1th of August 476 AD

  Late afternoon light slanted through the high windows of the palace council chamber as Emperor Romulus Augustus entered the council chamber. The thick scent of sweat and old smoke lingered in the air—a grim testament to the morning’s savage fighting. By now, word of their “great victory” had spread among the defenders, but as Romulus stepped inside, he sensed that triumph alone did not define the mood. Too many questions hung in the air.

  He found his usual seat at the rectangular table, where he was flanked by Bishop Felix in his dark robes and Magnus, the Comes of his personal guard. Orestes stood to one side, arms crossed, exchanging a terse word with Dux Marcus Flavianus. Around them gathered half a dozen other high-ranking officers: centurions of the infantry and crossbowmen units, and the tribunes. They all snapped to attention at the emperor’s arrival.

  Romulus nodded, motioning for them to sit. “Let us begin,” he murmured. He could still picture the battered bodies lying along the moat—hundreds of Crassus’s conscripts who would never rise again.

  Orestes’s booming laugh cut into Romulus’s thoughts. The Magister Militum seemed in high spirits, his sharp eyes dancing with a certain fervor. “Seven hundred at least,” Orestes declared to the officers, brandishing an informal tally sheet. “That’s how many the enemy lost in a single morning’s attempt to scale our walls. And we? A mere handful injured—a sign of our might.”

  Some of the captains exchanged grins, relief marking their faces. “Praise be,” one murmured.

  Bishop Felix cleared his throat, stepping forward in his measured way. “Indeed, praise be to God. Let us not forget the hand of divine providence in this. My priests walked the walls at dawn, offering blessings—our defenders fought with holy conviction.” His voice carried a note of solemn satisfaction.

  Romulus glanced at the bishop, appreciating the morale boost Felix brought, yet acutely aware that battles were rarely decided by faith alone. The newly improved crossbows and cunning traps had done plenty of the work.

  Flavianus, however, remained silent. Standing near the table’s end, his posture was rigid, lips pressed thin. Romulus saw Orestes spot that hesitation with a predatory gleam.

  “What’s the matter, Dux?” Orestes called, loud enough for the entire council to hear. “Are you so rattled by the carnage you can’t savor a good day’s victory? A man of your ‘elevated rank’ ought to be elated, especially after this victory.”

  Flavianus stiffened at the barb—“a man of your elevated rank”—a reminder that Orestes still saw him as an upstart who rose beyond his station. Romulus felt a flicker of tension. This dynamic had simmered since the moment he elevated Flavianus to Dux. Orestes viewed the man’s promotion with poorly concealed resentment.

  Magnus cleared his throat. “With respect, Magister, perhaps we should hear Flavianus’s report. He’s the one who tallied the casualties.”

  Orestes gave a dismissive wave. “Yes, yes, let’s have it.”

  All eyes shifted to Flavianus. The Dux exhaled, his jaw working as though chewing on words before letting them out. “We did achieve a significant success,” he began, voice steady but subdued. “Crassus’s levies took the brunt—perhaps seven hundred dead or gravely wounded, while we count only thirty injured, two critical. By the grace of God and by our crossbows, we lost few. That is cause for relief.”

  He paused, gaze flicking around the table. “Yet I worry about the manner in which we won. The enemy’s greatest losses fell on the conscripted levy. Odoacer—who has the better-trained, well-equipped foederati—barely committed them. He sacrificed Crassus’s men, letting them bleed so he could watch us fight, learn our defenses, measure our crossbow range and accuracy.”

  A hush spread. Felix’s approving smile dimmed; some of the other officers grew thoughtful, turning pages of their notes or tugging at the edges of their cloaks.

  “That’s exactly so,” Flavianus continued. “They tested our responses: how quickly we can bring reinforcements along the ramparts, how effectively we can concentrate crossbow volleys. Now Odoacer has more information. We can’t assume he’ll rush blindly at us.”

  One of the captains spoke up, “With respect, Dux Flavianus, was it not wise to target their officers? I heard that once we trained crossbows on the Palatini, the enemy’s assault collapsed.”

  Orestes let out a short chuckle. “That was a stroke of brilliance, I’ll admit. Tactically, we should have considered it sooner—cutting off the head of their assault. We recognized how the Palatini were corralling the levy forward like cattle. Killing them sapped what little discipline the conscripts had.” He nodded. “Yes, we’ll keep that in mind for future battles.”

  Magnus folded his arms. “It was indeed wise. Every time we saw an officer’s gleaming mail, we directed crossbow squads to concentrate fire. Not a glorious approach, but effective. War seldom concerns glory alone.” He inclined his head to Romulus. “Your crossbow initiative, Caesar, proved itself. The advanced reloading mechanisms and reinforced prods gave our men speed and range unmatched by common bows.”

  Romulus felt a mix of pride and unease. “Perhaps so. But that same tactic might not be as potent once Odoacer commits his own disciplined ranks. They might keep their leaders less exposed.”

  Bishop Felix took a step forward, staff lightly tapping the floor. “There is the question, too, of what becomes of the hundreds lying outside our walls. Both the living wounded and the dead. Are we not as Christians obligated to extend mercy, if only to bury them properly?”

  A murmur passed among the officers. Romulus eyed Orestes, noticing how his father’s smile dimmed at the mention of caring for enemy corpses.

  “Bishop,” Orestes said, “these men tried to kill us mere hours ago. They have only themselves to blame. Let them rot if it unsettles Crassus’s camp. It may even reduce their morale further.”

