3th of August 476 AD

  Marcus Petronius stood on the southern rampart of Ravenna’s walls, chin resting just above the stone parapet. A damp breeze licked at his cheeks. The distant moon, a mere sliver tonight, offered scant light, casting the entire city in muted silver shadows. He gripped his spear lightly in one hand while his sword was sheathed on his hips. A second watch? Yes, they were doubling the night guard on every wall segment, and that fact alone spoke volumes about the tension gripping Ravenna.

  He exhaled slowly, trying to chase away the weariness clinging to his limbs. All around him, soldiers stood in groups of two or three, muttering in hushed tones. A few days ago, they might’ve shared a casual joke or teased one another about dice games. Tonight, even the faintest banter carried an undercurrent of anxiety. A new assault could come at any moment—another attempt by Crassus, or worse, Odoacer’s disciplined foederati.

  “Petronius!” a voice whispered near his shoulder. He turned to see Cato, a broad-shouldered veteran with a salt-and-pepper beard, stepping up. “You see anything out there? My eyes are burning from peering at shadows.”

  Marcus shook his head. “No movement. The moat's still and silent.” He paused, then admitted, “But I can’t shake the feeling they’ll try something. Maybe not tonight, maybe tomorrow. Feels like we’re all coiled springs.”

  Cato grunted agreement. “Double watch, crossbowmen on high alert—some reason behind it. Emperor’s orders.” He glanced past Marcus, scanning the gloom.”

  Behind them, a soldier named Aulus rummaged a tin cup from his pack and poured a bit of water, his canteen’s contents sloshing. “Wish I had something stronger,” he muttered, raising the cup in a mock salute to the moon. “My nerves are shot. Didn’t sleep a wink last night. My wife gave birth two weeks ago—told me in a letter. And here I am, waiting for a barbarian or levy arrow in the dark.”

  “Two weeks ago, you say?” Cato’s tone softened. “Congratulations, friend. A boy or a girl?”

  “Girl.” Aulus’s lips twitched in a half-smile. “Just once, I’d like to hold her. Instead, I hold a spear.”

  A quiet hush followed. Marcus felt the sting of that revelation settle over them. So many men on these walls were just as tethered to normal life—families, dreams, regrets. War forced them to stand watch under a midnight sky, worried about the next wave of attackers.

  A figure approached—Marcellinus, a younger soldier, less than a year in the legion. He carried a crossbow clutched across his chest like a talisman. “Sir, might you check my quarrels? I keep thinking I left half of them behind,” he said, voice trembling with both fear and cold.

  Marcus nodded, glancing at the small quiver strapped to the boy’s belt. “You have them. Fifteen is the standard load for night watch. That’s all we can spare right now.” He tried to sound reassuring. “Keep them dry, watch your angle if you have to fire.”

  Marcellinus exhaled shakily. “This city’s on a knife’s edge, you know? Everyone I pass in the streets, they’re wide-eyed, afraid. Some shutters are hammered closed with multiple planks. Merchants refuse to open shop. I saw a mother hush her child just for giggling too loudly. The tension’s… thick as mortar out there.”

  Cato set a hand on Marcellinus’s shoulder. “We do this so they can sleep, boy. You know that. Keep watch, keep them safe.”

  “Sleep?” Aulus echoed, a bitter laugh. “Few of them sleep. Word’s traveling tonight might be the big push. Odoacer or Crassus—someone will strike. The emperor’s expecting it, so we stand ready.”

  Marcus cleared his throat. “Heads up, the officer’s coming.” A figure in a dark cloak approached, stepping carefully along the battlements. Each man straightened reflexively.

  “Men,” the officer said quietly, “report anything suspicious, no matter how small. The rest of the wall is tense as well. Keep eyes peeled for infiltration. No one dozes, understood?”

  They murmured their assent, a wave of quiet “Yes, sir.”

  As the officer moved on, they relaxed fractionally. Marcellinus rubbed at his eyes, trying to stay alert. “Feels like we’re in a pot about to boil over, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Marcus agreed softly. He ran a hand over the cold stone, scanning the fields again. “But if it does, we’ll be ready. We have crossbows enough to deter another mass assault—and the moat is deeper than it looks.”

  Cato chuckled grimly. “Still, I’d like to see any poor fool try to climb these walls at night.” He patted the stone. “They’d be dead before they set a ladder.”

