31th of July, 476 AD

  Early morning in Ravenna’s private training yard found Romulus Augustus wrestling with a wooden sword, sweat stinging his eyes. His friend Lucan Severus—son of the famed Gaius Severus—stood across from him, similarly armed, though both boys were just eleven years old and a touch awkward in the weapons they wielded. A light mist clung to the edges of the courtyard, the sun not yet fully chasing away the lingering chill.

  “You look like you’re chasing flies,” Lucan teased, smirking. “Hold that sword lower. You keep swinging from above like it’s a broom.”

  Romulus huffed, struggling to catch his breath. “Easy for you to say—you nearly knocked your own feet out last time you tried that fancy spin.”

  “That was deliberate flair,” Lucan shot back, half-grinning. “I’d have dazzled any attacker into confusion.”

  Romulus laughed despite himself. They squared up again, raising wooden swords.

  Their mentor, Magnus—recently elevated to Comes of the Palatini—observed from a short distance. His new rank meant more duties, more of the empire’s burdens now resting on his shoulders. Even so, he insisted on overseeing Romulus and Lucan’s training whenever time allowed, wanting the emperor’s swordsmanship to progress and not slip away in the swirl of councils and marches. But that morning, he paced near the yard’s entrance, quietly conversing with a pair of Palatini soldiers about guard rotations.

  Lucan made a lunge; Romulus sidestepped, anticipating the move from countless hours together. Wooden swords clacked, echoing in the enclosed yard. Each misstep gave the other an opening to tease:

  “Your footwork’s sloppy,” Romulus snickered, catching Lucan’s blow on his cross-guard.

  Lucan rolled his eyes. “And your parry is slow as a donkey!”

  “Now, now,” came Magnus’s low voice from behind them, “if you two spent half as much energy on the form as you do on taunts, I might see real improvement.”

  They straightened instantly. “Yes, Comes Magnus,” they chorused, exchanging sheepish glances. Even after months under his supervision, a mild rebuke from Magnus could make them feel like raw recruits.

  Magnus handed off some parchments to the watching Palatini. “Meet me at the north gate after this. We’ll finalize the shifts.” The men saluted and left. Rubbing his chin, Magnus returned his attention to the boys. “All right. Again. Balance your stance, watch each other’s shoulders for tells, not the sword.”

  Romulus inhaled, trying to refocus—shaking off the playful banter and the swirl of worries in his head. As emperor, idle amusements were rare, but these brief training sessions with Lucan gave him precious normalcy.

  They began another sequence, each block and counterblow more deliberate. Lucan grinned, feinting left; Romulus caught on quick, pivoting to block. Pride flickered in the emperor’s chest. He might not be a natural swordsman, but at least he could hold his own against his friend.

  Just then, a horn blast rent the morning air. It echoed across the training yard, abruptly halting all practice. Lucan and Romulus froze, wooden swords half-raised, adrenaline sparking through them. Magnus’s posture stiffened, his soldier’s instincts awakened.

  “Something’s happening at the walls,” he muttered. He beckoned the boys to set aside their practice swords. “Come quickly—but keep behind me. We don’t know what awaits.”

  They hurried to the ramparts. Already, a crowd pressed near the crenellations: soldiers half-clad in armor, a few anxious townsfolk, militia men with spears. Some gave the emperor and Lucan space, stepping aside with murmurs of “Caesar,” but tension clung to every face.

  Magnus guided Romulus forward, one hand close to the boy’s shoulder. Lucan slipped in beside them, gaze darting around for any sign of danger. On the field outside Ravenna’s moat, a grim procession took shape: a line of a dozen men, wrists bound, ropes at their necks. Germanic warriors—Odoacer’s men—escorted them under the bold black banner of their leader.

  Romulus swallowed. Prisoners… but why parade them here, now?

  Lucan exhaled softly. “They look half-starved or beaten.”

  Magnus’s eyes narrowed. “Keep your wits about you. This might be a display—some twisted performance.”

  At that moment, a hush spread among the watchers. Soldiers parted to let Orestes, Magister Militum and Romulus’s father, step to the parapet. He carried himself with a steady confidence, scanning the plain with cold assessment. Romulus edged nearer, Lucan behind him, each acutely aware of Orestes’s presence.

  Then, from across the moat, a voice boomed—strong, commanding. Odoacer. The famed leader of the foederati, rumored to be cunning and fierce, reined in a tall horse. His armor glinted in the morning sun. Even at a distance, one could sense the aura that made him a near-legend among barbarian generals. He raised an arm, and behind him, horns sounded a resonant call.

