29th of July, 476 AD

  Bishop Felix sat in the private chamber of Ravenna’s grand cathedral, long fingers trembling around a parchment. Dawn’s pale light streamed through the high arched window, illuminating the bishop’s drawn features. He had hardly slept—there was too much horror in the reports that had arrived in the early hours. He re-read the scrawled notes, each confirming the same, terrible truth: The Germans had burned a chapel overnight. The priest who served there was butchered where he stood. Civilians too slow or steadfast had been slaughtered without mercy. The old, the infirm, even those who knelt in prayer.

  His hands shook more violently, anger and fear clashing within him. I feared Odoacer would be no better than the Vandals in Africa—now it is confirmed. The knowledge weighed on him like a sin-stone about his neck. Though until now he had hesitated to condemn Odoacer outright—preferring careful neutrality, trying to preserve the Church’s place regardless of who gained power—this brutality annihilated all half-measures.

  A knock at the chamber door startled him from his thoughts. One of his attendants, a soft-spoken deacon, entered quietly. “Holiness,” he whispered, “the cathedral is already full. Everyone waits for you.” He cast a worried glance at Felix’s trembling hands.

  The bishop inhaled sharply, clenching his fists to steady them. I must not appear weak. He was, after all, the chief shepherd of these frightened people. Through his leadership, they would find solace—or despair.

  With effort, he rose from the wooden chair, smoothed out his robes of deep purple embroidered with subtle gold. He allowed himself only one final moment to cradle the parchment that bore such grim tidings. Then, forcibly, he stilled his hands and swept through the door into the corridor that led to the cathedral’s main nave.

  Outside the bishop’s chamber, the cathedral had become a gathering place for shaken citizens. Torchlight mingled with the morning glow pouring through stained-glass windows, illuminating the nave. Soldiers, townsfolk, and civic leaders filled every pew. Toward the front, unmistakable in his crimson cloak, stood Orestes. Beside him sat the young Emperor Romulus Augustus, his eyes red from too little rest, flanked by a cluster of officials. People whispered anxiously, scuffing feet on the stone floor.

  All fell silent when Bishop Felix emerged at the central aisle. He walked slowly, head bowed as if bearing the grief of the city upon his shoulders. At the dais, he paused and lifted his gaze, letting it rove over the worried crowd. The hush was profound: even the slightest shuffle or cough seemed magnified.

  He raised both hands to signal them to remain seated. Then his voice rang out, low and clear, carrying the quiver of sorrow and righteous indignation:

  “My children in Christ… I stand before you burdened by the darkest of news. Last night, in one of our sacred chapels, a devout priest was slain—brutally murdered by the invaders who prowl our streets. The holy cross at that chapel was burned—its beams consumed in flames. Many innocents, caught in these barbarians’ path, were cut down without mercy. I have heard these tidings from men I trust, men who risked their lives to bear witness. And so I tell you: Our greatest fears are realized.”

  A collective gasp broke from the crowd. Some clutched one another; others lowered heads in a silent sob. Orestes, arms folded, stared fixedly as Felix continued.

  “You know that I, as bishop, have endeavored to guide all souls, to remain the shepherd even for those misguided or uncertain. Yet now these men who serve Odoacer—these men who follow the traitor Crassus—have proven themselves beyond the pale.” His voice hardened, resolute. “They do not merely oppose an emperor or a general. They oppose the commands of God Himself by profaning His houses, murdering His servants, and terrorizing the faithful. In so doing, they forsake all laws—divine and mortal.”

  He paused, letting the enormity of the crime settle upon the congregation. Emperor Romulus bowed his head, sorrow etched on his young face, while Orestes’s eyes gleamed with barely hidden satisfaction.

  Felix inhaled shakily and carried on: “Let it be known—any who side with these fiends in sacking our holy sites commits an unspeakable sin. No cause, no grievance, can justify sacrilege. I say to you, in the name of Pope Simplicius himself that our Church has endured crises before, but we have never wavered in defending the sanctity of life and worship. We do so again, for these devils who invade us challenge far more than an earthly throne: they challenge the living testament of our faith.”

  A hush, weighty and trembling, enveloped the congregation. The bishop’s voice dropped to a mournful hush:

  “My brothers and sisters, I do not stand here to sow panic. But you must know the truth: Odoacer’s horde has shown it will slaughter the defenseless, ravage God’s sanctuaries, and mock every vow of peace. We can stand idle no more. Those of you who bear arms must do so with pure hearts, to shield the innocent. Those who cannot fight must strengthen your brethren with prayer, with charity, with unwavering faith. For in the face of such evil, our only hope is unity— unity under Christ, unity under the empire He has entrusted us to protect.”