  A distant clang from further west along the rampart jolted them—someone had accidentally kicked a dropped spear. The men tensed, then recognized the sound for what it was. Still, the half-second of reaction hammered home their collective nerves.

  A lull fell over them. The minutes trudged by in tense quiet, the wind picking up. Marcus found himself yearning for dawn. Even if an attack was more likely then, at least the gloom would lift, and every stir in the shadows wouldn’t gnaw at their composure.

  He glanced at Aulus, who sipped from that tin cup again. He pictured the man’s newborn daughter—two weeks old—and felt a pang of empathy. None of them wanted to be here on a freezing rampart, anticipating carnage, but duty chained them. Duty to the city, to the boy emperor, to all they left behind.

  Marcus had never known the night to feel so alive, so claustrophobic. It was near midnight on the southern walls, the moon hidden behind thick, bruised clouds. The meager torchlight flickered in gusting breezes, casting jittery shadows along the ramparts. For hours, all had been tense stillness—no sign of movement in the distance. Yet there was that unmistakable weight in the air, a hush before the clash of steel.

  He paced along the crenellations, spear in hand, eyes scanning the dark horizon beyond the moat. The palisade stakes set out from the wall glistened with the day’s drizzle, forming a jagged, moonlit line. Every so often he caught the faint rustle of a fellow soldier adjusting position, or the scrape of a crossbow being tested. The men along this stretch were weary but alert, stiff with the knowledge that at any moment Odoacer might move.

  Midnight approached, the minutes crawling. Petronius was passing behind a small cluster of crossbowmen when the first glimmer appeared in the distance—an orange glow, as though a fire had sprung up behind the ragged orchard half a mile out. He squinted. “What is that?” he asked no one in particular, pressing closer to the parapet for a clearer look.

  “Could be torches,” a crossbowman muttered. “Torches bunched together.”

  Marcus’s heart kicked up. Odoacer’s men, using torchlight so brazenly at night? Were they taunting them, or was it the start of something bigger? Across the wall, a scattering of hushed exclamations rose: “Enemy sighted!”—“Look, to the right!” The watchers pointed to more distant lights winking into view, forming a slow-moving arc that suggested a massed approach.

  A centurion rushed along the battlement, voice low but urgent. “Positions! Get to your stations! Keep it quiet, but be ready for assault.” A ripple of readiness spread among the defenders. Men crouched behind merlons, crossbows hoisted, spears propped at angles for throwing. Far below, in the gloom near the moat, shadows moved: Odoacer’s troops, or so it seemed.

  Petronius sucked in a breath, adrenaline flooding his veins. This looked like the real assault—torches, a column advancing on the southern side. He recalled the earlier intelligence: rumors of an attack from the north, or perhaps the south. The defenders had prepared, but no one truly knew which direction Odoacer would choose. Now, it seemed the southern wall was indeed the target.

  “What do you make of it, sir?” Sergius asked at Marcus’s elbow, brandishing a half-wound crossbow.

  “They’re committed,” Marcus replied in a tense murmur. “Listen.” He strained his ears. Sure enough, faint rhythmic stomps echoed across the fields, as if a phalanx advanced. Then came the rumble of something heavier—maybe a battering ram or siege apparatus. The flickering torches drew nearer, fanning out across the orchard’s edge. This was no stealth infiltration. It was a grand demonstration of force.

  “Shields up! Nock bolts!” one of the optio hissed. A line of crossbowmen braced at the rampart, quivers rattling with fresh quarrels. Another soldier signaled with a lantern code across the wall’s interior, presumably alerting the rest of the fortress.

  Marcus felt tension coil in every muscle. Through the shifting darkness, he glimpsed tall shapes—men carrying ladders. So many silhouettes across the ruined outer city, weaving among the nearby orchard. The forms spread out in a wide arc, torches bobbing as they advanced. This was no token force. They came in large numbers, as if Odoacer intended a full-scale push on the south.

  Then it began: a clarion note, sounding from the orchard. The line of torches surged forward at once, revealing ranks of men with scuta and spears, stepping in disciplined formation. The defenders on the walls stiffened in grim readiness.

  A volley of javelins soared from the gloom, rattling harmlessly against the stone or clattering in the moat. But it was enough to confirm the attackers’ presence.

  “Return fire!” barked the centurion. Crossbowmen loosed a first volley of quarrels, slicing the night with sharp hiss. Marcus watched them arc into the half-lit dark, heard the dull thud as they struck shields or earth. The wave of attackers wavered slightly, but continued to close in.