  “Orestes! Ravenna!” Odoacer’s voice carried over the walls with surprising clarity. “Look upon these prisoners. They are the true butchers who burned your chapel and slew your priest. I name them thieves and outlaws—scum who hid in the shadows to blacken my reputation. But you see now, I have found them. I will not abide such crimes!”

  He gestured at the ragged captives. A wave of uncertainty spread among the watchers. Some looked relieved that someone was to blame for the heinous act, while others frowned, suspicious of Odoacer’s convenient “justice.”

  Then Odoacer turned his steely gaze upward, addressing the entire city. “My quarrel is not with innocents or the faithful. My quarrel is with Orestes—and his child emperor. Hear me: open your gates, and none shall be harmed. Any loyal Roman soldier who chooses me will be honored. But if you stand behind that dog Orestes and his puppet whelp—” his tone sharpened in scorn, “you will all face the consequences.”

  The challenge hung in the morning air. Romulus felt a surge of anger at being dismissed as a mere puppet, but a pang of fear too. He sensed Lucan’s posture tighten. Odoacer was formidable indeed.

  Orestes advanced to the edge of the parapet, cloak stirring in the breeze. A hush fell among the men on the wall; even Romulus found himself waiting for his father’s words.

  “Odoacer,” Orestes began, voice steady and carrying. “You brandish a line of hapless men, claiming they alone burned our chapel. Forgive us if we do not swoon at your benevolence. We know your horde. We have seen their cruelty.” His gaze swept the captive line with grim disdain. “Are these truly the guilty, or a show for your convenience? You cannot wash away blood with a single display.”

  Near Romulus, Lucan breathed out, “He’s not yielding an inch.” The boy emperor’s knuckles tightened on the parapet. This exchange would shape how the city perceived them both—Orestes’s strength, and Romulus’s role.

  Odoacer let out a harsh laugh. “You speak as though you are righteous, Orestes. Yet you cower behind Ravenna’s walls, propping up a child to wear the purple. At least I step forward in honesty. Watch, and see how I punish murder in my ranks.”

  The tension racked up another notch. A hush swelled in the crowd. Romulus’s heart pounded; he sensed the real horror about to break. Sure enough, Odoacer motioned sharply to his men. The first bound captive was hauled forward, forced to kneel.

  A soldier drew a heavy blade. Romulus’s breath hitched. They were about to publicly execute them. He half-turned to Lucan, who looked just as sick at the sight, then glimpsed Magnus stepping closer. “Caesar,” the Comes murmured, “you don’t have to watch—”

  But Romulus shook his head, voice strained. “No. I’m the emperor. I… I must see.”

  Beside him, Lucan swallowed, equally pale but resolute. They were both children, yet neither would turn away. So they watched as the sword fell, the captive’s life snuffed in one brutal stroke. Shocked cries erupted on the ramparts, a few men staggering back in revulsion. Romulus’s stomach churned, nails biting into his palms. Lucan’s fingers tensed on the parapet’s stone lip, eyes shining with anger.

  Odoacer’s voice echoed again, deeper with anger: “This is the fate of criminals in my ranks. And so shall any who stand with that dog Orestes face my wrath!” He let his gaze sweep the stunned defenders. “Ravenna, you have until tomorrow to open your gates. If you do not, I will spare no one who stands in my path!”

  He turned abruptly, the rest of the prisoners dragged off, some half-screaming. Blood stained the dirt where the first two had fallen, a sickening reminder of Odoacer’s power. Slowly, the watchers found their voices—fear, outrage, curses filling the air.

  Orestes, shaking with fury, raised his own voice, summoning enough composure to address the city. “Ravenna!” he boomed, “look at this so-called justice. Odoacer tries to terrify us with a single savage act, but we know better! We have seen their cruelty. We stand behind our rightful emperor, Romulus Augustus—young, but not so callow as to be swayed by butchers’ threats. If Odoacer thinks to break us with violence, he underestimates Roman resolve!”

  A scattered cheer went up, men banging spears on shields. Some turned to cast glances at Romulus, gauging his reaction. Romulus straightened, ignoring the queasy feeling in his gut. Lucan placed a reassuring hand on his arm for a moment, and Romulus mustered a nod to show he was all right.

  Odoacer and his escort receded, the black banner vanishing into the sprawl of tents beyond the moat. Silence settled on the walls again, thick with dread. Slowly, the watchers began to disperse, muttering prayers or bitter vows of vengeance.

