2th of August 476 AD

  Romulus Augustus stood near the chamber’s wide windows, gazing out at Ravenna’s afternoon sun as it cast elongated shadows across the mosaic floor. The room was small by palace standards—once a modest reception hall with high ceilings but few decorations beyond plain columns. Now it served as a makeshift strategy room. Inside, only four figures gathered: Romulus himself; his father Orestes, Magister Militum; Dux Marcus Flavianus, and Magnus, the head of the Palatini guard and the head of the emperor’s personal guard.

  Orestes broke the hush first, his voice carrying a curled cynicism that immediately drew every ear. “So it seems Lepidus and the other senators have already set their knives out for Crassus. What a surprise.” He tapped a finger on a map spread on the table. “A line of setbacks, and they start devouring one another. It’s almost poetic, wouldn’t you say?”

  He let out a soft, mirthless chuckle, glancing at Romulus with a flicker of triumph. “That’s the nature of those serpents. Crassus, the coward who betrayed us—” his tone iced over as he spat the words, “—now suffers betrayal himself. I might almost pity him, were I not so thoroughly pleased.”

  Romulus understood the rancor in Orestes’s eyes. Crassus had once been Orestes’s trusted protégé, only to desert him for power. And now, apparently, Crassus was the victim of his own allies’ scheming. Romulus inhaled, trying to project calm. “Even so, Father, we should focus on the intelligence that Lepidus brought us, not the petty drama behind it. The question remains: can we trust any of it?”

  Flavianus, arms folded over his chest, shifted forward. His calm voice quietly carried authority. “It’s difficult to ignore what Lepidus claims: that Odoacer plans a major assault tomorrow night, with a southern feint but a true hammer blow on the northern walls. But as we all know, misinformation is a standard tactic to sow confusion. If we overcommit to defending the north, the enemy might strike from the south at first light, when our men are exhausted and spread out.”

  Magnus moved a step closer to the table. The late-afternoon sun caught on the faint lines of stress around his eyes. “To add to that, we see them digging trenches around the moat. The levy is out there now, churning mud to drain some sections. If they succeed, parts of the moat might be shallow enough for a breach. They might do so for a dawn assault, or an actual night push—both remain plausible.”

  Orestes exhaled, crossing his arms. “The fool’s rabble can dig all the holes they want. Lepidus’s story about a cunning two-pronged approach might just be a cover. Or it might be the truth—he’s cunning enough to peddle the real plan, certain we’ll suspect a trick.” A predatory smile touched his lips. “But if that cunning turns on Crassus and Odoacer, so much the better.”

  Flavianus’s brow furrowed. “We can’t discount the possibility that Lepidus truly wants to sell out Crassus. Senators do have a track record of switching horses when the tide changes.” His tone was measured, but an undercurrent of tension gave away that he was equally suspicious.

  “Of course they do,” Orestes said, flinty satisfaction coloring every word. “Crassus made his bed with them; now they’re sowing it with knives.” He flicked a glance at Flavianus, something akin to scorn dancing behind his eyes. “You might have trouble relating to such things, Dux, seeing as your background is…less senatorial. But rest assured, I’ve watched these games for years.”

  Romulus sensed Flavianus bristle, but the Dux answered with forced politeness, “I’m sure your experience in that realm is unmatched, Magister Militum.” A dryness in his voice suggested he might have an unspoken retort. Instead, he turned to Romulus. “Caesar, the question stands: do we prepare our entire night defenses based on one piece of intelligence from a man who claims new loyalty to us? Or do we treat it as an unfound claim, keep the lines as they are, and risk them attacking precisely where we’re weak?”

  The tension in the room spiked. Romulus let the silence hang for a breath. Orestes looked ready to snipe again at Flavianus—no doubt a dig at his relatively fast rise through the ranks—so the emperor stepped in, laying a hand on the table to gather attention. “Let’s keep to the matter, please,” he said, letting some authority edge into his tone. “Magister Militum,” he addressed Orestes quietly, “we all know your position about Lepidus. But I need a strategic approach. The city can’t withstand a surprise if we guess wrong. If the enemy truly does attempt a southern feint, a northern hammer, how best do we prepare?”