  From his vantage, Petronius could see movement along the moat’s edge. The enemy tested the water, seeking crossing points or shallow spots. Some men brandished logs or bridging planks. The chaotic flicker of torchlight showed them forging forward, pressed on by barking commands.

  A hail of javelins soared again from below, followed by fierce war cries that echoed eerily against Ravenna’s walls. The defenders tensed, raising shields. Some crossbowmen ducked, reloading swiftly, while others launched fresh bolts. Over the next minutes, the air thrummed with the back-and-forth exchange—arrows, javelins, crossbow quarrels. The orchard and moat glinted with torches, shadows writhing as men fell or reeled back.

  Marcus steadied his spear against the battlement, glancing to his left. Soldiers near him readied stones and heated sand for any attempt to scale the wall. The sense of a major assault mounted.

  Still, a part of Petronius’s mind questioned: Is this truly the main push? The orchard approach looked fierce, but with each volley, the attackers didn’t appear as unstoppable. They advanced in squads, yes, but pockets of them slowed or retreated after each crossbow volley. Some men fussed with ladder segments in a disorganized manner.

  He forced the thought aside—no. This might just be Odoacer’s style. Or maybe a cunning ruse. For the defenders on the southern wall, it certainly felt like a real threat.

  A hush behind them signaled the arrival of a small reserve group, armed with extra crossbow bolts. They tossed sacks of quarrels to the men on the ramparts, ensuring no one ran short.

  “Watch the moat!” someone yelled. “They’re trying to breach the palisade stakes!”

  Petronius peered down, seeing forms hacking or pulling at the sharpened stakes that lined the moat’s rim. A wave of crossbow quarrels soared down to greet them. Cries broke out, and the silhouettes scattered. But new shapes emerged, re-lifting torches, pressing the assault.

  Yet something tugged at Marcus’s intuition. The men below repeated motions—charge, attempt to cut stakes, recoil from crossbow fire—like they were staging a big show of force. He noted that no major ram or large siege tower had yet approached. The shapes that might be a ram seemed far back.

  “They’re stalling,” Sergius muttered, his breath ragged from the rush of reloading. “A grand spectacle to keep us pinned here.”

  “It’s working,” Marcus replied. He glanced along the parapet. The entire southern battlement was fully manned, each soldier engrossed in repelling the push. They dared not leave, not when the foe might attempt a sudden surge. Indeed, it felt all too real to risk ignoring.

  Gundobad could taste iron in his mouth, the taste of adrenaline and tense anticipation. He was crouched behind the remains of an old vineyard wall with Wulfgar by his side, a thin moon overhead casting broken patterns on the damp ground. Their breath fogged in the chilled night air. Far behind them, thousands of foederati warriors—Burgundians, Heruli, Sciri, and others bound to Odoacer—huddled in silence, trying to be invisible in the moonlit gloom. A half-dozen men held torches hidden under leather covers, ready to reveal light only when needed to guide a final rush.

  They had been waiting for what felt like hours, awaiting the signal from the southern assault. Word had reached them earlier in the evening that the moat here, to the north, had been partially drained by those levy trenches Crassus’s men started. Not as fully as anyone had hoped, but enough to allow at least some crossing. Gundobad’s Burgundians had taken the lead in that draining operation—days of backbreaking labor in the mud and brackish water—and while not perfect, they believed it sufficient for a nighttime push.

  Now, a faint horn call echoed from the southern distance. A single note, followed by a series of shorter blasts—Odoacer’s agreed-upon code. Gundobad’s heart thumped. The faint has started. That meant the defenders on the southern wall were presumably engaged. Soon, the second horn would sound, telling them to launch the main attack on the northern side.

  He cast a sideways glance at Wulfgar, who stood stoic, an imposing figure in lamellar armor, one hand gripping his long axe, the other resting on the hilt of a side-sword. Despite the tension, Wulfgar’s face betrayed no fear—only a slow, methodical calm that had earned him respect among the troops.

  “Your men are ready?” Wulfgar asked quietly, gaze flicking across the Burgundian warriors crouched in the darkness.