  Magnus exhaled, dropping a protective arm from Romulus’s shoulder. “We’d best return to the courtyard, Caesar. The men need to see you strong, not shaken.”

  Romulus forced his knees not to buckle. “Yes,” he said quietly, glancing at Lucan, who gave him a small, steady smile in return. They were still just two eleven-year-olds, hearts racing with the horror they had witnessed. But they had faced it together.

  As they moved back down the steps, Orestes lingered on the ramparts above, rousing the defenders further, stoking their indignation. From below, Romulus could still hear the echoes of his father’s commanding voice calling the city to stand firm. He truly can sway a crowd, Romulus thought with a touch of pride.

  Lucan leaned in, whispering, “That was… horrifying. Are you all right?”

  Romulus closed his eyes briefly, exhaling. “I’ll manage,” he said. “At least… we saw how Odoacer tries to intimidate us. We can’t show fear now.”

  Lucan agreed, offering Romulus a faint nudge of encouragement. “We’ll prove him wrong.”

  Magnus escorted them across the courtyard, which teemed with anxious soldiers exchanging rumors. And though Romulus’s stomach still twisted with the memory of that execution, he lifted his chin, determined to show no weakness. He was the emperor, after all—and if Odoacer’s cruelty was meant to terrify him, he would not let it succeed.

  Up ahead, Palatini officers turned to see him approach, bowing their heads respectfully. Magnus nodded to them, half-distracted as he fielded urgent questions about watch rotations and city defenses. His new position demanded constant attention, but he still kept Romulus in sight at all times—an unwavering shield to the boy emperor.

  Lucan caught Romulus’s eye. “Tomorrow,” he murmured, “he said we have until tomorrow. We’ll train again, yeah?”

  Romulus nodded, half smiling despite the gloom. “Yes. Let’s do better next time. No more sloppy footwork from you.”

  Lucan smirked. “Only if you promise to stop flailing like a broom.”

  The faint exchange of banter softened the day’s horrors for a heartbeat, a reminder that for all their responsibilities, they were still kids trying to hold on to fragments of normalcy. Then they pressed onward into the labyrinth of anxious faces—two boys bound by friendship amid an empire on the brink, refusing to cede to Odoacer’s threats or the crushing expectations swirling around them.

  Titus Servianus trudged at the head of the foraging party, spear clutched in hands that still felt unnatural around a weapon. His back ached from the constant marching, but he hardly noticed. A deeper worry gnawed at him: he’d left Claudia and the children behind with the main host. Though that meant they were safer—and would not endure the risks of a roving levy—it also meant he had no way to watch over them. The separation tightened a knot of dread in his chest.

  The Palatini optio leading this expedition had rounded up about a hundred conscripts—most, like Titus, were forcibly enlisted from the poorer quarters of cities. Their job was simple: scour the countryside for whatever provisions they could lay hands on. Simple in theory, anyway. In practice, it felt like a fool’s errand.

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  “They say half the villages out here have been evacuated,” muttered a gangly fellow named Manius, trudging close to Titus. “We’ll be lucky to scrape up a sack of beans.”

  Titus gave a grim nod. Rumors abounded that Emperor Romulus’s men had ordered all open settlements cleared, forcing residents and supplies to retreat behind fortified walls. The handful of hamlets their foraging party had passed so far had been all but empty, yielding only a few handfuls of dried vegetables. Disheartening hardly covered it.

  At the column’s front, the optio—a tall, stern-faced man wearing the polished crest of a Palatini—butted in. “Keep your spacing!” he barked over his shoulder. “And eyes open. Any sign of a hidden barn or storehouse, we check it.”

  A few ragged “Yes, Optio” replies followed, but most men trudged in half-disorganized clumps. The levy lacked discipline: they had no strict formation, no real bond beyond desperation. The soldier in charge was outnumbered if it came to a mutiny, but none here believed deserting was any safer, with warlords and bandits prowling every road.

  Titus slung his spear across his shoulder. His mind strayed again to Claudia and the children, far behind with the main army’s baggage train. Despite the meager rations there, at least they might get a morsel from the army’s stores if the foraging parties succeeded. No matter how exhausting this is, he reminded himself, I must bring back something for them.

  The path dipped into a shallow valley, where an overgrown orchard stood neglected, branches picked bare by whoever came before them. The men paused to inspect the trees, turning up only shriveled fruit and a few rotting apples.