  Magnus, arms at his side in a posture of calm readiness, spoke next. “We could choose a balanced approach: do not drastically alter the lines, but reinforce with double night watch along every section. Our crossbows proved effective at punishing open assaults. If Odoacer or Crassus tries to push at night, we’ll rely on similar methods. And if the moat is partially drained, we’ll still have watchers to respond quickly.”

  Flavianus nodded, relief visible in his features as he found someone with a middle ground. “Precisely. No sense in drastically reassigning men to the north if it’s a trick—and no sense ignoring the chance that a real assault might come. Doubling night watch at all walls, rotating them in shorter shifts to reduce fatigue, might hamper any infiltration or surprise scaling. Meanwhile, the comitatenses handle the ramparts as usual, but remain prepared for a rapid redeployment if a sector is clearly threatened.”

  Romulus considered, chewing on his lip. “Yes, that might be wise. The men are already weary from last night’s tension, but a double watch in shorter cycles may keep them from dropping with exhaustion.” He looked to Orestes, waiting for the Magister Militum’s reaction.

  Orestes exhaled, a faint scowl. “It suffices. We cannot ignore the chance Odoacer is out there, planning more cunning tricks. The levy, worthless as they are, can still distract us. If Lepidus is right, the real blow might be from Odoacer’s best foederati. They’ll aim for a swift breach in a less-guarded sector. And if it fails, they retreat fast with minimal casualties, or switch to a dawn assault.” He shrugged with guarded annoyance. “So yes, keep watch. Let them hammer themselves tired. Meanwhile, we exploit every advantage—more crossbows on the parapets, more sharpened stakes where the moat is shallow.”

  Flavianus raised a hand. “On that matter, additional sharpened stakes require time. With the moat lowering in sections, we can reposition stakes to hamper crossing. We’ll do it by day or by early evening if possible.”

  “And your cavalry?” Orestes asked, an edge creeping into his voice. “Surely you want them hidden outside to intercept supply lines again? That’s your plan, correct, Dux?”

  Flavianus stiffened at the subtle challenge. He nodded. “Indeed. The cavalry hamper foraging parties, making it harder for Crassus and Odoacer to sustain the siege. If they suspect we hold fewer cavalry inside the walls, they might attempt small raids, only to find the horsemen picking them off in the countryside. It’s worked thus far.”

  Orestes gave a wry smile. “So you trust your secret outposts more than the city stables.” A flick of tension sparked in his eyes. “Let’s pray that doesn’t backfire if Odoacer tries a broad siege on all roads.”

  Romulus stepped forward a fraction, letting his posture break the swirl of tension. “Father, Dux Flavianus’s plan has proven effective, or we’d see more robust supply caravans reaching Crassus. They struggle with rations as is. Let’s trust the cavalry strategy for now.”

  A moment’s taut silence. Then Orestes nodded with reluctant acceptance. The animosity between the two men was still there, simmering under the surface, but they reined it in.

  Magnus then cleared his throat. “We can’t disregard infiltration attempts either. The Palatini stands ready to reinforce gatehouses at night. If there’s a hidden gate or postern Odoacer’s men think they can force, we’ll guard each thoroughly. I’ll order an immediate inspection of locks and bars across smaller entrances. That’s the best middle ground: we are vigilant on the walls, plus we double-check internal security so no infiltration from within can sabotage us.”

  Romulus found himself exhaling a breath of relief. The plan was shaping well: double watch, strategic coverage of every sector, cavalry outside, consistent internal sweeps. “It all seems prudent. Let’s finalize it. We deploy extra watchers along both the north and south by dusk. No drastic shift that would leave other quadrants under-defended. Crossbow squads remain flexible to respond anywhere an alarm sounds. Meanwhile, we keep an eye on the moat trenches. If the water recedes, we fill that area with sharpened stakes and oil-laden obstacles.”

  Flavianus bowed his head. “I will see to it. I’ll speak with the engineers about the stakes, and reassign fresh men to the night rotations.”

  Orestes flicked a last glance at the map, his cynicism returning. “And let Lepidus think we are falling for or ignoring his ‘noble gesture,’ whichever suits him. If he truly wishes to help, we welcome any sabotage of Crassus. If not, we lose nothing. The scorpion kills the snake, or vice versa—makes little difference to me, as long as they bleed each other dry.”

