1th of August 476 AD
Marcus Petronius drummed his fingertips on the cold stone merlon, fighting a stifling wave of exhaustion. Night pressed in around him, as impenetrable as a draped curtain—only a thin sliver of moonlight offered any silver glimmer across the landscape below. The day’s victory—if one could call it that—had brought no satisfaction to his post, perched on the southern wall. For his group, the morning had been alarmingly quiet, overshadowed by the brutal slaughter that had unfolded on the eastern defenses. Now, instead of rest or hot food, his entire section was sentenced to the shit job: the dreaded night watch.
He glanced at the men stationed around him. They were equally weary, each soldier leaning on a crossbow or a spear or just resting against the battlements to stave off drooping eyelids. Sleep on duty was punishable by death. Two hours in and men already muttered curses under their breath, the kind that blossomed only when eyes were gritty from too many fights and not enough sleep.
A stiff wind ruffled Marcus’s hair. He pulled his short cloak tighter, imagining how comfortable a straw mat in a corner of the fortress’s interior would feel right then. He rubbed at his neck, replaying the day’s strange mix of relief and horror. Relief, because his sector had been spared by any major assault; horror, because rumors circulated about the carnage visited upon Crassus's levy on the eastern front. Some said a hundred bodies lay in the moat, others said nearly a thousand. None of it confirmed, but the thought tightened Marcus’s stomach.
A soldier named Fabius—young, dark-haired, and perpetually fidgeting—sidled over, careful not to make noise with his boots. “Petronius,” he whispered, “what’s the real count, you think? I heard they killed half the levy in that morning attack.” His voice had the shaky edge of a man who’s heard too many tall tales.
Marcus shook his head, keeping his eyes on the horizon. “Don’t know. Probably a few hundred. Possibly more. Enough that the rest fled, so they say.” He stifled a yawn. “If you believe half the gossip, it’s a bloodbath out there. But not in our sector.” His mouth twisted—relief and guilt at the same time.
Fabius exhaled slowly. “We got off easy, I suppose. But now it’s double watch, as if we’re being punished for not seeing action.”
Another soldier, Sergius, appeared, nestling himself behind the parapet. He dug a small pair of dice from his pouch. “Hey,” he muttered, “we can roll a few times. Keep ourselves awake.” He shot a furtive glance around, making sure no officer patrolled the walkway. A few men’s ears perked at the mention of dice.
Marcus gave a slight smirk. “Just don’t lose your entire pay.” He felt no inclination to join, but anything that kept them alert was better than drifting into a torpor.
He returned his attention to the open fields beyond the moat. The moon’s pale reflection shimmered faintly on water, but darkness swallowed most details. Earlier, while the sun still hung low, the moat had been a broad barrier, forcing any attacker to scramble over half-submerged obstacles. Now, in night’s hush, it looked like black glass. He tried to imagine if a group of foederati might attempt a stealth crossing. The possibility left him uneasy.
“Hey, Petronius,” Sergius called quietly, holding out the dice in offering, “one round, see if fortune favors you?”
Marcus shook his head. “I’ll pass. Need my eyes on the moat. Talk if you want, but not too loud.” That was a standard rule on night watch: conversation in hushed tones was permissible, but shout or speak too loudly, and the nearest centurion might put you in irons.
Minutes trickled by. The hush broke only by muffled curses from Sergius and the men gambling near a torch-lantern, or a low cough from one soldier pacing to keep blood flowing in his legs. Marcus squinted out at the plain again, searching for anything that might flicker or glint in the gloom. The day’s events had him paranoid that Odoacer might dispatch small teams to test their readiness at night.
He exchanged a few words with Fabius about mundane things: the dryness of the rations, the rumor that more crossbow bolts would arrive from the workshop stores. Typical soldier chatter. “They say each crossbow group got triple the kills as standard archers,” Fabius noted. “Never seen them in such numbers. I bet Odoacer’s men hate it.”
Marcus gave a slight nod. “I heard it was the crossbow teams who pinned the palatini officers. Keep quiet about it, but it sure changed the tide.”
