27th of July, 476 AD

  Nicias stirred from sleep in a room that was still unfamiliar enough to make him blink with gratitude. Though small and sparsely furnished, it was his—no landlord looming with threats of eviction, no drafty corner by the docks. A single shelf held the handful of personal belongings he had collected: a smooth river stone from his boyhood home, a battered wooden carving of a horse (a gift from a kind fellow smith), and three clay cups he had shaped himself during quiet after-hours practice in the workshop.

  The bed, though narrow, had linen sheets and a real straw mattress. He rose carefully, sliding callused feet onto the plank floor. After months of near-homelessness, such creature comforts felt almost opulent. A small table by the window bore scattered parchments and sketches. By the weak dawn light, he glanced at them: crossbow designs from the workshop and notes on strange, new numbers. Since hearing that the emperor might soon sponsor housing for all the workshop’s craftsmen, Nicias had redoubled his efforts to prove himself indispensable—he wanted to earn that future, secure a life untainted by his old reputation.

  Pulling on a clean tunic and his patched but tidy trousers, he fastened a belt of supple leather around his waist. Next came the rummaging for breakfast: a small loaf of coarse bread and a wedge of hard cheese left over from yesterday’s ration. As he ate, he skimmed the schematic he’d stayed up late studying—one of the workshop’s “improved crossbow” diagrams, detailing hinge pivots and trigger sear angles. His eyes flicked over each measurement, mind turning with a quiet fervor. Better triggers, smoother pulls… yes, we can do it if we refine the iron shaping…

  Finishing the last crumb of bread, he laced on his worn boots, then collected his satchel—now filled with scribing tools, a rolled parchment or two, and a few charcoal sticks. He took one last look around the little room, feeling a swell of pride in its neatness. He used to sleep in the open near the docks not long ago, living day to day without money or prospects. How far I’ve come was a thought that nudged a half-smile onto his lips.

  He stepped outside into the corridor, nodding politely to another craftsman down the hall who was also heading out. The boarding house was near Ravenna’s eastern quarter, which meant a bit of a walk to the state-owned workshop. Outside, the roads felt heavier than usual. The air around him seemed burdened by murmurs of discontent—soldiers wearing grim expressions, local folk shaking their heads at half-heard news of a defeat two days past. Nicias had no illusions about the importance of that news: apparently, the Magister Militum, Orestes, had lost nearly half his force. People whispered that the city might be next on the chopping block if Odoacer or Crassus advanced swiftly.

  Yet Nicias found the gloom did not fully sink into him. He was worried for Rome, of course, but after a lifetime of rejections and hardship, he had learned to focus on what he could control: his craft. The workshop had become his haven, the place where every hammered rivet felt like a step toward bettering the empire’s defenses. And it had given him a sense of belonging he’d never known.

  He moved briskly along the cobblestone streets, passing worn arches and shuttered stalls. Vendors who once hawked wares under bright awnings now looked tired. Some had even packed up, anticipating that the city might need to lock down soon. Still, the skeleton of daily life persisted—water carriers hauling jugs, a cluster of small children darting past, giggling in morning mischief. Nicias offered them a faint smile. Children can always laugh, even when the world weighs heavier on adults, he mused.

  Soon, the looming outer wall of the workshop came into sight—a stretch of newly raised stone and timber, watchtowers perched at corners. Two armed guards stood flanking the main gate, their helmets catching the early sun. They straightened a bit, recognizing Nicias’s face from daily comings and goings.

  “Nicias,” said one guard, a bearded fellow who’d introduced himself days ago as Rufus. “Good morning. Busy day ahead?”

  Nicias gave a polite nod. “Morning, Rufus. Indeed—like every day lately.”

  The guard grinned in mild solidarity. “At least inside’s warm. Better than patrolling out here.” He lifted the gate bar, allowing Nicias through.

  He stepped inside to the yard, where a flurry of activity was already underway. Carts of iron ingots squeaked across dusty ground toward the foundry area; bundles of ash-wood planks were stacked near a side shed for crossbow stocks. Men in leather aprons hustled about, their breath fogging in the crisp morning air. The tang of metal, charcoal, and molten slag tickled Nicias’s nose—familiar, comforting smells.