  Romulus frowned, disliking the brutal edge of his father’s words. But he forced himself to remain focused. “Yes, we keep an open door, but do not rely entirely on that door.”

  Magnus discreetly nodded. “Agreed. If Lepidus truly wants to feed us intelligence, we’ll weigh it, but not gamble all on it.”

  They fell silent for a moment. The late afternoon light shifted, painting the mosaic floor in warm gold. Romulus realized how deeply war had overshadowed every corner of their lives. Even in the hush, the faint echo of men drilling in the courtyard reached them. In the distance, a blacksmith’s hammer rang out. The city braced for the next blow.

  “Then it’s settled,” he said at last, letting his gaze move between them. “We implement the middle ground. Thank you, all of you, for speaking frankly.”

  A flicker of tension eased from Orestes’s jaw. Flavianus stood a fraction straighter, as though prepared to carry out orders without further friction. Magnus offered a calm half-smile, crossing an arm over his chest in acknowledgment.

  Romulus allowed a thin smile to form. The mood was far from jovial, but at least they stood as one—dominated neither by Orestes’s bitterness nor by Flavianus’s caution. United, if only in that moment. Now, with the crucial decisions made, the three men turned to exit, leaving Romulus alone for a moment’s reflection.

  He stepped to the window, eyes drifting over the battered skyline of Ravenna. War loomed outside, but inside these walls, he had reason to hope. They’d thwarted Crassus and Odoacers’s last assault, and tomorrow or the next day they might face another. He prayed their synergy would hold, that no cracks would appear in their carefully laid plan. Because if they failed, the city’s fate could mirror that of countless ruined corners of Rome, consumed by flame and betrayal.

  Magnus paused outside the small council chamber, letting the hush of late afternoon settle over him. Rays of fading sunlight angled through the arched corridor windows, casting long, wavering silhouettes on the walls. The day’s weight pressed upon him—the burden of leadership he had never quite asked for, but which now belonged to him by necessity and decree. He inhaled slowly, willing his pulse to steady, and then pushed through the wooden doors.

  Inside, a half dozen senior Palatini officers stood waiting. Their posture stiffened the moment he entered, the dim glow of the setting sun tinting their armor a dull copper. They gave him curt nods—salutes more in spirit than in form. Even in their eyes, he could read the anxious mixture of pride and sorrow that had stalked them these past weeks.

  He offered a nod in return, walking to the low wooden table near the chamber’s center. A swirl of dust motes glimmered in the warm, waning light. Behind him, one of the younger officers shut the door, muting the echo of voices and footfalls from the corridor outside.

  Magnus cleared his throat. “Good evening,” he said quietly, letting his gaze sweep over each weathered face. “Thank you for gathering on such short notice. I know your men need rest—they’ve been on the walls, patrolling gates, watching for infiltration.” He paused, exhaling softly. “I also know we’ve all felt the sting of recent betrayals.”

  At that last word, a dark flicker passed over the officers’ expressions. He could sense their anger, the raw sting of guilt that four hundred of their own had defected to Crassus with the previous Comes. Some among them had called those lost Palatini their brothers, men they’d trained and bled with. Yet here they were—loyalty left in tatters.

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  “They were our own,” Magnus continued, voice subdued. “Comrades. Brothers in arms. And they turned on us, deserted the Emperor, and spat on their oath.” Silence fell, thick with anger and shame. For a heartbeat, no one moved.

  A slender officer named Proculus, standing near the table’s corner, finally spoke up. “We cannot pretend that wound has healed, Comes. But we remain. We who stand here do so out of conviction—our oath is unbroken.”

  The others murmured assent, fists curling at their sides. Magnus looked at them—men who’d honed their craft in Ravenna’s palaces and training grounds. “I’ve asked you here,” he said, “to hear the truth of how your companies fare. I need to know if morale holds. I need to know if any more among us harbor sympathies for Crassus. Or if Odoacer’s gold might sway them.”

  Proculus shook his head vehemently, setting his jaw. “None that I command, Comes. My men remain faithful. We’ve no illusions left about Crassus’s mania. The rumor alone of his drunken officers and starved conscripts is enough to make them scorn his cause.” A few nods followed, another officer chiming that the Emperor’s success on the walls had rallied hearts.

