behind him. They regarded one another in silence—two Roman commanders, once clearly ranked, now locked in a new, awkward dynamic.

  Orestes broke the stillness first, though his voice emerged rougher than intended. “You come to make side remarks, Dux? To laugh at my failure? I suppose you owe me no courtesy, now that the emperor’s favor rests with you.”

  Flavianus’s expression stayed composed. “I’m no jester, Magister. Nor is it my place to reprimand you. That belongs to Caesar alone.”

  Orestes felt a prick of renewed anger at the mention of Caesar’s authority. My own son. But he swallowed it down. “Hmph.” He shifted uncomfortably, eyes flickering to the unrolled map of Ravenna’s defenses on his desk. “Word travels fast, I see.”

  Flavianus lifted his shoulders in a small shrug. “The emperor has made certain changes to the chain of command. He’s placed the comitatenses previously under your direct leadership…under mine.” He paused, letting the weight of that truth settle.

  Orestes pressed his lips together, forcing himself to remain still. “It’s clear enough. He’s punishing me, though he never used that word.” A short, humorless laugh escaped him. “Leaving me only the loyal foederati. Stripping me of half my men. Some might say I have only myself to blame.”

  Flavianus said nothing, his face giving no hint of sympathy or scorn.

  Orestes released a slow breath. “Well, I understand it. The emperor must act—he can’t allow this fiasco to pass without consequence. Nor can I find fault with him. I disobeyed a direct order.” He paused, drumming fingertips on the desk. “Yet I’ve no intention of letting my disgrace end here.”

  Flavianus inclined his head, neither hostile nor placating. “It isn’t my business to comment on your fortunes, Magister Militum. My duty is to the city, to Caesar, and to Rome. I do what I must.”

  The unspoken barb—You do what you must, whereas I did not—stung Orestes, but he nodded curtly. “If you come to see me undone further, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. I’ve learned from my error.”

  “Then let us hope it serves the empire in the days to come,” Flavianus replied, the faintest edge to his voice. He shifted, as though about to say more, but thought better of it. “If there is nothing else, Magister, I’ll see to the men.”

  “Yes,” Orestes murmured. “Go. And…let the men know—” He paused, realizing he no longer commanded them. “Or rather, do as the emperor has ordered.” His pride flared, and he glanced aside. “I won’t hamper your efforts.”

  Flavianus only dipped his chin in acknowledgment. He pivoted on a heel and took his leave, boots clicking against marble. Orestes listened to the receding footsteps, every sound driving the reminder home: Those were my troops. Now they obey him. He closed his eyes briefly against a wave of embarrassment.

  When the door shut, the silence returned. Orestes sagged, running a hand over his face. This is my punishment indeed, he thought. But the emperor—my son—still spares me from full disgrace. He left me the foederati. That last glimmer of authority would have to do.

  He swallowed hard, remembering the final glimpse he’d had of those foreign warriors who once followed him confidently into battle. Now they might waver, hearing how the Magister Militum had bungled an assault in direct defiance of Caesar. They’d question his competence, maybe his relevance. I will not let them slip away to Odoacer or anyone else, Orestes vowed, a renewed determination lighting in his chest.

  Stepping around the desk, he shrugged on a fresh cloak over the battered armor, ignoring the pang of bruises across his ribs. He straightened, forcing out the last vestiges of self-pity. “Enough,” he muttered. “I have work to do.”

  Summoning a guard, he gave orders to convene the leaders of the foederati in a side hall near the barracks. Within the hour, they would gather for a discussion—no, a speech. He would remind them that Rome needed them, that the emperor counted on their blades. He might be scorned by Flavianus and chastised by Romulus, but to the foederati, Orestes still commanded loyalty and enough goodwill to salvage his pride.

  As he strode out of the office, each footstep felt heavier, but his resolve burned bright. I will prove my worth again, he vowed silently, to my men, to my son—to all who doubt me. For all the mistakes he had made, he still believed that Rome could not stand without his cunning. Let them see he was not a relic. Let them see he still had some fight left.

  Outside, the corridor thrummed with anxious energy. Servants rushed about, carting supplies, arms, and ever more messages. Soldiers hurried by in small groups, saluting respectfully. Orestes lifted his chin. Even if he faced the emperor’s anger, even if he had to swallow his pride before Flavianus, he would not slink away in shame.

  In the antechamber, a hush fell as he passed. He couldn’t miss the sideways glances, the flicker of doubt in their eyes—He lost so many men. Then he was gone, sweeping into the corridor that led to the foederati’s quarters. The day was young, the city on edge. He needed them on his side. Words of reassurance formed in his head, carefully chosen to rekindle their faith.

  Though his pride lay bruised, his determination flared. I will show them—and I will show my son—that I remain vital to Rome’s survival. And with that, Orestes stepped forward to face the next challenge, the next trial—ready to reclaim some measure of respect in the only way he knew how.