  Gundobad nodded, swallowing. “Eager enough to burn the city themselves. They’ve wanted real battle since we arrived. We’ll see if that hunger turns to good steel or a fool’s rage.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Their conversation stilled as a second horn note rolled through the night: a deeper, longer tone that ended abruptly. The signal. A heartbeat later, the quiet ruins behind them stirred. Men rose from the ground, shields rasping against cloaks, muffled curses as gear snagged on rubble. Silent waves from the lead officers pushed them forward.

  Gundobad inhaled. No turning back. He lifted his war spear, signaled with two curt sweeps, and advanced. Wulfgar mirrored the motion to his own contingent. They moved quickly but cautiously, following the moat’s curvature. The drained section was some hundred paces wide, near a cluster of battered outbuildings. Watchfires burned on Ravenna’s ramparts, bobbing faintly, but the defenders seemed unaware of the lurking masses in the dark.

  As they neared the city’s perimeter, a hush of anticipation settled over the troops. Then, at Gundobad’s nod, a handful of men uncovered their torches. Flickers of light danced across the watery ditch, revealing the glint of mail and spear points. In that same moment, horns again pierced the quiet—this time from Gundobad’s side, a rousing call to arms. Shouts rose in savage unison as the lines of foederati charged the final yards to the moat.

  The assault had begun.

  They swarmed in waves, the first lines carrying siege ladders, planks, and bridging beams for the partially drained ditch. Wulfgar drove forward with the Heruli near him, each man stepping in sync to keep the covered ram stable— they had no illusions of an easy victory, but they were well-rehearsed. The plan: throw crossing beams into the moat, reduce the distance, then haul ladders up against Ravenna’s stone. Simultaneously, archers from behind would pepper the defenders.

  Yet from the moment they stepped within bow range, the defenders unleashed havoc. Crossbow quarrels lanced down, almost invisible in the dark until they struck flesh or clattered off shields. Shouts of pain ripped through the leading rank. The ruins around them flared with torches, but the top of Ravenna’s walls remained a black silhouette broken only by muzzle flashes of torchlight.

  Gundobad roared an order, spurring his Burgundians onward. Men hefted broad shields overhead to form a makeshift cover. At first, it seemed to work—some quarrels thunked harmlessly into wooden shields. But the volume of crossbow fire grew, more lethal with each volley. The deeper they advanced, the worse it became.

  Wulfgar’s Heruli pressed alongside, ducking behind mantlets, dragging them inch by inch across the muddy approach. “Forward!” Wulfgar bellowed, voice carrying over the din. They needed to close the gap quickly or be cut down piecemeal.

  At the moat’s edge, the water was only knee-deep in places—the drainage had half-succeeded. Men splashed in, planting bridging planks. But crossing en masse was chaotic. Gundobad clambered in, water soaking his greaves, heart pounding. A quarrel zipped past his ear, spattering muddy droplets into his face. Curses erupted around him as more men stumbled or fell. The night lit with sporadic torchlight, revealing swirling shapes of warriors braving the moat.

  “Keep moving!” Gundobad shouted, tearing a spear out of a dead man’s hand and thrusting it upright. “Up the ladders!” The first wave had hammered ladders against the rampart base, though crossbow fire rained relentlessly. He saw a ladder with half a dozen Burgundians pushing upward, only to watch two of them collapse, bolts buried in their torsos. Furious cries followed.

  The brutality soared. Men used large wooden mantlets to shield the ladder bases, but defenders overhead hurled rocks, poured boiling water or tar. Screams filled the night as scalding liquid scoured flesh. Wulfgar’s eyes flashed with anger—the Romans were more prepared than they’d hoped.

  At last, a group of Wulfgar’s men seized a vantage. They jammed a ladder onto a ledge of the partially drained moat, hooking it against the stone above. “Up! Up!” Wulfgar roared, personally guiding the ladder. Several bold Heruli started climbing. But from above, an unseen figure lanced a throwing spear into the lead climber’s thigh. He dropped, howling, back into the moat. Another foederatus flung a javelin upward in retaliation. The swirl of violence was desperate and savage, men fighting half-blind in flickering torchlight.

  All around them, the clang of metal and desperate yells merged into a crescendo. Some sections gained minor footholds, forcing defenders to shift position. Yet each time a few men topped the ladder, crossbow bolts or spear thrusts met them. The rampart was an unyielding line of lethal discipline.