  “Worthless,” muttered Tullus, another conscript, spitting seeds in the dirt. “Everything’s gone. They must’ve cleared this orchard days ago.”

  Before morale could slip further, the optio strode up, pointing at a pair of older villagers hobbling from a run-down hut near the orchard’s edge. “You—there!” he shouted, marching over. “Where’s the food hidden?”

  Titus followed, though he felt uneasy at the sight of the old man and woman, leaning on each other for balance. Their faces were worn by fear.

  “We have nothing,” the old man croaked. “Everyone else is gone to safer walls. We’re too old to make the journey. The orchard was stripped bare. Please—leave us be.”

  The optio hissed in frustration, turning back to the men. “Again, nothing. Another worthless stop.”

  Titus could feel the tension in the group: hollow eyes peered around, some men cursing under their breath. One or two looked at the hut with a glint of desperation, as though even old planks might hide a sack of grain. But the old villagers repeated they had none, and after a few minutes of fruitless rummaging, the levy moved on.

  By late afternoon, they reached a crossroads, where the half-broken signpost was scrawled with unfamiliar letters. The optio consulted with a pair of local guides—sullen youths forcibly brought along to show them the roads—until at last, word trickled through the ranks:

  “There’s a walled village,” someone said. “Bigger settlement, might be an estate or minor fortress, not too far from here.”

  A ripple of uneasy hope ran through the men. Walled settlements typically meant more robust stockpiles of food. Or, at least, that was the rumor. If there were supplies, maybe they could forcibly bargain for some. Titus’s pulse quickened: This might be our chance. He dreaded the notion of conflict, but feeding his family meant pushing on.

  “Form up,” the optio ordered, though “forming up” translated to men huddling in ragged lines. “We march there. Keep pace, or get left behind.”

  Titus drew a breath, steel in his resolve. He wondered how Claudia was faring at the main camp—hungry, worried. If he brought back a measure of grain or dried pulses, perhaps they’d feed more than just his loved ones. Let this walled village hold something, or all this is for naught, he prayed silently.

  By dusk, the levy approached a slope from which the palisade loomed, a silhouette against the darkening sky. Timber walls circled a cluster of buildings, faint torchlight flickering at intervals. The optio raised his hand to halt the group. Titus felt weariness radiating from every man; sweaty brows, drooping shoulders, half-limping steps. But the prospect of hidden stores urged them forward.

  The optio and a handful of bolder souls advanced within bowshot of the gate. Titus stood near enough to overhear the exchange. The optio bellowed, “We come in the name of Emperor Crassus, the true ruler of the Empire! We need food—grain, salted meat, anything you can spare. Open up, or we’ll take it ourselves if we must!”

  No immediate answer came from the walls. Then an arrow hissed overhead, missing them by a yard. Someone atop the gate barked an order for them to back off. The levy stirred nervously, some reaching for shields, though they had pitifully few.

  After a beat, a voice from the rampart shouted, “We have nothing for you. Begone, or we’ll fill the moat with your corpses. We won’t feed any part of Crassus’s rabble!”

  Grumbles shot through the men. “They’re lying,” Tullus hissed. “They must have something locked in those barns.”

  “Sure they do,” Manius added, eyes narrowed. “Civilians ran here for safety, so supplies have to be inside.”

  The optio glowered at the gate. “If they won’t open, we might have to break in.” But he hesitated, scanning the battered levy behind him. They had neither siege gear nor discipline—only desperation. Forcing a breach could lead to slaughter, especially if the settlement was well-defended.

  Titus’s stomach twisted. He pictured the horrors if they tried a midnight assault: men climbing or hacking at walls, arrows raining down, and the unstoppable cycle of violence. But if they retreated empty-handed, then what? Return to Crassus’s main host with not even a single cart of grain. Another standoff with no easy answer.

  Night fell swiftly, and the optio pulled the men into a makeshift camp just out of arrow range. A few campfires sprang up, flickering dull orange in the gloom. The hundred levy members gathered in clusters, exhaustion worn on their faces.

  Titus sank onto a splintered log, resting the spear across his knees. Thoughts of Claudia and the children at the distant main host tugged at him. I promised I’d find something. So far, we have nothing but a near-empty orchard and bitter stares from behind a palisade.

  He overheard pockets of conversation: some men proposed sneaking up after midnight to test the gate. Others suggested waiting until morning to see if the villagers softened. The optio paced between fires, torn between forging ahead and risking heavy losses or turning back with no spoils. Titus guessed he’d choose the latter eventually, if only to avoid a bloodbath.