  He walked past the courtyard, greeting a handful of coworkers. One was Gaius the Foreman, a thickset man with arms the size of logs, who gave Nicias a curt wave. Another, a younger apprentice named Vibius, offered an eager smile. “Morning, Nicias!” the boy chirped. “We’ve a new order for crossbow parts—I hear they want them lighter but still strong. Master Caius was talking about new forging temps.”

  Nicias patted Vibius’s shoulder. “We’ll manage. We always do.” He could recall, with a faint pang, how he himself had been just as green when he first arrived, uncertain if he’d pass the workshop’s rigorous acceptance test. Now here he was, a fixture among them, known for methodical work and a quiet, truthful approach.

  He continued further into the complex, passing rows of small forges and anvils set beneath a high timber roof. The building’s far end was still under construction, open to the elements, scaffolding hugging half-finished walls. Despite the incomplete roof, the interior thrummed with industry: hissing bellows, clank of steel on steel, the bark of foremen verifying dimensions.

  Nicias paused to watch a pair of smiths test a newly assembled crossbow, hooking a stirrup foot to draw the string. The workshop insisted on meticulous measuring: from the tension in the bow arms to the alignment of the release mechanism. A single deviation could jam the weapon, rendering it useless. This place sets a standard I used to only dream about, he thought.

  He lingered there a few moments, observing the pair of smiths test the new crossbow’s draw, marveling at how each detail—down to the shape of the trigger’s sear—could affect the final result. A wry thought crossed his mind: not that months ago, he had been hammering out spatha blades day in and day out. Back then, on his first days in the workshop, the supervisors had eyed him skeptically—just another smith from nowhere, stuck forging standard swords. But after barely two weeks on spathas, one of the foremen noticed how meticulously Nicias filed the tang and guard, how he took extra care to ensure the best balance. Soon, there came a summons:

  “You,” the foreman had said. “We’re short-handed on the crossbow line. Word is you have a knack for precision.”

  At the time, Nicias had felt a spark of excitement. He was proud of his sword work, but he’d never dreamed of fine, mechanical crafting. Yet something in him leapt at the prospect—maybe a memory from childhood, tinkering with hinges and latches on his family’s small farm. So he’d moved from the clang of swords to a small side workshop where crossbow parts were fashioned. It didn’t take long for him to realize: this was where he belonged. The geometry of shaping steel bow arms, the intricacies of matching triggers to stock angles—he reveled in every step.

  In short order, rumors about a “talented crossbow smith” trickled through the workshop’s corridors. Half-flattered, half-anxious, Nicias had shrugged it off. Surely they exaggerate, he’d thought. But then Callimachus arrived—pale, wiry, with a quiet brilliance in his eyes—and everything changed.

  Callimachus headed a growing team of Alexandrian scholars. That alone was unusual—Ravenna rarely saw such a learned contingent from the East. Their presence testified to Emperor Romulus’s push for innovation, or so everyone whispered. At first, the Alexandrians mostly consulted with Caius (the magister overseeing all the workshops), scrawling notes and sketches on wax tablets. Then, out of nowhere, Callimachus had come to Nicias’s station, his gaze curious.

  “You’re the one they call ‘the quiet tinkerer,’ yes?” the scholar had asked in gentle Greek-tinged Latin.

  Nicias had flushed. “I… suppose so, Dominus.”

  From that day, Nicias found himself re-assigned to Callimachus’s specialized team, where they tested new designs for an improved crossbow. The scholar showed him intricate drawings—hinge-based releases, layered bow arms, advanced triggers with smaller friction surfaces. Nicias still remembered his amazement: the lines were so precise, the angles so unusual. “Is this truly a Roman design?” he’d asked. Callimachus had given a secretive smile, explaining that the knowledge came from old treatises once stored in “the Great Library of Alexandria,” ancient manuscripts that had been lost or scattered. Reproducing them was now their grand mission.

  For weeks, Nicias and a half-dozen other skilled smiths wrestled with forging the crossbow arms to exact specification, refining the bow-limbs from layered steel-laminations, adjusting lathe fixtures for uniform thickness. When the final product misfired or jammed, they’d revisit Callimachus’s sketches—days of trial and error. Meanwhile, more Alexandrians arrived almost weekly, each bringing scraps of research, re-copied diagrams. The workshop turned busier than ever, compartments reorganized so the “improved crossbow team” could work in partial seclusion. Sometimes, Nicias would glance around and realize just how secret and important their efforts must be—especially now, with the city under threat.