  Gundobad’s heart thundered. They were losing too many men, pinned at the base of the walls. He couldn’t believe how well the Romans maintained their fire even at night. “Push on that side!” he barked, pointing to a spot where the wall’s lower edge looked. If they could concentrate ladders there, perhaps the defenders’ crossbows couldn’t cover every angle.

  Shifting his burgundian warband, Gundobad pounded through the muddy moat bed, ignoring the sting of a shallow cut on his forearm. He slammed his shield up to deflect a stray arrow. “This way!” He directed five men carrying a wide bridging plank. They rushed under heavy arrow cover from the rest of the troop.

  Wulfgar spotted the maneuver and signaled Heruli archers to lay down covering fire. A volley soared up at the ramparts, forcing the defenders to duck for a heartbeat—just enough time for the bridging plank to be slung across the moat’s darkest portion. A new ladder hammered into the wall.

  “Now!” thundered Gundobad. The first wave rushed up, a powerful thrust of about fifteen men, shield to shield. Up they went, despite heavy defenders overhead. The swirl of violence intensified at the top—Romans stabbing downward, crossing swords with men who managed to crest the parapet. Gundobad watched with clenched teeth as half of that group fell away, battered or skewered. But three or four actually gained a foothold, toppling one Roman from the battlement. A hoarse cheer broke from the Burgundians below.

  Spurred on, more men followed, climbing in pairs, hoping to reinforce that precarious breach. The crossbow fire lessened in that segment, either out of fear of hitting their own or because they scrambled to repel the intruders.

  Gundobad’s adrenaline soared. They might break the defense here. “That’s it! Keep climbing!” he yelled, ignoring the fierce arrow whizzing by his helm. Another wave of Burgundians scrambled up, though two were flung back by a Roman soldier wielding a large shield, bashing them off the parapet. One man fell screaming, crashing into the moat with a gruesome thud.

  But eventually, Gundobad glimpsed half a dozen of his men on the top rampart, locked in desperate melee with defenders. The few flickering torches carried up made the edges of the fight visible—shadows swirling, steel ringing, blood spattering. The Romans fought with savage discipline, but so did these foederati veterans.

  A glance around told him the success was localized—elsewhere along the wall, the assault faltered. He could see silhouettes of men retreating from ladders that got hacked away or pinned by archers. Wulfgar’s Heruli on the far left fared no better; they’d formed a wedge near a gatehouse but got pinned by relentless crossbow volleys from an overhead tower. The moat near them was littered with bodies. He heard Wulfgar’s distant roar, saw him hacking at a blocked ladder, straining to keep men climbing.

  Yet the foothold near Gundobad’s position expanded slightly. Another half dozen Burgundians gained the parapet, shrieking war cries. Even from the ground, he heard Roman shouts of alarm. A Roman officer lunged forward, driving a short sword into a Burgundian’s belly, only to be cut down by a second warrior’s ax blow. The press at that parapet roiled in brutal close quarters.

  “Up, up!” Gundobad urged, grabbing the ladder. He took a breath, preparing to climb himself, though every inch stank of death and terror. Before he could, a crossbow bolt slammed into the rung just inches from his gauntlet. Splinters tore at his glove, and he almost lost his grip.

  “Cover me!” he roared to a cluster of his men. Then, with a snarl, he started up the ladder. Bolts zipped around him. Another man climbed just above him—that man took a direct arrow to the neck, slumping lifeless. Gundobad grimaced, shoving the body aside. The top of the parapet was a swirl of struggling figures. He braced himself to join them.

  Just when he thought they might overwhelm that wall segment, fresh Roman defenders poured in from deeper along the rampart. Their shields locked, a roman centurion cried out, “Hold them! Push them off!” They surged, and a savage clash erupted at the parapet’s lip. Swords and axes rang against shields, men cursed in Latin, and Burgundian tongues. The lines seesawed.

  From below, archers on both sides rained death up or down. Gundobad, still halfway up the ladder, saw one of his best warriors pitched backward by a Roman spear thrust. Another was battered off the wall by a heavy shield slam. The Roman defenders refused to break. Slowly, the tide turned back in their favor.

  A guttural cry tore from Gundobad’s throat as he finally reached the top rung. He swung his spear at a Roman helmet just as it lunged at him, forcing the defender to duck. He heaved up, trying to scramble onto the wall’s walkway, but an enemy foot soldier hammered a shield into him, nearly knocking him loose. Swearing, Gundobad clung to the parapet edge, jabbing forward again.