  Magnus let the room sit in quiet for a moment, gauging their sincerity. Eventually, he inclined his head. “All right. Then I trust your word. Trust is something we must cultivate carefully now.” He swallowed the bitterness that threatened to rise. “Four hundred defectors is no small blow. And we must show the Emperor we remain worthy of being called the Palatini—elite among his men, the men who stand between him and any threat, external or within.”,

  He saw old Decimus, a grizzled veteran with a silver-streaked beard, straighten his shoulders. The older man tapped a fist lightly to his chest. “We will not fail, Magnus. That betrayal was a sickness we’ve cut out. We stand with Romulus Augustus, as we once stood with the old line of emperors.”

  A wave of renewed certainty coursed through the assembly. The memory of those desertions had haunted them, but it also steeled them now. Sensing the intensity in the air, Magnus nodded. “Then hear what I need from you. The comitatenses are holding the walls—Flavianus’s men. They’ve done well repelling assaults. Our tasks are different. Ours is the intangible threat: infiltration, sabotage, or another internal betrayal. If a single gate is left unwatched, an enemy infiltration could bring ruin from within. So we must be vigilant. We secure gates, guard the Emperor’s person, watch the side passages, and maintain readiness to ride out if necessary.”

  He stepped around the table, resting both palms on its edge as he surveyed them. “We’ll rotate two squads for every city gate, especially the lesser-used ones. The last infiltration attempts were spotted near the Porta Classe, the eastern gate—who’s in charge there?”

  A short, broad-shouldered officer named Priscus raised his hand. “I am, Comes,” he said. “We’ve doubled the watchers there. I patrol it myself each dawn, ensuring no suspicious traffic. We’ll keep it locked tight except for crucial supply deliveries.”

  Magnus accepted this with a sober nod. “Good. We do the same on all minor gates. Post watchers on the ramparts overhead, day and night. Don’t let any rumors slide—any complaint of seeing unusual figures or strange lights at night, we check thoroughly.” He felt a knot tighten in his chest as he recalled the fiasco with the old Comes. “We must ensure no crack in our vigilance.”

  A wave of agreement swept the room. Then, as if in unison, they all realized the same question hung in the air: how to restore their battered reputation? As if reading their thoughts, Magnus sighed. “We must also prove ourselves worthy again—wipe away the stain of our brothers’ treachery. The Emperor is kind, but he’s under no illusions; he wonders if more of us might turn. Let’s show him we won’t.”

  An undercurrent of hushed anger rippled among the officers. They bristled at the mere notion. “We’ll show him,” Proculus echoed. “The Palatini shall be known once more for unwavering loyalty, not for betrayal like the old Praetorian Guard.”

  Magnus let the heat in their words anchor him. He felt that same anger, the sting of betrayal that still woke him at night, remembering those who left to follow Crassus. “Let us harness that anger, but remain level-headed. We’re no good if we let rage cloud our duty.” He paused, inhaling. “Now—on to practical matters of how we use ourselves more effectively.”

  He pointed to the battered map pinned on the wall, where the city’s gates and towers were marked. “Here, here, and here—these smaller posterns pose the greatest risk of infiltration. We station two watchers inside, two outside—on top of the usual guard. They rotate every four hours to avoid drowsiness. Next, our cavalry contingent is small, but we keep it on short notice. If we suspect any sabotage or see any suspicious movement from the enemy lines, we can’t rely solely on Flavianus’s men, who are pinned to the walls. We move out ourselves. Our duty is to remain flexible. We’re the Emperor’s last safeguard.”

  Decimus grunted approval. “And we keep an ear out for disloyalty within the ranks?” he asked tentatively.

  Magnus’s jaw tightened. “Yes. I don’t want a witch hunt. But if you suspect someone is in contact with traitors, or shows suspicious changes in behavior, you inform me at once. We do not let any second betrayal bloom.” An uneasy hush followed, but none objected. Fear of false accusations warred with the desire to root out treachery. Magnus hoped they’d use reason, not paranoia.

  He let out a slow breath, letting the men absorb the gravity of the plan. “We stand at the cusp of more battles. Odoacer might attempt infiltration, or sabotage. Crassus might lure more of you to his side with promises. We stand as the shield behind the lines. Understood?”