  Felix’s gaze flicked to Orestes, and in that brief moment, the bishop’s eyes shone with an uncharacteristic fervor. He raised his hand, pointing gently at the general and the boy emperor:

  “The empire’s lawful authority is here. Orestes—Magister Militum— labors tirelessly to secure these walls from men who trample upon all that is holy. The Emperor Romulus stands with him, unwavering, to shield us from ruin. We, the Church, shall not hesitate to condemn every traitor who sides with these barbarians. Anyone among the clergy who abets them—any misguided bishop or priest who tries to excuse such devilry—shall be cast from our fold, for they have forsaken Christ’s command to do mercy, not murder.”

  His voice rose, echoing against the vaulted ceilings: “To those who might doubt—look upon the blood-stained altars and the charred beams of a chapel once dedicated to God’s glory. Look upon the tears of the faithful. Hear the wails of grieving mothers! If this does not stir your soul to righteous anger, you are lost indeed. But if it fires in you a holy wrath, then join with me. Pray for deliverance. Support every man who guards these walls. Deny the enemy safe haven or comfort. For these killers—these butchers—are no mere soldiers. They serve the devil’s purpose.”

  An undercurrent of rage rippled through the crowd. Some wept openly, others clenched fists. Orestes rose partway from his seat as if to speak, but Felix continued first, voice quiet yet firm:

  “My children, I promise you this: The Church stands resolute behind the rightful Emperor, behind the lawful protectors of Rome. Let none question our place in this conflict. We fight not only for our city, but for the soul of our people. And I, Bishop Felix, vow before God to oppose Odoacer and his vile horde with every spiritual weapon at my disposal. I beseech you to do the same—stand firm and unwavering.”

  The hush broke into scattered cries of “Amen!” Soldiers in the front row hammered fists to breastplates. Women dabbed tears, while men bowed heads, steeling themselves.

  Then Orestes—seeing the fervor radiate through the assembly—rose fully from his seat. He crossed to the dais, turned to face the crowd, and grasped Bishop Felix’s hand in a show of unity. The bishop allowed it, inclining his head solemnly.

  For a moment, the cathedral was still: on the dais, the general and the bishop, side by side, the young emperor behind them. The congregation’s tension, heartbreak, and newfound determination hung palpably in the air.

  Finally, Felix released Orestes’s hand and concluded in a gentler tone, “Pray with me now. Pray for the souls of those taken last night. Pray that we see an end to this cruelty. And pray we find strength to resist the darkness creeping at our gates.”

  He bowed his head. The entire cathedral followed suit: an ocean of bent necks, tear-filled eyes, and resolute hearts. Soft sobs mingled with whispered devotions. Candles flickered along the aisles, casting trembling shadows against the walls. In that moment, the unity of Church and state—once so carefully parsed—seemed absolute, forged by the fiery cruelty of a barbarian foe.

  Within Felix’s soul, anger simmered still, but it was tempered by a fierce sense of responsibility. The time for subtle games had ended. If Odoacer and Crassus dared to massacre the faithful and defile holy ground, then the bishop would publicly meet them with all the wrath and unity the Church could summon.

  Thus concluded Bishop Felix’s address. And the cathedral, so full of grief mere minutes before, now quivered with righteous purpose—made strong by the vow that devils would never again burn another church unchallenged, so long as breath remained in God’s people.

  A hush settled over the cathedral as the last echoes of Bishop Felix’s sermon gave way to a collective murmur of prayer. In that fragile lull, Orestes leaned in toward the bishop, his crimson cloak brushing lightly against Felix’s dark robes. His voice, though pitched low, carried a quiet satisfaction.

  “You did well,” Orestes whispered, clasping Felix’s hand with a firm grip. “You chose wisely, Bishop. All present can see where God’s true servants stand.”

  Felix’s gaze flicked sideways, assessing the grim-faced Magister Militum. His own cheeks still burned with the echo of righteous fury that had seized him at the pulpit. “I did it,” Felix muttered, “because I shall not see another North Africa repeat itself on Italian soil.” His voice trembled, caught between anger and fear. “In Carthage, the Vandals exiled our bishops, seized our churches, and persecuted the faithful. I will not let such an atrocity unfold here.”

  Orestes nodded curtly, a gleam in his eye. The bishop read in his expression both relief and unwavering pride. “Have no doubt, Bishop: we’ll keep them at bay. We’ll see these German brutes—and that traitor Crassus—scattered before they can scald another holy site.”

  Felix’s fingers stiffened around Orestes’s wrist, making the general wince slightly. “See that you do,” the bishop hissed. “Because if you fail—if we allow our people to be butchered as they were in Carthage, if we stand idle while altars burn—know this: I will personally ensure none of you enter Saint Peter’s empire in the hereafter.”

  That earned a low chuckle from Orestes, though his eyes flickered with a wary respect. “We won’t fail,” he promised, half-smiling. “The men already burn with rage against Odoacer. I’ll stoke that fire until it’s a storm.” He released Felix’s hand gently and drew back. “Stay close to our troops, keep their spirits kindled. My soldiers will need the Church’s blessing to fight this war as one.”