  The first time it actually fired a bolt correctly was a moment he’d never forget. After so many prototypes and shattered arms, they’d lined up a target of bundled straw outside the workshop’s side yard. Nicias, hands steady but heart pounding, loaded the crossbow. The new trigger arrangement felt almost silky. The arms held stable. He squeezed, and the bolt thudded into the straw right where he aimed. Half the onlookers broke into cheers. Even typically stoic foremen clapped each other on the back.

  In that success, Nicias discovered he’d had a major hand in bridging dream to reality: it was his hammered crossbow limbs, his finely ground trigger box. The sense of accomplishment nearly floored him. “You’ve the lion’s share of credit here, Master Nicias,” Callimachus had said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Your patience and dedication guide our raw designs into working steel.”

  But that was only the beginning. After celebrating, they’d begun mass production—but not in the usual, one-smith-crafts-it-all method. Callimachus insisted on dividing tasks meticulously: one group for forging arms, another for the latch assembly, another for the wooden stocks, and so forth. Every crossbow piece was identical in dimension, letting them assemble far more quickly once all parts were ready. Many craftsmen found it strange, even off-putting. The tradition of a single smith seeing a weapon from raw iron to final polish had always been a point of pride.

  Nicias, too, felt a pang of unease. He missed forging entire blades or crossbows on his own from start to finish. “Isn’t this… unnatural?” some muttered. “We’re cogs in a machine now. Where’s the craftsman’s personal signature?” But as new orders for the improved crossbow poured in—especially once the city braced for bigger threats—everyone gradually accepted that this more streamlined approach worked. The workshop could produce multiple crossbows in the time it used to take one smith to complete just one. And each piece matched the same exacting standard.

  Over these last weeks, Nicias had become the anchor of the “fine mechanics group,” focusing on trigger boxes and final calibrations. The role suited him. He’d discovered a knack for small, detailed parts—almost like puzzle solving. “You must have the eyes of an eagle,” an older smith teased, “to manage those dinky pins and latches.” Nicias had merely smiled. He was content.

  Additionally, Callimachus had drawn him into his inner circle, encouraging Nicias to stay late for discussions about geometry, tensile strength theories, and these mysterious “new numbers” from the “lost Roman golden age.” At first, Nicias had simply gaped at the columns of digits, noticing they were not the usual Roman numerals. The notations used place-value shapes that allowed more straightforward multiplication and division—a concept that lit a spark in Nicias’s mind. It was said these numerals were taught in the time of Augustus by men like Vitruvius, their knowledge somehow scattered across libraries, and that the Alexandrians were laboriously reconstructing them.

  Such revelations left Nicias and the other artisans in awe. “So the empire had all of this… centuries ago?” muttered one craftsman, shaking his head. Another chimed in, “We’re footsteps behind the greatest. We mustn’t let them down.” The sense of belonging to something bigger—preserving or rediscovering lost Roman knowledge—stirred every hammer blow with new zeal.

  Now, Nicias made his way to the specialized crossbow section. He passed racks of half-finished weapons, each piece carefully labeled for alignment. The braziers glowed with a fierce orange, heating bars of steel that would become triggers or bow hooks. Over by a large table, half a dozen scholars in plain robes pored over diagrams pinned under oil lamps. Among them was Callimachus, lean and intense, scribbling a note onto parchment while pointing out some detail to an assistant.

  Catching sight of Nicias, Callimachus beckoned him over. “Ah, just in time. We have a final piece to mount this morning.”

  Nicias nodded, setting his satchel on the edge of the table. “The new model?”

  Callimachus’s eyes glimmered. “Indeed. Our greatest project so far. We’ve spent weeks perfecting the internal gear for the self-cocking mechanism—‘Vitruvius’s design’, if the texts are true. After all the small trials, we believe it’s ready.”

  Nicias felt his pulse quicken. The self-cocking mechanism had been rumored among the Alexandrians—an advanced lever system that drastically reduced the effort needed to draw the bow. If it worked reliably, the empire’s crossbowmen could fire faster, with less strain. He moved closer to the central workspace, where an ornate crossbow stock lay partially assembled. It was smaller than typical, with hinged arms that locked into place.