Fabius exhaled, glancing at the dice game. “If only we had as many crossbows in every sector. Then maybe none of us would need night watch.”
A dull clink of metal on stone drifted up from below, or maybe it was just the wind. The guard to Marcus’s right peered downward, but saw nothing. The shifting gloom made illusions of every shadow, so it was best not to jump at each sound. Still, goose bumps prickled his arms.
He turned his attention to the corner of the moat that angled off beneath a tangle of half-burnt orchard trees. He remembered seeing a few probing attempts out there that morning—just a handful of foederati trying to find shallow spots. The crossbow teams had scattered them quickly. Could they return under cover of night? The thought gnawed at him.
Fabius turned back. “You all right, Petronius? You look on edge.”
Marcus forced a small smile. “Just doing my job. Keep watch. Heard a little noise over there.”
“Eh, probably a loose stone, or a rat bigger than me.” Fabius gave a half-chuckle, but a note of tension belied his attempt at humor.
They fell quiet again. More time passed, the dice game continuing in stifled clinks. Marcus’s eyes gradually adjusted to the deep gloom—grainy patches of darkness formed shapes where the orchard merged with the moat’s contour. He tried to keep his mind alert: the worst enemy tonight was drowsiness.
He was just about to whisper something—maybe a jibe about Sergius’s dreadful luck at dice—when a subtle flicker snagged his peripheral vision. At first, he wasn’t sure he saw anything at all. Possibly a random reflection on water, or a stray ember from a distant brazier. He stiffened, scanning the orchard line. His ears pricked for a sound.
Fabius, next to him, started to speak, but Marcus waved him silent. Slowly, he leaned over the parapet, squinting into the blackness. Was that movement? Or just the wind in the charred branches?
Seconds stretched out, the hush around them sharpened by tension. The other men, noticing Marcus’s rigid posture, paused their chatter. Dice rolls ceased. The faint glow of a watch-lantern cast trembling shadows across the parapet stones.
There. Again. This time, Marcus was sure: a shape glided among the orchard’s half-burned trunks. Too big for a stray dog, too purposeful for drifting smoke. His heart thumped. He forced himself to speak in a near-whisper: “I see something… out near the orchard. Movement.”
Instantly, Fabius and Sergius joined him, pressing to the battlement. The group of watchers tensed, crossbows lifted. In the corners of Marcus’s vision, he caught men readying weapons, hearts pounding. Could it be an enemy infiltration?
Fabius licked his lips, voice tight. “Should we alert the entire section? Sound the alarm?”
Marcus hesitated. If it was nothing, they’d rouse the fortress for a ghost. If it was real, each second of silence risked losing the advantage. He drew in a breath, focusing on the orchard’s silhouette. The shape flicked again, sliding behind a trunk. Then he glimpsed a second figure, or possibly more, deeper in the gloom.
“Damn,” Sergius muttered, adjusting his crossbow’s angle. He braced an elbow on the parapet. “If they’re trying to approach the moat, we’ll see them once they leave the trees.”
Marcus quietly nodded. “Spread out. Two crossbowmen train on that orchard line. Fabius, you go alert the centurion. But keep it low—no horns yet. We might spook them into scattering.”
Fabius nodded, tiptoeing away. The men on the wall crouched, tension crackling in the cold night air. Marcus’s breathing felt loud in his own ears. He tried to remain calm, scanning for any flash of metal or glint of torches. Why no torch? Because it was likely a stealth approach. Maybe they only want to see how many are on watch. Or they might attempt to snipe a guard.
Slow minutes dragged. The orchard rustled once or twice, but no definite forms emerged. Marcus’s eyes watered from staring so hard into the dark. A single cloud drifted across the moon, plunging the orchard in deeper blackness. He swallowed, creeping dread gnawing his stomach.
Sergius shifted. “Think they saw us spot them?”
Before Marcus could answer, a faint ripple of brush movement sounded. Then the orchard’s shadows fell still. The watchers listened intently, ears straining for footsteps or splashing in the moat. Nothing. Only the faint moan of wind.