  Felix nodded, the tension easing from his jaw. “We will do our part,” he said. Then, with a brisk gesture, he signaled the priests to attend to the people filing out of the cathedral. His gaze lingered on Orestes for a moment more. “God willing, we drive them out swiftly.”

  Orestes inclined his head in a measured bow. “God willing, indeed.”

  Not long after, the churchgoers dispersed, spurred on by the bishop’s thunderous sermon and Orestes’s whispered vow of determination. The cathedral’s soaring nave emptied save for a few lingering deacons, who busied themselves comforting widows and urging young men to muster for the militias.

  Bishop Felix, however, retreated to his quiet study—a sparsely furnished room containing a simple wooden desk, a shelf of religious manuscripts, and a narrow window overlooking Ravenna’s winding streets. The clamor of anxious citizens and patrolling soldiers drifted through the shutters.

  Seating himself, Felix felt the rush of duty clamp around him again. “I must set pen to parchment,” he muttered, voice echoing in the solitude. “Time for half-measures has ended.”

  He reached for fresh sheets of vellum and a quill. First came a letter addressed to Pope Simplicius in Rome:

  *To our Holy Father, Pope Simplicius,

  From Bishop Felix of Ravenna, Greetings in the Lord…

  I write in the gravest hour, for Odoacer’s Germanic hordes have burnt our chapels and butchered the faithful without mercy. Even the sacred cross was not spared. In God’s name, I beseech you: condemn Odoacer and this traitor, Crassus, who dares call himself an emperor. Let them be declared enemies of the Church—no less than the Vandals of Africa were. Our city’s defenders stand resolute, but their cause needs Rome’s spiritual might. Your Holiness, speak boldly from your seat and confirm that these barbarous acts are an affront to all Christendom…*

  He dipped the quill again, quickening his strokes, summarizing the murders, the burning of the chapel, the ongoing siege. The rage in his heart lent urgency to his handwriting. We must make them pariahs, cast out from the Body of Christ, he thought fiercely, so none in the West dare claim ignorance of their deeds.

  Next, he turned to a stack of papers, inscribing several identical letters to be sent to clergy marching with Crassus:

  *To my brother in faith—

  For those who travel in the company of Crassus and thus by extension Odoacer’s minions. If so, I implore you: forsake these butchers at once, condemn their deeds, and return to the rightful fold of the Church. Otherwise, know that I must excommunicate you as a consort of murderers. For they have profaned holy ground and slaughtered God’s servants. Choose your loyalty: the devils who burn chapels, or Christ who calls us to defend them…*

  His quill scratched furiously in the quiet chamber. He repeated the ultimatum in measured, unambiguous words. They must know there is no third path now. Stand with God or be cast out.

  Finally, with a heavy sigh, Felix set the letters aside to dry. He pressed a hand over his tired eyes. No bishop should relish excommunication, but the day demanded harsh measures. We cannot watch our altars burn while some of our own clergy hide behind neutrality.

  Squaring his shoulders, he opened the door and called for the deacons. One by one, they entered, waiting attentively for his command. Their faces showed traces of the same shock and anger that consumed the entire city.

  “Brothers,” Felix said softly, “I have tasks for you. First, see these letters dispatched by swift riders. The ones to Rome are urgent—spare no expense to ensure they reach Pope Simplicius without delay. The rest must find their recipients who linger foolishly among Crassus’s ranks.”

  They bowed in assent, gathering the sealed messages.

  Next, Felix’s voice gained a sharper edge. “Then, spread through Ravenna’s streets. Encourage every man, fit enough to hold a spear or wear armor, to volunteer. Orestes and the emperor have asked for militias to bolster the city walls until the Eastern Roman forces arrive. Remind the people that the Church stands with them. Tell them we shall not let these dark days break our spirit. Let them see we are the guiding light in this time of terror.”

  A ripple of determination passed among the deacons. They assured him they would do so. After their reverent bows, they hurried off, tasks in hand, leaving Felix alone once more.

  The bishop exhaled, standing motionless by his desk. The smell of drying ink and the faint smoke of half-melted candles filled the small chamber. Already, his mind churned with how best to harness these tragedies to strengthen the Church’s standing.

  They have forced my hand. But in forcing it, they have united the faithful under me. The Church will endure these horrors—and we shall emerge even stronger. In God’s name, let it be so.

  His gaze flicked to the window, where the sun climbed higher over the rooftops of embattled Ravenna. The city’s walls bristled with soldiers—some fervent believers, others mere conscripts. All would need solace and courage. Felix, for now, would give them both, knowing full well that in the ashes of war, the Church’s influence could rise anew.