  They needed him to help set the final components: the latch gears, the pivot plate. With a respectful hush, the other craftsmen stood back to let Nicias slip into place. He carefully picked up the final gear piece, shaped from high-grade steel, feeling the subtle teeth that would interlock with a small ratchet. In the corners of his vision, the scholars watched. Over the last month, they had grown used to seeing him handle such tasks with methodical calm, trusting his sense of fit and alignment.

  Working with slow, deliberate motions, he positioned the gear inside the carved cavity in the wooden stock, sliding it to nest against the pinned lever. The holes lined up—perfect. He secured it with small iron rivets. Not too tight, he reminded himself. The gear must rotate freely. Then he tested the movement, gently toggling the lever. It moved smoothly, each tooth catching the next rung in the ratchet.

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  Callimachus stepped forward, a quiet wonder in his eyes. “You see how it all rests on that geometry? Perfect circles, carefully placed pivot points… The texts called it ‘Vitruvian circles.’ They gave us the ratio. Even a fraction off, and it jams.”

  Nicias suppressed a grin, adrenaline fizzing in his veins. “It…feels right. Let’s mount the bow arms.”

  Two more craftsmen—Nicanor and Quintus—brought forward the steel-laminated arms, which had been shaped to the new standard. With Nicias guiding them, they slotted each arm onto the crossbow’s front, affixing side brackets. Another man carefully hammered the final pins. Like pieces of a puzzle, Nicias thought again. Everything standardized, everything precisely cut. He recalled how many times they’d butted heads over mass production: old-school pride bristled at splitting the workload, yet here the method shone. Each bracket and pivot matched seamlessly, no custom re-filing needed.

  When all was secured, Nicias lifted the crossbow. It felt heavier than the standard design but balanced. The scholars huddled around, hush descending over them. His mouth felt dry.

  “Should I test it here…or outside?” he asked.

  Callimachus gave a slight nod. “Outside, please. The last we want is to put a bolt through the workshop roof if it misfires.”

  A ripple of nervous laughter spread among them, tension and excitement mingled. Carefully, Nicias carried the new crossbow outside to a small fenced area used for test shots. A battered target dummy waited at fifteen paces. A pair of watchful sentries hovered nearby, half out of curiosity, half for safety.

  Setting the stock against his hip, Nicias located the lever that engaged the self-cocking gear. A single flick, then the ratchet mechanism clicked in place. He began pulling back the lever. The gear whirred softly as each tooth locked momentarily, halting any backslide. Remarkable, Nicias marveled. No need for the usual muscle straining. Once the bowstring reached full draw, the lever locked with a crisp snap. Nicias slid a bolt into place, took a measured breath, and raised the crossbow.

  The watchers held their breath. Nicias squeezed the trigger. The new mechanism engaged smoothly—and thwack! The bolt shot forward, slamming into the target’s center mass. A fresh hush, and then cheers. The bow arms held, the internal gear showed no sign of jamming, and the self-cocking lever had functioned as intended. Callimachus and the others practically beamed.

  A swirl of relief, triumph, and awe flooded Nicias. This was bigger than just forging a new weapon. They were resurrecting a piece of Rome’s lost heritage, rewriting the empire’s future. For a moment, the tension of looming war and the city’s gloom faded, replaced by raw pride. We have done what even the ancients dared only record. We brought it to life again.

  He re-cocked the crossbow using the same lever—click-click-click—and readied a second bolt. Another shot flew true. Applause broke out behind him. Callimachus offered a deep, satisfied nod. “Truly, Nicias, all of you… this is your creation every bit as much as it is mine. Our creation.”

  The other craft workers gathered round, patting Nicias on the back, grinning widely. Some of their concerns about dividing labor or about overshadowing the craftsman’s artistry seemed to recede in the face of such success. One older smith just shook his head in wonder. “So this is how they did it in the golden age. By the gods… it’s like stepping into old legends.”

  Then, from just behind them—beyond the little practice range—they heard the sudden sound of clapping. A lone pair of hands at first, then several others joining in. Nicias startled, lowering the crossbow as he and the rest looked back.

  Emperor Romulus stood at the edge of the workshop yard, flanked by two armored guards. A few passing foremen and smiths, recognizing their sovereign, hurriedly backed away to clear a path. No one had noticed the young emperor’s approach; they’d been so caught up in their test shots and celebrations that the world beyond the fence had faded away.