  Crassus paced across the muddy ground, his sandals sinking into the mire outside Odoacer’s sprawling war-camp. He had only two bodyguards with him—both Palatini who had stuck by him since he proclaimed himself Emperor. The rest of his forces were camped a short distance away in a makeshift sprawl of ragged tents, short on rations and shorter on morale. Word had reached him an hour ago: Odoacer had dealt a stinging blow to Romulus’s army, inflicting another major defeat. The rumor alone was enough to send Crassus storming to the barbarian’s encampment to learn more.

  As he neared the largest pavilion, he could already hear boisterous laughter and the low roar of voices within. Odoacer’s men—tall, fair-haired warriors wearing scraps of chain and fur—lounged about outside, half-drunk, yet watchful enough to note Crassus’s arrival. They glanced sidelong, some with open smirks, as if measuring how this so-called “Roman Caesar” would meet their chieftain.

  An unarmed attendant parted the tent flap, letting Crassus enter. Inside, torchlight revealed the wide, heavy-drinking circle of Odoacer’s loyal commanders. Tankards of ale and bowls of roast mutton littered a rough-hewn table. Odoacer himself sat at the head, leaning back in a broad wooden chair, wolfish grin splitting his bearded face. When he caught sight of Crassus, he lifted his cup in a mock salute.

  “So the stray Emperor wanders in.” His Germanic accent curled each Latin word with soft mockery. “I’d offer you ale, Caesar,” he continued, lips twisting on the imperial title, “but I fear you might not have the stomach for it tonight.”

  Crassus bristled, stepping closer. “It’s true, then? You scored a great victory against Romulus’s main force?” He could almost taste the rancid mix of hope and bitterness in his own throat.

  Odoacer shrugged lazily, taking a long pull from his cup. “What can I say? Romulus’s little soldiers tried a night assault. Brave enough, but they folded the moment my horsemen crashed their flank.” He banged the cup down on the table. “A fine rout—left corpses and broken spears in the dark. We hunted them till the moon was high.”

  Raucous laughter rippled around the table. Crassus tensed, the ridges of old frustration gnawing at him. He’d lost a quarter of his own army in these last weeks—harassed by the very men Odoacer now ridiculed. So they can be beaten, he told himself. Then why did my levy fail so miserably? He forced composure into his voice.

  “If they fell so easily,” Crassus said, “it suggests your caution these past days was unnecessary. We might have taken Ravenna by now, had you not delayed.”

  He spat the last word, borrowing Odoacer’s mocking tone. The barbarian’s eyes gleamed.

  “Yes, you did go on about Romulus’s clever crossbows, about how he had battered your levy.” A low chuckle rippled among Odoacer’s henchmen. “But from what I see, the failures of yours. You claim to be Emperor, yet the only skill you’ve shown is letting your men starve. While that child in Ravenna picks your forces apart.” He leaned forward, a predatory glint in his gaze. “Remind me—how many times has Romulus’s rabble hammered your levy before you came begging for me to save you?”

  A flush spread across Crassus’s face, and his fists balled at his sides. “I wouldn’t say begging. We made an alliance. We agreed you would provide—”

  Odoacer laughed, a sharp bark that echoed in the pavilion. “An alliance, yes. And you gave me gold—bags of it. But gold can buy only so much. True power, Caesar,” he said, voice dripping irony on the title, “comes from a sword in a strong arm. Not from a treasury that might be empty next week.”

  Crassus’s cheeks burned hotter. “You owe me respect,” he snarled, “not mockery. I came to meet you as an equal, a partner, not to be scorned before your men. I am Emperor of the West.”

  Smiles tugged at the corners of Odoacer’s mouth; a ripple of dark amusement spread among the barbarian chiefs. One or two coughed back laughter. “Of course you are,” Odoacer said, lifting his cup in another mocking toast. “And I am a simple soldier, doing my best to help you claim Ravenna. Or so the story goes, yes?”

  “How dare you—” Crassus began, stepping closer.

  But Odoacer waved off the rising anger as though swatting a fly. “Calm yourself. We have bigger concerns than your pride. With last night’s victory, we see the truth: Romulus’s men are not a match to us. Our caution was unneeded. Tomorrow, I plan to push boldly forward.” He cracked his knuckles. “We’ll scout in force and begin pressuring Ravenna’s outer defenses. A city can be starved or forced to capitulate swiftly if approached with the right strength and cunning.”

  Crassus glared, remembering how even a small fraction of Romulus’s reorganized troops had cut through his ragtag levy like wheat. Yet Odoacer claims they crumble so easily. Indignation roiled in his gut. “You are so sure? My experience says they’ve new fortifications, cunning traps, better discipline—”

  “So you’d have me wait again? Are you truly that frightened?” Odoacer sneered. “Then remind me, what was the point of marching north so hastily if not to seize Ravenna? If you prefer to cower while the Eastern Emperor’s army moves west, be my guest.” He took another swig of ale. “But I won’t cower. Not after that easy slaughter last night.”

  Crassus ground his teeth. “You blame me for caution? Had your troops arrived earlier—”

  “Earlier?” Odoacer cut him off. “My time is mine to spend, Caesar. I move when it benefits me, not when it suits your illusions of grandeur.” Slowly, he set down his cup. “Now, I see we can proceed. Good. Because if we dawdle, Emperor Zeno’s reinforcements will only bolster Romulus’s rabble—perhaps even break us both.”