  One by one, they straightened, clasping arms in a silent vow. The late sunlight, once bright, now glowed faintly at the horizon, painting the room in coppery gloom. The flicker of a torch set shadows dancing on the wall.

  Magnus felt tension behind his eyes. He was tired—tired of war, tired of politics. But as the new Comes, his shoulders bore the Emperor’s trust. He studied their faces: anger, shame, determination. All bound by the oath to defend Romulus Augustus. “I know you all. You’re good men,” he said quietly. “We have no choice but to be better now—better than we were. Let’s restore the honor stolen from us.”

  A wave of hushed agreement moved through the officers, a fervent sense of unity. Proculus stepped forward. “We’ll not fail you, Comes. Nor will we fail the Emperor.” A chorus of murmurs followed.

  Magnus nodded, stepping back from the table. “We begin our new patrol rotas at once. Spread the word. Alert your centurions and watch captains—call them in if needed. I want every detail ironed out by nightfall.”

  They saluted—some with fists to breast, others bowing heads in acknowledgment—and began to file out. A swirl of quiet tension and resolution lingered in the air.

  As the last officer departed, leaving the chamber still and steeped in half-light, Magnus lingered. He swallowed the knot in his throat as he recalled the faces of those four hundred who had deserted, men he once joked with during guard duty or trained with at dawn. Their absence burned like a raw wound. But in that ache, he found renewed resolve.

  They would show that the Palatini was not broken, that loyalty could not be fully shattered by the betrayal.

  He let out a long breath and snuffed the nearest torch, letting the room fall into near-darkness. The hush pressed in, reminding him of the hours of night that still awaited. The path was uncertain, but the Palatini had their orders, and so did he: to prove themselves anew.

  Nightfall draped Ravenna in shadows, deepening the silence inside the half-abandoned courtyard Orestes had chosen for his meeting. In the torchlight, jagged shapes stretched across worn mosaic floors—images of lions, gladiators, and faded triumphs long forgotten. It was fitting, he thought bitterly: once a place of heroes, now a silent witness to whispered betrayals and fading honor.

  He stood calmly, a commanding figure in heavy military cloak, feeling the cool night breeze brush his face. Before him stood the gathered chiefs of Ravenna's foederati. These were the tribesmen—Goths, Heruli, Rugii, and a scattering of lesser-known peoples—who had stayed loyal when so many had deserted to Odoacer's banner. Tonight their eyes watched him closely, reflecting torches and moonlight alike, glittering with ambition, curiosity, and a restless hunger for glory.

  "Warriors," Orestes began, his voice steady and commanding, cutting through the low murmur of the gathered foederati leaders. "You’ve seen with your own eyes what these walls can withstand. Crassus’s men and Odoacer’s foederati threw themselves against our battlements and broke like waves upon rocks. We shattered their resolve; we’ve exposed their weakness."

  He paused briefly, savoring their nods and murmurs of agreement.

  "But tomorrow night," he continued firmly, "they will come again.. Our emperor has been given word of a two-pronged assault, a feint from the south and a genuine attack from the north. They think their deception will throw us off guard, but their arrogance will be their undoing."

  At these words, murmurs rippled through the crowd, eager eyes glinting. Orestes felt their restlessness, understood it deep within his bones. These men had stayed mostly in reserve until now, relegated to rear guard or secondary duties, and that idleness had started to fray their patience. They were warriors, after all—proud men, eager to prove themselves worthy of reward, spoils, and the respect that came with victory.

  "They have fought so far with conscripted peasants and half-hearted probes," Orestes said, a slight sneer curling his lip. "Yet you, my trusted allies, have had little chance to taste the true glory of combat. That changes tomorrow night."

  He let his words linger, allowing anticipation to build before continuing.

  "We have bled Crassus dry, broken the morale of his conscripts. But now it is Odoacer himself who comes to test our strength. He believes he can crack Ravenna with disciplined foederati, warriors like you—men born to sword and spear, as he himself boasts." Orestes’s eyes narrowed, his voice becoming colder, more measured. "So it is you who must show him how terribly mistaken he is."

  A murmur of approval rose among the leaders. Guntharic, a towering Gothic chieftain with dark eyes and a scarred cheek, stepped forward, voicing the question that hung heavily in the night air: "When will we join the fight, Magister Militum? We tire of watching from behind."