A whisper reached them from behind: “The centurion is coming.” Fabius returned, accompanied by a lean man with hard eyes. The centurion knelt, peering over the battlement. “You sure you saw something?”
Marcus nodded. “At least two figures. Possibly more. Hiding among those trees. Could be an infiltration attempt… or a reconnaissance.”
The centurion frowned, rubbing his jaw. “We can send a small crossbow volley into the orchard to test them. But if they’re already gone… might just waste bolts.”
Quiet debate followed in hushed voices. In the end, they decided to hold position, remain watchful. Marcus felt the tension ease slightly, though his nerves still hummed. If the shapes had retreated, no sense in rousing the entire fortress. If they lingered, one slip would reveal them, and the crossbows would do their work.
So they waited, alert, through the long stretch of midnight, each hour feeling like an eternity. A hush overcame the men—no more jokes, no more dice. The slightest shuffle or cough drew stern glares. Marcus’s legs cramped from crouching behind the stone merlon, but he dared not stand down. If someone really was out there, he wouldn’t let them slip by on his watch.
Marcus’s teeth chattered slightly in the cold. He forced himself to stare at the orchard’s jagged treeline, where an hour ago he and the others had spotted shadows in the moonlight. Since then, they had seen and heard nothing. The only sounds now were the faint clank of distant harness buckles in the courtyard and the soft rustling of grass in the night breeze. Most of the watchmen knelt or crouched behind the parapet, crossbows in hand, scanning the darkness.
He had just shifted his cramped legs to a new position when a low, watery splash carried across the moat. Subtle, but in the silent gloom, enough to jolt him straight upright.
“Did you hear that?” he whispered to the soldier beside him—Sergius, who’d nearly nodded off.
Sergius stiffened, eyes widening. “Sounded like… a paddle in water.”
The orchard, previously so still, now revealed tiny signs of life: leaves brushing unnaturally, small ripples on the moat. Marcus’s pulse quickened. Even in the low moonlight, he glimpsed faint, dark figures creeping out from the orchard’s edge. This time there was no mistaking them: a cluster of men, forms hunched low, clutching something long and narrow—scaling ladders, no doubt. More shapes followed, perhaps a dozen or more. All moved with practiced stealth.
Marcus’s mouth went dry. They advanced calmly but swiftly, using the orchard’s meager cover, then slipping into the moat. He signaled vigorously to the nearest crossbowmen. “There!” he hissed, pointing. “Close to the orchard—two dozen, maybe more.”
Fabius and Sergius each raised their weapons, hearts hammering. The watch-lantern was shuttered at once, so as not to compromise the defenders’ night vision. In the next instant, the centurion assigned to their section ducked forward. “All right, men,” he breathed, voice taut. “They’re crossing. Wait until they’re clear of the water, then fire at will.”
Marcus’s world shrank to the hush of adrenaline in his veins and the faint shuffle of the watchers along the crenellations. He could hear the slogging steps as the foederati waded across the shallow part of the moat. He realized with a pang that they must have spent hours scoping out that crossing point, perhaps the same one they’d tested earlier in the day. Now they were coming in earnest.
“They’re taking the ladders in first,” Sergius observed quietly. Indeed, the lead men supported the ladder’s length above the water’s surface to keep it from getting too heavy, while the rest advanced behind them with shields overhead. The disciplined calm of these foederati contrasted sharply with the panicked levy that Crassus had flung at the eastern walls earlier.
As the first group emerged from the moat, water dripping from them, the centurion snapped a small signal. Instantly, half a dozen crossbowmen rose from behind the battlements, aiming into the darkness.
“Loose!” hissed a sergeant, and the night split with the heavy thrums of crossbow strings.
Bolts whistled downward. A strangled cry tore through the gloom—one foederatus toppled, ladder clattering from his grip. Another cursed in a harsh Germanic tongue, ducking behind a shield. The watchers rapidly cranked their crossbows for a second volley; those with manual crossbows did so more slowly than with their fellow soldiers with the newer models.