  At once, everyone bowed—or gave whatever respect their soot-stained hands allowed. Even Callimachus bent his head. The boyish figure of Romulus Augustus moved closer, a broad smile illuminating his features. Though only a thread of purple trim on his cloak signaled his station, he carried an unmistakable authority. Nicias was struck again by how youthful the emperor seemed—he had glimpsed him before in the distance, but never this near.

  “That was an impressive display,” said Romulus, voice smooth and confident. “I’ve seen many crossbows tested, but none that loaded so… effortlessly. You barely seemed to pull that lever.”

  Nicias, head still swimming with excitement, took a step forward. “Caesar, it—” He fumbled for words, deciding simply on, “It’s a new design, calling on… older knowledge. We hope it will serve.”

  Romulus’s gaze swept over the small group. “You’ve done excellent work. And quietly, it seems. I was aware of your crossbow improvements, but I didn’t realize they’d advanced this far.” He paused, a slight grin on his lips. “Then again, it’s not the first remarkable thing I’ve seen come out of this team. Of course, the Alexandrians always seem to unearth such wonders from our Golden Age.”

  He glanced at Callimachus, who gave a polite nod. Nicias observed how the scholar appeared both gratified and slightly on edge, as though he were relieved the emperor was satisfied yet wary of saying too much.

  “Yes, Caesar,” Callimachus replied, “we followed treatises from men like Vitruvius. Without the expertise of these smiths, though, such theories would remain mere scribbles.”

  Nicias sensed some subtle current in their exchange. He couldn’t place it, but something about the scholar’s hesitation hinted at a larger story behind these so-called “discoveries.” Yet Nicias dismissed the thought as he watched Romulus examine the self-cocking crossbow with almost childlike curiosity.

  The emperor exhaled in approval. “The city is in need of every advantage. Seeing how well this worked, I wonder—could you craft something bigger? A balista, perhaps, using the same principles?” His eyes lit with excitement at the idea. “You know, the siege engines once famed in Rome’s armies. We could use them on the walls if the enemy presses in.”

  Nicias watched Callimachus exchange glances with a pair of his fellow scholars. The scholar cleared his throat. “It’s… possible, Caesar, but a major undertaking. The arms, torsion ropes, frames—everything must scale up. Even referencing the same ancient scrolls would only get us so far. We’d need a month at least, more likely three, to ensure it’s safe and accurate. Rushing a siege engine of that size risks it snapping under its own force.”

  Romulus’s shoulders sank slightly. “Three months?” He sighed. “We don't have that long. Then again, better we do it right.” His gaze trailed back to the crossbow in Nicias’s hands. “What about these smaller weapons—how many can you produce in a week?”

  Nicias turned to Callimachus reflexively, but the scholar tilted his head, beckoning Nicias to answer. “We’re able to make about thirty or forty per week, Caesar,” Nicias said, carefully. “If supplies keep coming—especially iron and good wood—and if everyone sticks to the new… method of splitting tasks.”

  Romulus brightened. “Thirty or forty is more than I anticipated. Good. We’ll keep you supplied as best we can.” He let his glance fall on the self-cocking lever again. “Still, ‘improved crossbow’ or ‘advanced crossbow’ isn’t much of a name. We’ll need something more fitting. Any ideas?”

  An older smith ventured, “Perhaps call it the ‘Augustan Arcus,’ Caesar—a nod to the golden age of Augustus.”

  Romulus stifled a laugh. “Too flattering, maybe. But we’ll think of something. For now, keep refining. We need every advantage.”

  Nicias noticed another small flicker in the scholar’s eyes—like he was carefully holding back words. He had seen this before when scholars chatted among themselves about “Alexandria’s library.” That, too, seemed sometimes half-coded. But if the emperor was content with the official story, Nicias would not question it. Let the learned men keep their secrets.

  Emperor Romulus turned to the smiths more broadly. “You have my thanks. The city’s mood is grim after recent defeats, but seeing these achievements gives me hope. Continue your work, and let me know if you need anything.” He paused, gaze dancing across Nicias and Callimachus in particular. “You’ve done Rome a great service. I can’t wait to see what else you produce from these ‘rediscovered’ designs.”