  A hush followed, the tension in the tent thick enough to taste. Crassus glared at the faces around the table—brutish, scarred men, none with the faintest trace of Roman courtesy. But they hold the advantage. This alliance is fragile, and I can’t afford to alienate them. The knowledge gnawed at his pride. He forced an even tone. “So tomorrow, we advance.” His voice was clipped. “And my men? I have nearly ten thousand—”

  A few jeers surfaced around the table. Odoacer raised an eyebrow. “Ten thousand? I heard rumors you lost a quarter or more, from desertions or skirmishes. Or are you counting the ghosts, too?”

  Crassus stiffened, heat flaring under his collar. “We can still fight. And we have supplies enough to mount a serious push. Our final strike, if done with your cavalry, can crush Romulus’s gates. But it requires coordination, not mockery.”

  “Coordination, yes,” Odoacer echoed mildly. “Though to me, it seems your men need something simpler first—fresh supplies, rest, maybe a reassurance that they won’t be slaughtered again by a mere child.” He smirked. “Your levy marched on Ravenna in grand style once and was promptly battered. Now they tremble at every rumor of crossbows in the dark. Perhaps you’d do better forging them into an actual army before demanding my respect.”

  Crassus’s nails bit into his palms. “Do not insult me. My army is just… in need of better provisioning.”

  Odoacer half rose, picking up a half-full wineskin from the table. “Then see it done, Caesar. Tomorrow, push them out again to forage. Let them gather what’s left in these regions—grain, livestock, anything. My victory last night showed there is no immediate threat from Romulus’s troops, or so I believe.” He drained a mouthful of wine. “Surely your levy can handle foragers’ duty, yes? Or are they too timid for that now?”

  The jibe stung like a whip’s crack. Crassus’s chest tightened; he fought to keep his voice level. “I… I will see to it.”

  A slow grin curved Odoacer’s lips. “That’s the spirit. Reassure them the mighty Romulus is battered. Tell them how your beloved Odoacer has paved the road to victory. Then gather your spoils and bring them back for the combined force. If your men are truly as numerous and loyal as you claim, they can scavenge enough supplies for the final siege.”

  Crassus clenched his jaw, hating how Odoacer leveraged every word to reassert control. “Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll do it.”

  A brief silence followed, thick with tension. Odoacer studied Crassus’s face as though he might savor another jab. At last, the barbarian sank back into his chair, swirling the wine in his cup. “Good. Then we both have tasks. I, to march forward and continue smashing Romulus’s rabble—” he chuckled at his own phrase, “—and you, Caesar, to rally your levy so they don’t shame you further. Understood?”

  Crassus inhaled sharply. Part of him wanted to lunge across the table, to snarl that no man who wore filthy furs had a right to belittle a Roman patrician. But he choked down the rage. He needed Odoacer’s cavalry; he could not risk open confrontation now.

  “I—yes. I’ll see to it.”

  Odoacer gave a final, dismissive wave, turning back to his loyal commanders. The conversation around the table resumed, drifting into guttural Germanic speech Crassus only half understood. It was clearly a signal that the meeting was over.

  Crassus glared for a moment, heat flooding his cheeks at the snickers in the background. With a last look at Odoacer—who seemed wholly unconcerned by the tension—Crassus spun on his heel and strode out of the tent, his two guards scurrying in his wake. Outside, the cool air slapped his face, but it offered little relief from the humiliation that burned inside.

  He paused at the edge of Odoacer’s camp, taking in the array of torches and tents, the braying of horses, the reek of smoke and sweat. He had come here to confirm the rumor of Odoacer’s triumph, hoping it would spark unity, strengthen their combined front. Instead, he felt as though he’d been paraded before a table of merciless barbarians, poked at until his rage boiled.

  He grimaced, forcing his posture upright. I am Caesar, he reminded himself, echoing Odoacer’s mocking address. No matter how they sneer, I’ve raised an army from Rome itself. Even if it’s battered, it’s still mine. Tomorrow, his levy would scout and forage. Then, if fortune allowed, they’d march with Odoacer to break Ravenna. And once Romulus is toppled, once I sit in that palace…

  The anger twisted into a cold resolve. I will repay Odoacer’s taunts in full. Or so he told himself. The thought of regaining the upper hand—whether by subtlety or betrayal—kept him from trembling at the memory of the barbarian’s laughter.

  One guard cleared his throat timidly. “Dominus… shall we return to our camp?”

  Crassus jerked his head in a nod, and they set off, boots squelching in the mud. The night air pressed thick around them, quiet except for the distant sounds of men boasting of victory. Let Odoacer have his smug illusions, Crassus vowed inwardly. I’ll endure the humiliation now. Once Ravenna’s gates fall—once I have that throne—he’ll see who truly commands.

  With that bitter promise at the forefront of his mind, he led his small entourage back into the darkness, forging a plan that would keep him on top—no matter what the barbarian warlord believed.