  But it wasn’t enough—he felt the momentum shift as more Romans crowded the battlements. Another wave of bolts hissed from further down the rampart, dropping two of Gundobad’s men in front of him. The precarious foothold collapsed. One after another, wounded or cornered Burgundians fell or jumped back down to the moat’s ledge. With a roar, Gundobad was forced to yield, letting himself slide back down the ladder to avoid being stabbed from above.

  He landed in the slick mud, adrenaline pumping, fury pounding in his veins. The partial success they’d gained was quickly lost to a well-organized Roman counter-surge.

  He looked around wildly. The entire assault was faltering. The flickers of success were overshadowed by pockets of chaos. Casualties piled up: men moaning in the moat, some pinned under shattered ladders. The crossbow teams on the walls never ceased their deadly barrage, shifting aim to each critical spot.

  Gundobad’s breath came in ragged gasps, steam rising from his sweating brow in the cool midnight air. The initial roar of battle was fading into a steady, sickening din of the wounded, screams echoing from the moat's muddy banks. His Burgundians fell back in staggered groups, shields raised to protect their retreat. He glanced desperately towards Wulfgar, whose Heruli warriors likewise faltered and were pulling back, leaving behind a grisly wake of broken ladders, discarded shields, and fallen warriors.

  The night had betrayed them, and the walls loomed as tall and unconquerable as ever. Gundobad’s rage bubbled dangerously beneath the exhaustion. They had been so close, and now they were forced to retreat, humiliated and bloodied.

  “Wulfgar!” Gundobad barked, pushing through retreating ranks toward his fellow commander, who now stood behind a mantlet, blood smeared on his face.

  Wulfgar turned sharply, eyes narrowed, fury and frustration boiling behind them. “We can't hold that position—too many losses! Those Romans fight like demons.”

  “We must regroup quickly and prepare another—”

  His words cut off abruptly. A horn blasted sharply from their right flank, not Roman, but distinctly Germanic, heavy and booming, echoing eerily through the darkness.

  Both commanders spun toward the sound, hearts hammering with confusion and dread.

  Before they could react further, shadows exploded from the vineyard and orchard behind them, moving swiftly. Spears and swords glinted ominously in torchlight, and the unmistakable guttural cries of fellow Germanic warriors pierced the air. Gundobad’s blood turned ice-cold.

  “Ambush!” Wulfgar roared, turning immediately to form a defensive line. “To the rear! Defend the rear!”

  Chaos erupted instantly, foederati ranks spinning to face the sudden assault pouring into their flank. Gundobad’s Burgundians, already battered from their failed attempt to breach the wall, struggled to reorient themselves against this unexpected enemy.

  The loyal foederati—Orestes’ loyalists who had thus far remained in reserve—hit hard and fast, striking from the darkness with a ruthless ferocity. They bore no torches, exploiting darkness fully, and slammed into Gundobad’s flank, thrusting spears into men who had barely managed to raise their shields.

  Gundobad, eyes wide with disbelief and fury, yelled orders into the cacophony, desperate to hold a collapsing flank. “Shields together! Hold firm!”

  His warriors rallied with determination, forming hurried shield-walls, but the enemy's surprise was too complete. The Burgundian lines buckled in confusion, isolated clusters desperately fighting off attackers from multiple angles. Screams filled the air, a cacophony of anger, pain, and death.

  Wulfgar's Heruli, more disciplined, pivoted expertly, forming a bristling hedgehog of spears and shields that briefly stemmed the loyal foederati's initial push. But the intensity of the attack pressed even them back, driving their feet deeper into the mud, each step giving ground.

  Above on the walls, Roman crossbowmen—equally surprised by the sudden attack—frantically redirected their fire. Bolts whizzed through the darkness, some piercing into loyal foederati troops as they surged recklessly forward. Gundobad saw several of Orestes’ warriors topple with cries of shock and pain, betrayed by the indiscriminate, brutal nature of night combat.

  “By all the gods,” Gundobad swore bitterly, ducking beneath a hurled spear, his shield ringing painfully from repeated blows. “Hold the damned line!”

  In moments of confused darkness, friend and foe blurred dangerously. The loyalist foederati fought with a relentless vigor, axes swinging wildly, hacking through shields and limbs. Gundobad staggered back, his left flank nearly collapsing as men fought desperately to hold their formation. He glimpsed Wulfgar through the chaos, bellowing furiously, fighting in a frenzy as a knot of Heruli rallied around him.