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Below, the foederati realized their stealth had failed. They reacted with chilling composure: some raised shields to form a rough overhead cover, others shoved forward. Two more ladders splashed into the moat, men half-lifting them at an angle. The leading wave dashed toward the stone wall, evidently hoping to scale before the defenders could reload.
“Second volley!” barked the sergeant. Strings hummed, and new bolts rained down. Marcus watched one burly foederatus jerk backward, a quarrel lodged beneath his collarbone. But still, more men kept coming. They formed a wedge behind the mantlet-like shields, pushing toward the base of the wall. Marcus’s mouth grew dry. This was far more coordinated than the morning’s fiasco.
“Get ready for melee!” The centurion’s cry spurred every swordsman and spearman on the rampart. Marcus gripped his short sword in sweaty palms, heart pounding. He could see shapes at the wall’s base now, hooking the top of a ladder onto a protruding stone. The rungs quivered under the weight of men climbing. Another ladder found purchase a few paces farther along.
Sergius cursed, dropping his crossbow to seize a spear. “They’re actually scaling!” he gasped.
Marcus rushed to one ladder, where a crossbowman was fumbling with a third shot. “Push them off!” the crossbowman hissed. Marcus noticed a specialized long pole—a ladder pike—lying at the ready. Grabbing it, he slid its hooked end over the top rung, trying to shove the ladder away from the wall. But the men below braced it with impressive strength. The ladder shifted, but wouldn’t drop.
A savage roar from below preceded the first foederatus soldier’s head appearing at the rampart’s lip. Marcus instantly flung aside the pike and drew his sword. The attacker lunged up, a broad-bladed axe in hand. Marcus swung downward with all his might, blade scraping the side of the man’s shield. Sparks flew, the impact jarring his wrists.
Another crossbow bolt hissed overhead, narrowly missing both of them. The man on the ladder bared his teeth in a fierce grin. Marcus thrust again, this time connecting with the attacker’s forearm. The foe hissed in pain but kept climbing, hooking an arm over a crenelation. Marcus hammered the pommel of his sword down, forcing the man’s shield aside. That gave the crossbowman beside him a clear shot. Thunk. The bolt embedded in the climber’s chest. With a gurgling cough, he toppled backward off the ladder.
Below, the rest of that ladder’s climbers flinched. Some tried to keep going. Another stepped up, face hardened by discipline. Up he climbed, but as his helmet cleared the rampart, Sergius slammed a spearpoint into his shoulder from an angle. The blow didn’t kill him outright, but knocked him off balance. He fell with a splash into the moat’s shallow edge.
Breathing fast, Marcus lurched over to the next ladder. He glimpsed men near the top, and a few Roman defenders frantically hooking pikes, trying to pry it free. At last they succeeded, the entire ladder tilting precariously. The top rung slipped, scraping the parapet. Then gravity took hold, sending it and the men clinging to it crashing into the water below. Their splash was followed by anguished shouts.
Bolts continued to zip from overhead as crossbowmen found vantage points. In the faint moonlight, Marcus saw bodies strewn around the moat’s bank, some writhing, others deathly still. Yet the foederati were no rookies. They quickly recognized that the defense was too heavy. On an order in their guttural tongue, the survivors began pulling back, half-lifting their wounded. Two men heaved a battered ladder away from the wall, collecting their fallen comrade who groaned on the ground.
A wave of relief and surprise washed over Marcus. They’re withdrawing. Already? He realized these men had never intended to risk an all-out siege alone. It must have been a probing night assault. They tested the watchers, tasted the defenders’ crossbow wrath, and now retreated in good order.
He leaned forward, panting. It wasn’t over, of course—arrows or bolts might still whizz up from below. But the orchard line was alive with flickers of movement as the foederati extricated themselves. He saw them dragging the wounded with remarkable discipline, no chaotic flight like Crassus’s levies earlier that day. A soldier with a shaft in his thigh was half-draped around a comrade’s shoulders, no man left behind if they could help it. Another cluster took time to heft a limp figure onto a broad shield and carry him off.
Sporadic crossbow shots kept them from re-forming for another attempt. The defenders unleashed a final volley, but soon had to cease, as the foederati vanished into the orchard’s depths. The orchard rustled, then stilled.