  And so, with his letters penned, his deacons dispatched, and a new iron resolve in his chest, Bishop Felix made ready to face the trials that lay ahead—determined to prove that neither Vandals in Africa, nor Odoacer at Ravenna’s gates, nor any other devil unleashed upon the West could ever truly snuff out the flame that burned in the Church’s heart.

  Lepidus had only a heartbeat’s warning before he glimpsed Crassus striding past the torchlit tents, flanked by a tight knot of Palatini guards. A low rumble of angry voices rippled ahead of him, men stepping aside with grim, apprehensive looks. The gloom of the encampment flickered red under torch and brazier, throwing harsh shadows across tense faces. Pollio, standing beside Lepidus, gripped his arm.

  “Do you see his eyes?” Pollio whispered urgently. “He’s in no mood for reason.”

  Lepidus forced down the tremor in his gut. “We’d better catch him before he does something we’ll all regret.”

  They hurried after Crassus, stumbling over loose stones and piled gear. The sound of iron-shod boots pounded the earth, echoing Lepidus’s own pounding heart. That morning’s uneasy news still rang in his mind: the priests and bishops traveling with Crassus had stormed off, outraged by rumors that Germanic troops loyal to Odoacer had ravaged chapels and slaughtered clergy in Ravenna. Worse still, new letters from Bishop Felix accused Crassus of enabling these atrocities. Such claims had led many within the Church to abruptly withdraw their support. The political blow was immense. And the emperor— Crassus—was now set to march right into Odoacer’s command tent, demanding answers.

  A sour knot twisted Lepidus’s stomach. Just days ago, the road to Ravenna seemed straightforward; the Church itself had seemed ready to endorse Crassus as the rightful emperor. Now, that once-golden alliance wavered like a crumbling parapet.

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  They caught up to Crassus precisely as he reached Odoacer’s tent. A pair of guards in Odoacer’s livery glowered, uncertain whether to bar the way or stand aside. Swords were half-drawn. Crassus’s own Palatini, a dozen grim-faced men in polished mail, were arrayed around him like iron wolves.

  Lepidus cleared his throat and stepped forward. “My lord,” he said, breathless, forcing a semblance of calm into his voice. “Perhaps we should—”

  Crassus shook him off with a jerk of the shoulder, pushing past and ducking through the tent flap without ceremony. Lepidus and Pollio exchanged a look and followed.

  Inside, the tent was lit by hanging lanterns and a brazier that glowed with half-spent coals. Odoacer stood in his breastplate near a folding campaign table, a map weighed down by daggers. His key advisors stiffened at Crassus’s abrupt intrusion. Tension crackled like a bowstring pulled tight.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Odoacer demanded, voice low and measured. But the flicker in his eyes betrayed growing impatience.

  Crassus didn’t bother with formalities. His fist clenched around a parchment he brandished at Odoacer’s face. “The meaning,” he growled, “is that the Church—which was supporting MY claim to the empire—now accuses me and you”—he nearly spat the word— “of destroying our faith. So they have revoked their backing. All because of letters from Ravenna, from Bishop Felix himself, claiming we sacked churches, killed priests, and butchered innocent folk on holy ground.”

  Odoacer’s jaw flexed. “You presume I ordered such butchery,” he said coldly, “but where is the proof?”

  Crassus flung the parchment onto the table, its edges curling under the brazier’s heat. “Right here!” he barked, voice raw with fury. “Bishop Felix’s own words detail the atrocities. And now these clergymen who traveled with me say it’s my fault for consorting with you. They left—gone. Gone! Our best chance at legitimizing my rule… vanished!”

  Lepidus stepped forward, swallowing his nerves. “My lords, if I might—”

  “Be silent, Lepidus,” Crassus snapped, pivoting on him with a glare so fierce it threatened to set Lepidus’s stomach churning. “You see what’s happened? All our carefully built alliances undone in a stroke, because your men”—he aimed a finger at Odoacer— “can’t keep their swords sheathed or their torches out of chapels!”

  A rigid hush filled the space. Pollio stood at Lepidus’s side, plainly uneasy. Odoacer’s retinue shifted, dark eyes flicking between Crassus’s Palatini and their own weapons. Lepidus’s heart hammered, expecting violence to ignite at any moment.

  Odoacer inhaled slowly, measured, as though restraining himself. “You have no evidence tying my vanguard to the crimes in Ravenna. Did you see them burn these churches with your own eyes? Where are the witnesses? If Bishop Felix claims it, let him prove it.”

  Crassus let out a harsh bark of laughter, the parchment rattling in his fist. “You call the bishop a liar? Will you stand here and deny a man who commands the faith of our people? Felix doesn’t write such charges lightly!”

  Odoacer’s mouth twitched in exasperation. “I call him presumptive,” he retorted. “He knows there’s chaos on all sides. Orestes’s men are as likely to have burned those chapels as any of my own. Perhaps these atrocities were carried out by our own foe. We are in a time of shifting loyalties. Anyone can wear Germanic clothes, or blame them. It proves nothing.”