  With that, he signaled his guards. They and a handful of curious foremen drifted away toward the workshop’s main corridor. Those who remained around the crossbow breathed out in relief and excitement. Callimachus let out a tension-filled chuckle, rubbing at the back of his neck.

  “Well,” he said softly, “that went well. Caesar seemed pleased.”

  Nicias nodded, chest still fluttering with pride. “Yes. Though the balista request… that’s a tall order.”

  One of the other smiths grinned, patting Nicias on the back. “We’ll get there. He said it himself: we’ve done wonders so far. Maybe in a month—three months, if it must be perfect.”

  They headed back inside, to the warmth of the specialized crossbow section. Overhead, torches and lamps glowed against the half-constructed roof. Around them, newly arrived apprentices organized metal stock. Another day of forging, riveting, and testing beckoned, but with a fresh air of excitement. After all, the emperor himself had given them praise—and whether these wonders truly hailed from Alexandria’s library or from somewhere else Nicias couldn’t name, it hardly mattered. They were forging weapons to defend Ravenna and reclaim some glimmer of Rome’s ancient glory.

  With renewed focus, Nicias returned to his station, lever assemblies still scattered before him. He could think of little else besides the fact that one of these crossbows might soon stand on the walls of Ravenna, repelling invaders. In spite of all the looming threats, the workshop felt alive—an unwavering testament to what skill and determination could achieve, even in times as turbulent as these.

  Romulus Augustus departed the workshop with measured steps, the clang of forges still echoing in his ears. Beyond the gate, the summer sun hung low over Ravenna’s sprawl: a patchwork of houses and narrow streets that had grown well beyond the city’s ancient walls. Most of these outer neighborhoods were unfortified—only the inner core remained cloaked behind high ramparts built decades, sometimes centuries, before.

  Two guards trailed behind him, scanning for threats. As Romulus threaded through the outer district, he noted families hauling carts of belongings, their faces taut with worry. Small homes here clustered along winding alleys, many with half-shuttered windows. Rumors of Orestes’s defeat had rippled out, turning the usual bustle into a hush of grim anticipation.

  He forced himself onward, weaving toward the central keep—a mound of earthworks and stone that enclosed Ravenna’s historic heart. From a distance, the wall looked imposing enough, but Romulus knew the outer neighborhoods had only makeshift defenses: barricades, newly dug ditches, and desperate plans that might slow an enemy for mere hours. If Crassus or Odoacer seized these outer streets, they could converge on the old walls in a matter of hours.

  Eventually, he arrived at one of the main gates into the inner city. The archway, old and pitted with centuries of wear, led onto a steep ramp that climbed to a gatehouse perched atop the fortress-like wall. Guards stood at attention—some from Dux Flavianus’s reorganized comitatenses, others from the city militia. They saluted at once, stepping aside.

  Romulus found himself within the walled perimeter. From the top of the ramparts, where the stone walkway offered a vantage, he could see out over Ravenna’s layered districts: an inner heart protected by the ancient walls, and beyond it, swaths of rooftops extending to farmland further away. In clearer times, this cityscape teemed with life; now the roads looked half-empty.

  He saw Dux Flavianus near the western side, conferring with a knot of officers. Each wore a weary expression born of too many nights on edge. At Romulus’s approach, they straightened and saluted.

  “Caesar,” Flavianus said, crossing the few paces between them. “All is as we discussed. We’ve finished the most urgent preparations.”

  Romulus nodded, letting the brisk wind tug at his cloak. “Report, please.”

  Flavianus led him along the walkway. Below, through crenellations, they could see the partially evacuated outer neighborhoods—clusters of homes and workshops where civilians still hurried to gather possessions. Beyond that, the fields lay scorched in places, with plumes of smoke indicating deliberate burnings.

  “Our men have set barricades and some makeshift traps on major roads approaching these inner walls,” Flavianus explained. “Though there’s no continuous fortification around the outer city, we’ve created choke points on key streets. Any enemy column will have to battle through house-to-house resistance if they come at dawn.”

  They halted at a parapet. Romulus peered down. Even from here, the shuffle of evacuees and small squads of soldiers was evident. “And the western and southern quarters?”