When it became clear the enemy had fully withdrawn, a ragged cheer broke out among the men on the wall. They’d won, and swiftly. Marcus dropped to a knee, exhaling shakily, adrenaline fading. Sergius and Fabius clapped him on the shoulder. Many watchers were panting from the short, brutal clash. The smell of sweat, damp clothing, and fresh blood lingered in the air.
Light from a newly unshuttered lantern revealed the battered top of the parapet. A few defenders bore cuts or bruises, though none seemed fatally wounded. Two crossbowmen rummaged for extra bolts, scanning for any sign of a second wave. The centurion approached, eyes bright with adrenaline.
“Well done,” he said in low tones. “They tested our watch, and we repelled them. Keep an eye out for more. This might just be the first approach.”
Men nodded grimly. Marcus’s heart hammered, body slick with sweat despite the cold. He wiped his sword on his cloak, noticing the blood smears left behind. “By the gods,” he murmured, glimpsing one of the dead foederati at the wall’s foot. “They’re fearless, but our crossbows are… unstoppable at range.”
Marcus stared out at the orchard again, half-expecting a renewed assault. But all was quiet, save for the night wind rustling charred branches. The brush with death, the clang of steel, the swirl of brutal action— it had lasted mere minutes, yet felt longer. He forced a deep breath to center himself.
“Do we send out a patrol to confirm they’re gone?” someone asked behind him. The centurion shook his head. “Not wise, not in darkness. We hold the wall, keep crossbows at the ready. At dawn, we’ll check the moat for casualties or dropped gear.”
So the watchers settled back into position, every sense on high alert. The faint tang of smoke from the orchard drifted on the breeze, reminding them that a single misstep in vigilance might cost them their fortress, their lives. And though the adrenaline spike had passed, none of them would find easy rest tonight.
Marcus cast a quick glance at Sergius, who offered a shaky grin. “We live to see another sunrise,” Sergius whispered.
Marcus managed a nod, though his gut still churned with tension. In that short and savage clash, at least a dozen foederati had fallen, while the defenders had escaped with minor wounds. It was a resounding success, but he knew all too well how precarious that success was. The enemy had tested them. Next time, the foederati might come in greater numbers, or attempt a new tactic. Their pulling out wounded so methodically spoke to their deadly competence.
The slow hours of darkness stretched ahead, and Marcus Petronius accepted that vigilance was his only shield.
2th of August 476 AD
From the vantage point atop Ravenna’s western gate—the Porta Aurea or the Golden Gate—Romulus Augustus surveyed the destroyed outer city with guarded apprehension. Early sunlight tinted the ramparts in hues of pale gold, but the emperor’s mood was anything but serene. The horrors of the past few days clung to his mind like a grim pall. Despite this temporary lull, he refused to let himself believe in peace. And so here he stood, at a post typically used by sentries, his small figure outlined against stone battlements as he waited to see who had come under a white flag.
He only knew from the watchers’ signals that an envoy had arrived—bearing a shield overhead to signify peaceful intent. Bishop Felix, flanked by two cathedral guards, had ridden out under Romulus’s grudging permission to determine if the offer of parley was genuine. The bishop’s silhouette was visible through a slight morning haze, just outside arrow range. Orestes and Dux Flavianus were absent from this gate at the moment, attending to other sectors of the walls, though they would no doubt hear of the parley soon. For now, Romulus wanted only to see, to judge, with his own eyes.
Below, at the foot of the gate, the bishop and his attendants had come to a halt. Additional watchmen observed from the ramparts. Romulus caught sight of the small group that had approached from enemy lines—four or five men, well-dressed in Roman cloaks. One wore the robes of a senator. As they passed a quick security check by the bishop’s guards, Romulus’s heart gave a jolt of disgusted recognition: Senator Gaius Lepidus, a key supporter of Crassus. One of the traitors.
The tension in Romulus’s chest sharpened. He wanted no part of Lepidus’s talk—nor did he relish hearing pleas for mercy. But he forced himself to remain. The city’s watchers had parted ways in the courtyard at the top of the gate, giving Romulus an open vantage as Lepidus and Bishop Felix conferred a few paces below, near the base of the ramp.