  “They’re breaking our flank!” shouted a Burgundian beside Gundobad, desperation in his voice. Gundobad saw several of his warriors stumbling back, shields cracked and splintered, weapons lost in the blood-soaked mud. His heart twisted, seeing his proud Burgundians cut down by fellow foederati who had so recently been allies.

  “Pull back!” he roared finally, voice hoarse and filled with shame. “Maintain order—retreat slowly! Hold ranks!”

  Yet, as they moved back, the loyalists pressed ever harder, sensing their advantage. One large, snarling warrior swung his axe, splintering Gundobad’s shield and forcing him to stumble backward. He lunged forward desperately, driving his spear deep into the warrior’s chest. Blood splashed hot onto Gundobad’s face, yet he felt no triumph—only grim determination to survive.

  Wulfgar’s Heruli suffered heavily as well, some caught by Roman crossbow bolts, others felled by the ferocious assault of loyalists. Wulfgar himself fought like a cornered wolf, his long axe whirling, cleaving through enemy ranks, attempting to maintain cohesion amid the chaos.

  Yet slowly, inevitably, their formations fractured under the dual assault from Ravenna’s defenders and Orestes’ loyal foederati. The nightmare only deepened: above them, the Roman defenders had begun realizing their crossbows were killing friendly troops and slackened their fire, instead yelling confusion from the battlements.

  “Fall back!” Gundobad’s voice cracked, ordering a full retreat. “To the rallying point!”

  The Burgundians and Heruli, battered, bloodied, and demoralized, slowly disengaged, step by agonizing step. The loyalist warriors, sensing victory, pressed their advantage but began to overextend themselves in their fervor.

  Gundobad spotted the flaw, rage and desperate hope surging inside him. Rallying a dozen warriors at his side, he seized a fallen enemy banner, hefting it high to regain morale.

  “With me!” he roared, “Break their advance!”

  His Burgundians charged fiercely, crashing into a group of loyal foederati who had pressed too aggressively forward. The sudden counterstrike caught them off guard. Gundobad’s spear thrust through a loyal warrior’s mail, sending the man screaming into the mud. Beside him, Wulfgar’s Heruli surged forward, flanking the enemy unit and slicing into their side.

  The loyalists faltered momentarily, suddenly unsure, their momentum stalling as Gundobad and Wulfgar's men fought with renewed fury. In seconds, the loyal foederati line broke at this isolated spot, allowing the Burgundians and Heruli a momentary breath to reorganize.

  But even this minor victory was costly. As Gundobad’s forces began to regroup and retreat in orderly ranks, he saw bodies strewn everywhere—men he’d known well lay silent in the dark. His chest tightened with anguish and shame.

  Yet the enemy, though briefly scattered, remained numerous and dangerous. Another horn sounded—the Romans on the wall regrouping and once more firing bolts carefully, methodically, into enemy ranks. Orestes’ loyal warriors, realizing the ambush had run its course, finally halted their advance, melting back into darkness, their purpose accomplished.

  Gundobad stood breathing heavily, exhausted, shield and spear slick with blood, trembling from exertion and anger. Around him, his battered Burgundians helped wounded comrades limp back toward their encampment. He could see Wulfgar nearby, equally furious, aiding his Heruli in a slow retreat.

  Gundobad’s mind whirled bitterly. Odoacer’s meticulous plan had collapsed disastrously, his main assault repulsed, his forces ambushed, his proud foederati humiliated and slaughtered by treacherous kin. Shame burned deep in his chest. His men had been betrayed, not just by the Romans, but by allies they’d once fought beside. This night’s defeat cut deeper than mere loss—it felt dishonorable, unforgivable.

  As they limped back through the dark fields, shadows swallowed their retreating ranks. The distant, mocking cheers of victorious Romans echoed hauntingly from Ravenna’s walls, stinging Gundobad’s battered pride.

  “We underestimated them,” Wulfgar growled bitterly, voice ragged from shouting and battle. “These Romans… these loyalist foederati… damn them all.”

  Gundobad could only nod, silent fury welling deep within him. “We will avenge this shame,” he finally growled. “Their betrayal won’t go unanswered.”

  But tonight, revenge was distant. Now, he could only gather the remains of his proud warriors, count the terrible cost, and retreat in silent humiliation. Ravenna still stood proud, defiant, and victorious.