  Crassus stared, momentarily stunned at Odoacer’s indifference. Lepidus felt that same icy shock: Odoacer was, in effect, brushing aside the bishop’s accusations as if they were no more than rumors. As though the violent loss of sacred places and lives was simply… questionable. Pollio’s eyes darted to Lepidus, silently conveying the same alarm.

  “So the bishop simply invented these claims, then?” Lepidus ventured carefully. “Surely, Dux Odoacer, you realize how grave this is. If the Church truly believes we are slaughtering priests, we stand on the edge of condemnation… excommunication. That is catastrophic.”

  “It would be,” Odoacer allowed, brow creasing. “But excommunication must be based on facts, not rumors.” His eyes snapped to Crassus. “If the priests left you, that is their choice. Am I to beg them to return? No. They will see sense—or not. The truth is that Orestes remains a bigger threat than any bishop’s letter. I have an army to feed and a battle to win.”

  “You arrogant—” Crassus’s breath hissed through clenched teeth. Lepidus saw Pollio stiffen, ready to step between them if fists flew. The emperor’s cheeks darkened with rage. “Did you not hear me? The CHURCH has withdrawn support. The men are talking; the rumor’s already spreading like plague among the ranks. Bishops accusing us— accusing me—of letting you and your Germans run rampant, desecrating our faith. This undercuts my claim to be the rightful emperor. Without the Church’s blessing, half the troops might desert.”

  He drew closer, practically nose-to-nose with Odoacer. The tension was suffocating. Lepidus’s spine crawled with dread.

  Odoacer bracing a hand on the table’s edge. “Then we shall remedy it,” he said, voice taut with simmering frustration. “But if you want me to prostrate myself before every bishop who’s decided to run crying back to Rome, you are mistaken. I have a war to fight. Let them see reason or let them stay away.”

  Crassus drew in a ragged breath, trembling with suppressed fury. “Remedy? You speak so casually of remedy. We are losing supporters by the hour—both from the Church and from our own men who fear damnation. Do you not understand the stakes?”

  Lepidus dared to step forward, laying a cautious hand on Crassus’s arm. “Caesar,” he said gently, “the bishop’s departure is a dire blow. But we cannot solve it here by tearing each other apart. Perhaps the best course is to send an envoy—someone from your circle, or from Odoacer’s command—to Bishop Felix. Offer to investigate these accusations. Prove our innocence, or at least show we’re willing to address the issue. The Church might reconsider before fully breaking ties.”

  Odoacer exhaled sharply, flicking an annoyed glance at Lepidus. “That is well and good, Senator,” he said, letting the word roll off his tongue with forced courtesy, “but let me remind you, time is short.”

  Crassus’s glare flickered from Odoacer to Lepidus, and for one heart-stopping second Lepidus feared the emperor might lash out physically. But then Crassus jerked away, running a hand through his hair as though vainly trying to calm himself. A hush fell, broken only by the rustle of tent canvas in the wind.

  “This is madness,” Crassus muttered, his voice shaking with frustration. “It was supposed to be simple: march to Ravenna, have the Church crown me, dethrone that whelp Romulus, and push Orestes aside. Then unify the legions under one banner. But instead, scandal after scandal. The priests have deserted me, half the camp is whispering of a sin-stained cause, and my partner in arms shrugs it off like it’s beneath him.” His gaze bored into Odoacer. “You— you will fix this. I don’t care how. Announce a vow to punish anyone who laid a finger on the Church’s property. Donate gold to rebuild those chapels. Something.”

  Odoacer’s lips tightened. “Very well,” he said at last, an edge of reluctance in his voice. “I’ll make a statement that any atrocities done in my name were without my command. I’ll vow to investigate and punish the guilty. But I’m not kneeling before Felix or letting him presume to rule the army.” He cast a sidelong glare at Lepidus. “Happy?”

  Lepidus let out a shaky breath. “We should do it swiftly, before rumor spreads further.”

  Odoacer gave a curt nod. “We are done here,” he declared, turning to Crassus. “And you— perhaps you should rest, Emperor. Cool your temper. Your rage is unbefitting the man who claims the throne.”

  Crassus’s eyes blazed at the jibe, but Odoacer had already turned away, dismissing him. Insulted, the emperor clenched his fists, for a moment looking like he might lunge. But Lepidus and Pollio both stepped in, gently but firmly steering him back toward the tent entrance.

  “Caesar, let us get some air,” Pollio coaxed. “Allow the Dux time to draft his statement.”

  Crassus whirled, cloak snapping, and stormed out. His Palatini guard followed, confusion mingled with lingering anger on their faces. Lepidus and Pollio hastened after him, hearts pounding.