  Orestes regarded Guntharic with a calm gaze. "I know your men are restless, Guntharic. I see your warriors sharpening their blades, pacing like wolves denied their hunt. Tomorrow will be your moment. Tomorrow, you will prove your worth to the emperor—and to Rome."

  He gestured at the leaders gathered in the shadows. "We will not sit behind stone walls, passively awaiting their blows. No. I intend something bold, something that will shake our foes’ confidence to their very core. While Odoacer throws his troops against the walls, you will lead our counterstroke."

  Guntharic grinned widely, his scarred face twisting with eager anticipation. The other foederati exchanged satisfied glances, their restlessness turning rapidly to fierce excitement.

  A wiry Herulian chieftain named Wulfila spoke next, his voice quick and enthusiastic. "What is the plan, Magister?"

  Orestes stepped closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "While our crossbows rain death upon their northern attack, and the comitatenses beat back the feint in the south, your foederati will surge forth from the hidden sally ports near the western towers. Odoacer believes he will deliver a crushing blow tomorrow to us but how far he is from the truth. We will show him the strength of the true warriors. We will avenge our death and claim honor. Our enemy's arrogance has made them careless, and we will punish that carelessness with a swift, ruthless sortie."

  Guntharic nodded approvingly. "They will never see us coming. It will sow chaos in their lines."

  "Exactly," Orestes said. "Odoacer assumes you, our loyal foederati, remain safely tucked inside Ravenna’s heart. Tomorrow night, you will prove him wrong. While his best men batter themselves senseless against our defenses, your blades will cut through their flanks. With surprise on your side, you will scatter his reserve, burn their siege engines, and remind them why true warriors fear the night."

  Another ripple of excitement rose among the assembled chieftains. Wulfila spoke again, eager and sharp. "When shall we prepare our men?"

  "Begin tonight," Orestes instructed firmly. "Ready your men discreetly—arm them lightly, as you’ll need speed above all else. Carry only what weapons and armor you need. When the signal comes, strike like thunder."

  A grim smile touched Guntharic’s lips. "You can rely upon us, Magister. Our blades hunger."

  Orestes returned the smile coldly, fiercely. "Good. Because Ravenna—and Rome itself—demands victory. With this action, you prove your worth, secure lasting favor, and carve your names into legend."

  His gaze swept across each chieftain, watching their eagerness, feeding their thirst for glory. He needed this victory as desperately as they did—perhaps more. Recent setbacks, betrayals by Crassus and disloyal palatini, weighed heavily upon his reputation. But tomorrow night could change all that, he thought. A single masterstroke to silence critics, to erase doubts.

  He turned back toward the map spread on the stone table behind him, illuminated faintly by torchlight. The foederati clustered close, listening intently as he outlined routes, signals, fallback positions, and final preparations.

  Long into the night they strategized. Every detail was scrutinized and debated, until each man knew his role thoroughly. Gradually, confidence burned brighter in their eyes, and their murmurs turned to laughter, low jokes, and boasts of past glories.

  Finally, with plans set and men eager, Orestes straightened, looking up at the sliver of moon high above Ravenna’s walls. "Rest now," he commanded firmly. "Tomorrow night, you will write history in blood and flame. Together, we show our foes that loyalty and valor are not dead—that Rome still breathes and fights through warriors like you."

  Guntharic placed a heavy hand over his heart. "To victory, Magister."

  Orestes nodded solemnly, echoing the sentiment in his own heart. "Yes. To victory."

  He stood quietly as the foederati leaders dispersed, each striding off to prepare his men. When finally alone in the courtyard, Orestes exhaled slowly, feeling weariness tug at his shoulders. Tomorrow’s gamble would determine more than the fate of Ravenna—it would determine his legacy, his honor, perhaps even his survival.

  He clenched his jaw, embracing the fierce determination within him. Crassus’s betrayal had left a bitter wound, and recent humiliations had cut deep. But tomorrow night offered redemption. A chance to silence critics, punish treason, and restore the pride of his name.

  With another steady breath, Orestes turned and left the empty courtyard behind. The shadows swallowed him, but his resolve remained unyielding, stronger than the stones of Ravenna itself.

  Tomorrow night, he promised silently, the world would know the cost of betraying Rome.