  A pang of hunger cramped Titus’s belly. He rummaged for a stale crust of bread saved from the last meager ration and chewed it slowly, mind drifting to the images of his children—Secunda’s shy smile, Gaius’s determined face, Felix’s wide, curious eyes. They, too, would be going hungry in the main camp. He clenched a fist. We can’t just give up…

  A soldier slumped beside him, letting out a weary sigh. “This entire campaign’s madness. Crassus doesn’t care if we starve. Odoacer roams the land like a wolf, and Romulus’s men take all the supplies before we get anywhere.” He laughed bitterly. “What’s left for us to scrounge, eh?”

  Titus offered a faint nod. “I just want to feed my family,” he murmured. “But we’re hitting walls at every turn—literally.”

  The soldier gave him a tired pat on the shoulder, as if to say We’re all in this together. Then he moved off, leaving Titus alone in the dim glow of the fire.

  Somewhere above, the silhouettes of villagers— or defenders—watched from behind the palisade, their torches bobbing. Titus wondered if they, too, were afraid. They might just be ordinary folk with a stash of provisions, terrified an army would plunder them. Perhaps they’d been ordered to close the gates, or risk having everything stolen.

  Night deepened, the foraging party’s lines thinning out as men dozed off in restless piles. The optio set a cursory watch, pacing with a scowl. Titus lay back, using the dull handle of his spear as a pillow. His mind whirled with anxiety: Will the main host manage better? Will Claudia, the children get at least a ladle of grain?

  His eyelids sagged from the day’s march, but sleep refused to come easily. In the silence, all he could do was stare at the faint shape of those walls, half-lit by distant torches, and wonder if dawn would bring a chance at negotiation—or another fruitless retreat. He dared to hope the gates might open, that some compromise would let them walk away with a cart or two of precious flour.

  For them, he reminded himself, gripping the shaft of the spear. I do this for them. If it meant another day of fruitless searching, another confrontation, so be it. Because in a world locked in the jaws of warlords and generals, Titus’s only real cause was feeding his family and returning to them alive. Everything else—Crassus’s grand claims, the illusions of empire—felt hollow. Survival was all that mattered.

  But morning did not bring any relief. The walls of that stubborn village stayed firmly shut, no friendly voices emerging to bargain or negotiate. Titus awoke to the dull clamor of men stirring from an uncomfortable sleep, rubbing bleary eyes and nursing stiff limbs. A grim hush fell over the group as the optio surveyed the ramparts, hoping perhaps for a newly raised white flag or a gate cracked ajar. None appeared.

  “Damn it,” muttered Tullus under his breath, rising from a threadbare cloak he’d used as bedding. “We’re no better off than last night.”

  Titus glanced at the gate in silent agreement. If anything, the tension had only grown. He sensed that the villagers behind those walls felt emboldened now, certain the levy lacked the will or means to force entry. A smoldering frustration ran through the foraging party’s ranks. They were hungry, exhausted, and leaving with nothing.

  “Form up!” the optio commanded, though his voice was subdued, as if already resigned to the day’s disappointment. “We’ll try once more to parley from a distance. If they won’t talk, we leave.”

  The men trudged toward the palisade, weapons half-raised in sullen threat. In daylight’s sharper view, Titus noticed more silhouettes along the rampart—armed villagers, watching them with open hostility.

  “Open your gates,” the optio called, not quite as loud this time, “or at least let us purchase rations with what coin we have. Don’t make us—”

  He broke off. From a nearby hill to the east, riders appeared: a dozen or so cavalry, banners fluttering. Titus stiffened, along with the others in the foraging party. Keen eyes recognized the insignia from a distance—a stylized golden eagle on a crimson field. They were from Romulus’s forces, the rumored reformed cavalry that prowled the roads. The men around Titus exchanged fearful glances; stories abounded of foraging parties ambushed by swift horsemen wearing the child emperor’s sigil.

  As if on cue, the watchers atop the palisade called out more confidently, apparently emboldened by the cavalry’s sudden presence. A volley of warnings rang over the rampart. Arrows were notched, though none were loosed just yet. It was enough for the optio to realize they were badly outmatched: not only was the village well defended, but now these riders from Romulus’s faction lingered like vultures on the hillside.

  “Fall back,” the optio snapped, his jaw tight with frustration. “We can’t fight cavalry and a walled settlement with this lot.”