  Outside, the camp was no less tense. The sky hung low, clouds hiding the stars, and the smell of sweat and smoldering torches thickened the air. Crassus’s rage propelled him onward, scattering a few startled soldiers. Finally, he paused near a half-burnt brazier, breathing heavily.

  “Damn him,” he growled, voice hoarse. “Damn him and that bishop too. We needed the Church’s blessing. Now they flee. We’re left looking like devils in Roman armor.”

  “Yes,” Lepidus ventured, trying to keep his own alarm at bay, “it’s dire. But all is not lost. This can still be salvaged. Odoacer claims he’ll remedy it, if only to keep the army from fracturing. Let’s lean on that.”

  Crassus shoved a hand through his hair. “If Odoacer fails, we sink further. If the Church publicly declares me a collaborator in sacrilege, do you realize what that does to my legitimacy?”

  Lepidus nodded, a cold weight settling in his gut. “I do. And so does the camp—fear is spreading. We must show them we have a plan. Let Pollio and me handle small councils with the officers. We’ll quell the worst rumors. You focus on ensuring Odoacer fulfills his promise. We cannot appear divided.”

  Crassus’s anger still shone in his eyes, but a measure of reason began to filter back. He nodded roughly, throwing the parchment from Felix to the ground. It fluttered, half crumpled. “Go,” he muttered. “Do what you must.”

  Lepidus bowed stiffly, relief mingling with a dread he couldn’t shake. “Yes, Emperor.”

  Pollio and Lepidus withdrew, allowing Crassus and his guard to disperse. As they walked side by side, Pollio let out a long, trembling breath. “That was nearly a bloodbath,” he said in a hushed tone, eyes darting around to ensure no eavesdroppers heard. “I’ve never seen Crassus so enraged.”

  Lepidus tried to steady his own breathing, forcing a thin, humorless smile. “He has every reason. The Church was our grand pillar of support. If that’s gone, half the impetus behind his claim crumbles.”

  They passed rows of tents where men huddled in worried conversation. Snatches of talk reached Lepidus’s ears—some condemning Odoacer’s rumored brutality, others doubting Crassus’s leadership. Whispers of excommunication drifted in the gloom, each word laced with anxious speculation.

  Back in Lepidus’s own tent—a cramped affair smelling of damp wool and lamp smoke—he and Pollio all but collapsed onto low stools. The canvas walls muffled the restless clamors outside: men muttering, armor clinking, the occasional bark of an officer’s command. The two senators exchanged a long look in the lantern’s flickering glow.

  “We are losing ground,” Lepidus said grimly, leaning forward, elbows on knees. “When the Church deserts you, when your co-commander dismisses your demands, what remains? Our fortunes hang by a single fraying thread.”

  Pollio paced, his sandals dragging in the dust. “Don’t say that.” But his pinched features betrayed a similar dread. “Crassus still has some troops who adore him—he’s given OUR gold, promised them lands. Odoacer’s men, for all his arrogance, will hesitate to abandon him if he pays them well. We aren’t beaten yet.”

  A pause lingered, heavy with unspoken tension. Finally, Lepidus let out a careful breath and spoke quietly—so quietly that Pollio had to lean in. “We could try to switch sides,” he suggested, forcing the words past his tightening throat. “Reach out to Orestes. Or even to Romulus directly. Offer them…some arrangement. For the good of Rome, Pollio, not just ourselves.”

  Pollio’s head snapped up. “What?”

  “Hear me,” Lepidus hissed. He cast a hurried glance at the tent flap, wary of eavesdroppers. “This was never about Crassus alone. We wanted stability—an emperor the Church recognized, a chance to restore order without Orestes’s heavy-handed rule. But now the Church has turned on Crassus, and Odoacer scorns every entreaty. We teeter on the brink of failure.”

  “You think Orestes would welcome us with open arms?” Pollio’s voice held a bitter edge. “We’ve spent weeks, months, undermining him. Rousing support for Crassus, making deals to prop up this new claim. And now that it’s shaky, you propose we crawl to Orestes and Romulus, begging them to accept our contrition?”

  Lepidus grimaced, raking a hand through his hair. “It isn’t contrition, it’s necessity. They may well welcome an accord, given how precarious their own situation is. Orestes fights on two fronts: the Church might back him for the moment, but he’s not without problems—lack of money, war-weariness, half of Italy in turmoil. Perhaps we could broker a bargain—help them end this swiftly. Present ourselves as mediators, or liaisons. Maybe the boy-emperor would value senatorial counsel. If it spares us and our interests…”

  Pollio’s eyes narrowed. “And you truly think Crassus would just forgive us if we get caught sending secret feelers? We’d be labeled traitors. Or Odoacer might string us up to make an example.”