Romulus found himself stepping closer to an opening in the parapet. He could hear Felix’s even voice drifting upward:
“…I assure you, we have not withheld care for the wounded. Many remain in dire condition on the field, but our men bring them to the small infirmary near the eastern wall, so they may be treated, provided it doesn’t threaten our defenses.”
“Y-yes, your Holiness,” came Lepidus’s anxious tone. “We appreciate the bishop’s compassion—Crassus likewise has no wish to see men die untended. But there are… further proposals I carry. On behalf of him and others.”
At that, Romulus’s jaw clenched. He felt a surge of frustration. He leaned out, letting the watchers see him. Immediately, the bishop gestured upward, wordless indication that the emperor was present. Lepidus craned his neck and, upon spotting Romulus, bowed deeply—a gesture so subservient it made Romulus’s stomach knot in anger.
You bow now, having backed Crassus’s savage assault? he thought. Your hands have as much blood on them as any sword. His nails bit into the stone merlon. Part of him wanted to storm down the steps, fling Lepidus away, or call for archers to turn the so-called parley into a lesson for traitors.
A distant clank of armor signaled Magnus’s arrival to Romulus’s side. Clad in his plain but well-fitted breastplate—no longer just a guard captain, but now Comes and chief of the emperor’s personal guard—Magnus always seemed to appear precisely when Romulus wavered. He offered a quiet dip of his head, watchful gaze flicking from the emperor’s tense posture to Lepidus below.
Romulus inhaled sharply, pushing aside his anger. He could not afford an outburst, not here. With a terse nod at Magnus, he descended the short staircase along the battlement walk until he reached the place where Lepidus and Felix were talking. Bishop Felix parted slightly, letting Romulus come face to face with the senator. Lepidus bowed again, lower still, the movement reeking of desperation.
“We have no business, Senator,” Romulus declared curtly. “Collect your dead and wounded if that’s your purpose, and be gone. I’ve no interest in hearing more from Crassus.”
Bishop Felix, looking mildly uneasy at the tension, quietly interjected: “Your Majesty, the senator claims he brings crucial tidings—ones that might avert further bloodshed.” The bishop, for all his friction with Crassus, still believed in bridging some measure of peace or at least lessening the horrors of war.
Lepidus’s voice cracked with earnestness. “Caesar, I beg you to listen. This war teeters on a razor’s edge, and it does not only threaten me or Crassus. Rome itself could—”
Romulus’s fury flared. He spun away, cloak swishing. “I said we have nothing to discuss.” He forced his legs to move, stepping to retreat, though part of him bristled with curiosity. What news could Lepidus possibly carry?
Desperation sparked in Lepidus’s eyes. “Imperator!” he called after Romulus’s back. “Is it not the emperor’s duty to care for all Romans? I swear upon my name, the fate of Rome may hinge on what I have to reveal.”
Romulus paused, heart pounding. He sensed Magnus shifting behind him, quiet but ready. If this was some ruse to lure him into a false step, that line—“the fate of Rome”—was precisely the pitch that could hook him. Romulus fought a surge of conflicting emotions: distrust, curiosity, anger. The boy in him wanted to storm off, refuse. The emperor in him recognized that ignoring intelligence might be fatal.
He exhaled, words grating out. “If you have urgent tidings, tell them to the bishop. Or better—tell them to my guard. I won’t indulge private whispers from one who joined Crassus’s cause.”
Lepidus stiffened, a flicker of frustration crossing his features. “I… This news is for your ears, Caesar, and for no one else’s. Except perhaps in strict confidence. If our cause is lost and Crassus fails, it does not mean we want Odoacer to tear down what’s left. Please.”
Magnus cleared his throat softly, stepping forward. “Senator. The emperor has spoken. You’ll not have a secret audience with him.” His gaze flicked to Romulus, looking for confirmation. Romulus’s curt nod told him to continue. “If you truly bring vital information, you can convey it to me, the emperor’s guard captain. Then I shall pass it on—if I find it credible.”