  Flavianus exhaled. “Evacuated, for the most part. Residents from those areas have been brought behind the old walls—many of them crowding the main forum and side streets. There’s tension, of course. Some refuse to abandon homes. But we insisted. Better a burned district than letting Odoacer or Crassus entrench in it.”

  Romulus’s gaze drifted across the city. He grimaced at the smoke columns. “We can’t let them feed on our supplies or use the outer houses for cover. You did right.”

  Flavianus continued, voice thick with fatigue, “We also destroyed the wooden bridge that connected the south side with the workshops in the east. Now, the only way around is ten kilometers south, where there’s a stone crossing toward the port. We doubt the enemy will bother—too long a detour, and they’d still face canal barriers closer in.”

  Romulus nodded, a dark satisfaction stirring in him. “So the workshops remain safer behind water. If the enemy tries circling that far… well, we have time to respond.”

  “Yes, Caesar,” Flavianus replied. “And as you ordered, a few small cavalry detachments are set for ambushes at critical junctions. They’ll harass scouting parties or stragglers. We won’t commit large forces—just enough to make Odoacer cautious.”

  They paused, letting the wind steal a moment of silence. From their vantage, the city’s labyrinth of roofs and narrow lanes offered a grim stage for the battle to come. Romulus pressed his hand to the sun-warmed stone of the parapet, imagining how soon arrows and bolts might fly overhead.

  “How soon do we expect them?” he asked.

  “A courier arrived an hour ago from one of our watchtowers,” Flavianus answered. “Their advance parties will likely reach the outskirts tomorrow around midday—likely pushing through the outer city streets by late afternoon. The main host could be here by evening. If they stall to regroup, maybe it’s a day or two more. But we can’t count on that.”

  Romulus forced his shoulders not to slump. “Then we have this night—perhaps one more. After that, we must hold these walls.”

  Flavianus’s voice dipped. “Yes. We hold and pray the Eastern army arrives before our defenses crumble. We’ve done what we can, Caesar. Traps, barricades, small ambush squads. The men are tired but they’ll stand firm.”

  For a moment, Romulus gazed at the clusters of newly arrived refugees finding spots in the inner courtyards, the faint waft of fear on the air. All these people, pinned behind old walls, counting on him—on battered defenders, on the workshop’s advanced crossbows, on cunning and hope. A flicker of memory: how he had once wanted to be free from the burdens of empire. Now, there was no escape from them.

  He cleared his throat, wrestling with the knot tightening in his chest. “We hold,” he repeated, firm. “If Odoacer or Crassus reach the walls, we make them pay for every foot. Show them Ravenna’s heart isn’t so easily claimed.”

  Flavianus nodded, a twinge of admiration in his eyes. “Aye. We’ll not yield.”

  They both watched a tired comitatus unit march across the courtyard, bearing arrows and spear bundles toward the western ramp. Another detail of men stood near the gate, distributing bread and watered wine to evacuees. The city was a hive of tension—one that would soon face the hammer blow.

  “Dux,” Romulus said quietly, turning back. “See to your final arrangements. Keep morale up if you can. Remind them we only need to hold until help arrives from the East.”

  “Yes, Caesar.” Flavianus’s salute was crisp, though Romulus sensed the weight behind it. With that, the Dux moved off, summoning an aide to review the next watch rotation.

  Left alone by the battlements, Romulus let his gaze drift toward the southwestern sprawl again, where the enemy would surge through the unwalled neighborhoods first. The Romans had turned that zone into a desperate labyrinth of burning farmsteads, scuttled roads, and abandoned buildings. A battlefield, essentially, with the final line here—these ancient walls around the city’s core.

  He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of distant smoke and fear. “O Lord,” he whispered, voice only for himself. “Help us endure.”

  The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across Ravenna’s fortress heart. Tomorrow, or the next day, Odoacer and Crassus would knock on the city’s outer doors, perhaps forcing battle down cramped streets. They would test the new crossbows, the cunning traps, the mettle of a weary garrison.

  Romulus straightened, breathing deep to calm the dread. We wait. We fight. We hold. That was all.

  With that silent vow, he descended the stone steps of the wall, cloak stirring behind him. Soldiers parted to let him pass, some with a spark of hope in their eyes at seeing the emperor’s steady stride. He did not speak as he went, but every step echoed the certainty that, come dawn, this battered city would need all their resolve—and more.

  They would hold the walls of Ravenna, or die trying.