  A shudder trembled through Lepidus’s shoulders. “I don’t relish it. But staying here—pinning our future on Crassus’s battered ambitions—may be an even bigger gamble. Without the Church, he’s a sword with no scabbard. And Odoacer—he’s as likely to depose Crassus at the city gates as he is to help him seize Ravenna. Where does that leave us?”

  For a moment, neither spoke. Outside, voices rose—footsteps scuffling in the darkness—and then receded. Lepidus and Pollio both leaned closer in, as though the walls themselves might betray their secrets.

  Pollio broke the hush with a low snort of derision. “I’m not ready to crawl on my belly. We’ve spent too much coin, too many promises, to just slink away now. If we jump ship, we’d need a guarantee of new patronage from Orestes—and he is not known for his mercy. He might simply toss us aside or punish us out of spite.”

  Lepidus lifted his gaze, voice wavering. “There must be a path, Pollio. We can’t stand here in the sinking mud, hoping Crassus’s luck turns. The Church’s desertion is a mortal wound to his cause. Surely you see that.”

  “I do,” Pollio admitted, softer this time. He rubbed his forehead. “But consider this: the siege hasn’t even begun. Orestes and Romulus are holed up in Ravenna, yes, but if Crassus and Odoacer unite their forces—even if they’re uneasy allies—the advantage is still on our side. Let them storm the city walls and let fear spread. Then Orestes might be the one begging for terms. Our position could become very strong indeed.”

  “We’re senators, Lepidus, not saints. We maneuver to keep ourselves afloat. If Orestes and Romulus are brought to their knees, imagine how grateful they’ll be for any clemency we offer. Or, if Crassus somehow re-courts the Church—through bribery, or Odoacer’s ‘remedy’—he might yet salvage this claim. Then we, who stood loyal, will reap the benefits.”

  Lepidus leaned back, staring at the flickering lantern flame. His thoughts churned. Pollio wasn’t wrong—political fortunes could reverse with a single victory, or a single rumor. The Church’s condemnation might turn out to be less final than it seemed, especially if Odoacer crafted a public gesture of contrition. Felix might pivot again. Or, if the siege forced Orestes to desperate measures, he might lose the Church’s confidence in turn.

  A rattle at the tent entrance made them both stiffen. A soldier’s voice murmured from outside, “Senator Lepidus? The Emperor requests your presence at his tent.”

  Lepidus exchanged a quick, apprehensive look with Pollio. He rose, swallowing. “We’ll speak more on this later,” he whispered. “But I’m not convinced clinging to this side is wise.”

  “And I’m not convinced baring our throats to Orestes is wise,” Pollio returned, hushed. “We are senators of Rome, Lepidus. We mustn’t crawl, we must bargain—only from a position of strength.”

  Lepidus inclined his head, lips set in a thin line. Then he cleared his throat and called out, “Coming!” to the soldier beyond. Before stepping out, he spared Pollio a final glance. Despite their disagreement, a flicker of mutual understanding passed between them: survival, above all else.

  Pollio gave a curt nod. “Keep Crassus calm. Let’s see if Odoacer’s grand ‘remedy’ does anything.”

  “Stay safe,” Lepidus said.

  With that, Lepidus slipped through the tent flap into the torchlit gloom, the soldier guiding him away. Inside, Pollio sank onto a stool once more, running a hand down his face. Though he radiated outward confidence, inside he felt the same dread Lepidus voiced. For all their talk of strategy and waiting, the ground truly was crumbling under their feet. And if fortunes didn’t shift soon, they might well find themselves forced to do the very crawling Pollio so despised.

  But that was a matter for tomorrow’s conflict, tomorrow’s scheming. Tonight, he would steel his resolve—and watch for any chance that might tip the scales in their favor. Because, senator or not, only the cunning survived in these ever-changing times. And Pollio had no intention of being left behind when the next tide of power swept across Italy.

  Odoacer stood seething in his own command tent that same night, the torchlight flickering red across the canvas walls and his tense features. Outside, a cool wind carried the distant hum of restless soldiers. Inside, the air felt stifling, charged with his barely contained fury. Before him stood two of his most trusted Germanic captains—Gundabad, heir to the Burgundian kingship, and Wulfgar, a stout warrior of proven loyalty. Both looked unsteady under Odoacer’s glare.

  “You dare stand there,” Odoacer snarled, slamming a fist onto the folding table, rattling the map pinned by daggers, “and tell me you didn’t know what your men were about? Tell me how on God’s earth we have a burned chapel, a murdered priest, and slaughtered innocents—old folk and devout worshippers alike. Answer me!”

  His voice was low, but it cut through the tent like a whetted blade. Gundabad’s jaw tensed, the cords of his neck visible beneath fair hair that brushed his shoulders. Wulfgar kept his eyes on the ground, hands clasped before him as though in penance.