  The foraging party retreated with haste, curses under their breath as they left empty-handed. Titus’s heart thudded anxiously while he scanned the horizon. The men walked in a haphazard route, hoping to avoid leading the cavalry toward their main camp. But the horsemen followed at a distance, clearly monitoring them. Each turn of the path they took, the riders shifted to match it. No quick escape. Even so, the levy pressed on.

  It was past noon by the time an unexpected sight of other riders emerged—ones bearing Odoacer’s banner. The two cavalry patrols—Romulus’s on one side, Odoacer’s on the other—exchanged a tense stare from afar. The foraging party, in the middle, felt the shift of advantage: the presence of Odoacer’s men seemed enough to discourage Romulus’s cavalry from further pursuit. Gradually, the crimson-bannered riders drifted back, melting into the distance. The entire levy exhaled in relief, for at least they were no longer being shadowed by a superior foe.

  They trudged a few more hours, fatigue grinding their spirits. Finally, with the sun dipping low, they reached Crassus’s main camp—a sprawling canvas of tents, fires, and hungry faces. Titus nearly collapsed with weariness, his mind reeling at how little they’d accomplished.

  The optio gave them a cursory dismissal. “Set down your arms and see to your rations—what’s left of them,” he muttered. “I’ll make my report to the Emperor’s officers.” And with that, he stomped off.

  Titus wove through the maze of tents, searching for the familiar corner where he and Claudia had staked a crude patch of ground. Relief flooded him when he spotted her standing outside their worn tent cloth. She caught sight of him, face lighting with cautious joy.

  “Titus!” she breathed, darting forward. Her eyes scanned him from head to toe—dirty, exhausted, but alive. He pulled her into a tight hug, ignoring the dull ache in his shoulders.

  “Claudia… are you all right?” he asked, voice shaking with relief. “And the children?”

  She nodded, a flicker of a smile rising to her lips. “We’re fine, we’re fine. Gods be praised. Look—” She stepped back, beckoning him closer to the tent’s little fire pit. “Crassus’s men distributed rations earlier today. Not much, but more than we’ve had in weeks. Some foraged supplies came in from the south, they said. And apparently Odoacer shared a portion too.”

  Titus blinked in surprise. “Odoacer…? Shared?”

  Claudia shrugged. “They don’t say how or why—only that we got a bit of wheat flour, some salted fish. Enough for at least a meal or two.” Her voice softened. “I was so worried you’d come back with nothing but trouble. Or that you might not come back at all.”

  He exhaled shakily, letting the tension drain from his limbs. “We found no food,” he admitted. “Tried a walled village, but Romulus’s cavalry forced us to retreat. Then Odoacer’s horsemen showed up, scaring them off. We returned empty-handed.”

  Claudia cast him a look of weary sympathy. “It’s all right,” she said gently, pressing her palm to his cheek. “At least they gave out rations here. We can share with the children tonight. That’s more than I dared hope for this morning.”

  Titus’s shoulders sagged in relief. A wave of gratitude mingled with deep-seated dread. He didn’t ask about how many other foraging parties never returned—he’d heard the rumors. Many simply vanished, victims of skirmishes, ambushes, or desertion to the roads. It was enough to count his blessings that he’d made it back to find his family still safe.

  Inside the tent, Gaius and Secunda stirred, blinking at their father with wide, tired eyes. Felix lay curled on Claudia’s mat, half-asleep. Titus knelt, offering them each a quick embrace. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “sorry we came back empty-handed… but your mother says we have some rations?”

  Secunda beamed shyly and held up a small cloth bag with flour dust on it. “We can make porridge tonight,” she said. “Mama said it’s a treat.”

  Titus felt tears prick his eyes at her innocent excitement over something so basic. He ruffled her hair. “That’s good, sweet one. It’s very good.”

  Claudia set about preparing the meal, measuring flour with care. Titus helped where he could, coaxing a little water from a worn goatskin. Around them, the camp’s low murmur of weary conversation wove a tapestry of hidden fears: men who’d returned describing fruitless searches, the hush about squads that never came back, the precarious alliance with Odoacer that might shift at any moment. But for a fleeting time, Titus pushed it aside, letting the warmth of his family anchor him.

  And as the first spoonful of bland porridge warmed his mouth, he closed his eyes, inhaling the simplest comfort in a land of chaos. Tomorrow might bring fresh marching orders, or another hopeless foraging run. Crassus’s uncertain cause still overshadowed them, as did the might of Odoacer and Romulus’s forces. Yet for this moment, they had each other—and a little food to fill their bellies.

  In this war-torn world, Titus reflected, sometimes a single bowl of porridge meant everything.