Lepidus’s face tightened. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of protest. But one glance at Romulus’s stony expression told him it was pointless. Reluctantly, he dipped his head, beckoning Magnus closer. Romulus observed as Lepidus leaned in, whispering, his voice too low for others to catch more than a murmur. The senator’s hand twitched with each hushed phrase, and occasionally Magnus gave the slightest nod. Only once did the guard captain’s composure slip—a sharp flicker of surprise in his eyes—before he resumed his neutral mask.
Then Lepidus stepped back, posture rigid, as if awaiting a verdict. Magnus moved back to Romulus' side and lowered his voice. “My Emperor,” he said, “Lepidus claims that many around Crassus are disillusioned. They wish to defect to your side—provided they can prove their sincerity. They say Odoacer’s planning a feint tomorrow night from the south, with great spectacle, while the main assault breaks from the north with rams against the less used northern gate and fresh ladders to take the city by storm.”
Romulus’s pulse hammered. Another major assault, this time cunningly disguised. A sense of bitter relief mingled with dread. It sounded plausible—Odoacer was no fool, and the city’s northern walls might be weaker in certain sections. He kept his face impassive, though inside he reeled at the sudden seriousness of Lepidus’s news.
Magnus continued quietly, “Furthermore, Lepidus says if we accept further communication, their group of conspirators will send a messenger in three days, at night, to near the hidden entrance between this Golden Gate and Porta Flamini. He begs that we do not dismiss them outright—they wish to sabotage Odoacer from within, once we prove we’ll accept them back.” The guard captain’s expression tightened. “It seems they truly fear Odoacer far more than they fear us now.”
Silence settled in. Bishop Felix, though not party to the details, sensed the shift in atmosphere. Lepidus stood, shoulders braced, waiting for the emperor’s reply. Romulus felt a swirl of emotions roil: indignation that these traitors would come begging help, caution about a possible trap, a reluctant acceptance that this intelligence could be critical.
Eventually, Romulus drew himself up, facing Lepidus with a gaze that burned with a controlled fury. “You have your request: we have heard your message,” he said, voice taut. “Convey this to your co-conspirators: we will watch for proof, and we will see if your intelligence is accurate. If we find you lying—”
Lepidus bowed so low his cloak brushed the dirt. “Caesar, I understand. I vow it is no lie. And in three days, we shall strive to show good faith.”
The tension thrummed in the morning air, an odd hush around them. Even the bishop, seldom at a loss, said nothing, letting the heavy moment rest. Magnus placed a steady hand near Romulus’s shoulder, ready to guide him away from the gate if the parley turned sour.
Romulus exhaled, tempering his anger. “Take your wounded. Bury your dead. You’ve been offered more courtesy than you deserve. This parley ends now.” He pivoted away, cloak swirling. The boy inside him, still roiling, wanted to shout a final condemnation for all the heartbreak these men had caused, but the emperor in him recognized the necessity of silence.
Behind him, Lepidus stiffened, then took a few steps backward, retreating under the watchful stares of the bishop’s guards. As he prepared to leave, he offered one last imploring nod to the bishop, who responded with a faint gesture of blessing.
“May God guide your hearts back to the light,” Bishop Felix said softly.
Moments later, Lepidus and his small party departed, shield overhead once again, crossing back into no-man’s-land. The bishop conferred quietly with the soldiers near the gate, ensuring the retrieval of enemy dead could proceed under a short truce. Then he, too, made his way inside, presumably to continue ministering to the troops.
Up on the battlements, Romulus halted, releasing a shaky breath. Magnus came up behind him, as always. “My lord,” he said softly, “shall I pass word of Lepidus’s claims to Orestes and Flavianus?”
Romulus nodded absently, gaze drifting beyond the walls where Lepidus’s retinue vanished behind the husks of burned structures. “Yes,” he murmured. “We’ll see if their warning about tomorrow night is real. If it is, we must prepare the walls on both southern and northern flanks. And about that hidden entrance… keep it under strict guard these next days.”
Magnus bowed. “I’ll see to it personally.”