  Gundabad spoke first, each word deliberate. “Dux, my men—my father’s men—are under strict orders to keep discipline. I can’t imagine they’d—”

  “Spare me your disbelief!” Odoacer snapped. “I’ve got half the camp believing we’re turned to devils. The Church is up in arms; Crassus howls in my ear. And all because someone under MY banner decided it was a fine idea to butcher priests in the night.”

  A muscle ticked in Gundabad’s cheek. Anger simmered in his eyes, but he held himself in check. “I was told it might’ve been a few drunk raiders, men newly joined from the ragged tribes near the Alps—”

  “I don’t care if they crawled from Hades itself,” Odoacer growled. “They fought under our standard. They wore our oath-bands. And now the blame is on all of us. Do you realize what you’ve done? Or, more precisely, what you’ve allowed?”

  Silence fell. The brazier’s glow cast harsh shadows on Odoacer’s face as he leaned closer, voice turning dangerously soft. “Gundabad, you wish to be king of the Burgundians one day, once your father passes? Tell me why I shouldn’t regret placing the slightest trust in you.”

  A flash of insult burned in Gundabad’s eyes. He straightened. “You need not regret it,” he said, his voice shaking with constrained fury. “The men responsible will be found. If they’re of my tribe, they’ll pay in blood.”

  Odoacer’s gaze shifted to Wulfgar. “And you, Wulfgar—your troops roam the perimeter. Did none see or hear this ‘chapel burning’? No alarm, no interference?”

  Wulfgar drew a breath, glanced at Gundabad, then spoke. “We…didn’t know. Or at least, we had no reports of open attacks on a church. My watchmen claim they saw suspicious figures heading out of camp. By the time we realized, it was dawn.” He swallowed, adding with a firm nod, “We’ll make it right, Dux Odoacer.”

  “Damn right you will.” Odoacer’s eyes flicked from one to the other, anger coiling beneath every word. “By tomorrow noon, I want the perpetrators named and in chains—no, better yet, on the execution stand. Do you understand? Publicly. Before the city walls for all to see. If you fail…” His tone descended to a quiet menace. “Let’s just say we’ll find others to blame, and I won’t hesitate to see a Burgundian or two strung up if that’s what it takes.”

  Gundabad’s lips parted, a protest on the tip of his tongue—pride and rage warring behind his taut features. But he saw the lethal promise in Odoacer’s stare and forced himself to bite back whatever he was about to say. Instead, he ground out, “We will make sure the guilty pay.”

  Wulfgar dipped his head as well, his voice like gravel. “Yes, Dux. By tomorrow noon, the matter will be settled.”

  A tense silence hung in the tent. Odoacer’s breathing remained ragged, each exhale stoking the embers of his anger. Finally, he flicked a hand in sharp dismissal. “Go. Find them. Or face my wrath.”

  Gundabad clenched his fists at his sides, bowed stiffly—more an act of forced decorum than submission—then whirled to leave, Wulfgar close behind. The two men stepped out into the night, shoulders set with furious purpose.

  Alone now, Odoacer slumped onto a low stool. The brazier cast dancing shadows across his armor as he buried his face in his hands. What a day—Crassus’s endless tirades, the Church’s accusations, and now a new scandal that might tear his alliance apart. He pressed his palms against his throbbing temples.

  “This was supposed to be simpler,” he muttered, words muffled by his fingers. “March on Ravenna, dethrone Orestes, secure legitimacy. Instead…massacres, burnt churches, a meddlesome bishop riling half of Italy…”

  He drew in a shaky breath and forced himself upright, rolling tense shoulders as if he could cast off the burden of the night. A headache pounded against his skull, each pulse reminding him that dawn’s troubles would be no lighter.

  But the day was done—he’d yelled himself hoarse, threatened two of his most capable commanders, and promised a public execution by noon. Tomorrow, perhaps, would bring a remedy to this wretched situation. Or fresh disasters to blot out the old ones.

  “Let it end,” Odoacer murmured, half to the silent tent. He rose stiffly, snatched a skin of watered wine from the side table, and took a long, bitter pull. Its taste did little to soothe him. In the hush that followed, he contemplated his next steps. Placate Crassus, reassure the men, keep an eye on the senators—like Lepidus—who might scheme behind closed doors. All the while maintaining the veneer of control he so desperately needed.

  He rubbed his forehead, crossing toward his bedroll. It would be a short sleep, if any. Outside, the low chatter of soldiers drifted through the night. Odoacer shut his eyes, clinging to the faint hope that come tomorrow noon—when the guilty heads rolled—he might calm this storm of accusations.

  For now, all he had was a pounding headache and the grim knowledge that war rarely goes as planned. Yet he refused to yield. He was Odoacer, Leader of foederati, would-be the King of Italy soon. And if the cost of progress meant heads on spears, then so be it. He extinguished the lantern with a curt gesture, letting darkness claim him—praying, in vain, for just a scrap of peace before dawn’s unwelcome light.