  Felix’s lips tightened. “There are unarmed peasants among those who marched. Many never wished to fight. We owe it to God’s teachings to—”

  “We do not risk opening the gates to collect them,” Orestes snapped. “We’d be fools. Odoacer might use that chance for infiltration or sabotage. You saw how cunningly he withheld his best. They might ambush any relief party.”

  Romulus lifted a hand to calm them. “We’ll not fling the gates wide. But perhaps we can offer a parley—a few hours’ truce if they want to retrieve their casualties. That is sometimes done, is it not?”

  Flavianus nodded. “A standard practice, yes. Let them gather their wounded, bury their dead. That costs us little and fosters some measure of respect. We can remain vigilant. If Odoacer or Crassus tries something under a white flag, we’ll respond.”

  Bishop Felix inclined his head in gratitude. “A humane approach, Caesar.” Orestes exhaled, not entirely pleased, but gave no further argument.

  One of the junior tribunes scratched his chin. “So let it be. We propose a parley tomorrow morning if they approach. Meanwhile, we should prepare for a night infiltration. Dux Flavianus, any further ideas about that?”

  Flavianus folded his arms, leaning over the map. “We double the watch on each section of the walls. Rotate men to keep them fresh. The crossbow squads remain at the ready with torches or braziers for nighttime illumination. We have limited oil, so we must place it wisely.” He pointed at certain towers. “We might concentrate flares around these vantage points to see movement in the moat. And we must secure the southwestern sector more thoroughly—some outbuildings remain that we didn’t demolish fully. Potential cover for infiltration.”

  Magnus nodded. “We also have scouts among the rubble. If Odoacer or Crassus attempts a quiet approach, they should raise alarm. The moat is still intact, but cunning enemies could fill small portions or slip across planks at dark.”

  Romulus watched the men’s faces, noticing the subtle shift from earlier exultation to a somber acceptance of the next fight. “And about the cavalry?” he asked gently. “We have some cavalry outposts well beyond the city. Shall we risk bringing them in?”

  Orestes shook his head. “No. Let them remain hidden, harassing supply lines. Now that the traitor Palatini told them everything about our gates, riding out in force from the city is too dangerous. Odoacer’s watchers would spot them the moment they emerged.”

  Flavianus gave a faint nod. “That was my thought as well. If we sally out, we risk an ambush. Better the cavalry remain outside, continuing to starve them of provisions.”

  A short, tense silence followed. The other officers murmured agreement. Romulus, heart pounding, found a degree of reassurance in the plan. “Then it’s settled,” he said, turning to Orestes. “We maintain the cavalry in the countryside. We keep the crossbows at high readiness. And we allow a measured parley if they approach for their wounded or fallen—under strict watch.”

  A mild wave of approval swept the council. Orestes’s earlier grin tempered somewhat, replaced by a determined set of his jaw. He cast one more glance at Flavianus, that resentment still simmering beneath. “Fine, Dux,” he said, deliberately stressing the rank. “Let’s see if you’re right about Odoacer. If we crush a night raid, it’ll be one more victory for us. Perhaps then you’ll relax.”

  Flavianus met the jibe with a polite inclination of his head. “Relaxation can wait, Magister. I’ll rest once we’ve seen Odoacer beaten. I fear that day’s not close.”

  A faint tension crackled. Romulus cleared his throat, stepping forward to fill the space. “You’ve all done well today,” he said, letting his gaze sweep the room. “We should not forget the men—our men—who were wounded. Thirty injuries might sound small next to the enemy’s losses, but each life matters. Provide them the best care we can. Bishop Felix, if your priests can comfort them, that, too, helps.”

  Felix stood straight, a measured calm in his eyes. “I shall dispatch deacons to the wounded immediately, Caesar. As for the rest of our defenders, they can see our victory as a sign of righteous favor, encouraging them through the night’s watch. The Church’s presence remains unwavering.”

  “Good,” Romulus said softly. “Then we each know our tasks. Let us see them done.”

  At that, the other officers rose from their seats or from where they stood, each offering a salute or bow. Conversations broke off as they filed out to carry fresh orders to the militia, crossbow squads, and watch officers. Orestes lingered behind, flipping through the casualty rolls, scowling at the mention of advanced crossbow design. Felix quietly slipped away, presumably to the main chapel. Only Flavianus and Magnus remained at Romulus’s side, the hush of the hall suddenly amplifying the distant bustle of a battered city.

  Romulus inhaled, exhaustion tugging at him. It was a “huge victory,” yes, but overshadowed by the knowledge that the foe had not yet truly bared its fangs. “Dux,” he said quietly, turning to Flavianus, “I hope you know how invaluable your counsel is. I won’t let my father’s barbs undermine your position. You’ve earned your rank.”

  Flavianus offered a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Caesar. I admit, it’s… challenging. But I’ll prove worthy of your trust.”

  Magnus, arms folded, gave a firm nod. “You already have, in my view. The crossbow tactic—aiming at their officers—was wise, though we wonder why we didn’t adopt it more deliberately before.”

  “Tricks like that will only go so far,” Flavianus responded. “But we’ll keep refining them. My men are already training to better identify enemy leaders quickly—especially Odoacer’s own captains, if they ever appear in range.”

  The three exchanged a grim understanding: war was never static, and any advantage would be ephemeral if they didn’t adapt. Romulus squared his shoulders, swallowing the knot of worry. “Let’s proceed, then. Tomorrow’s another day of war.”

  With that final acknowledgment, they parted. Romulus moved off with Magnus to oversee the updated night-watch rosters, while Flavianus strode away to organize the crossbow squads along the ramparts. And so ended a day of outward triumph and quiet unease. For though the defenders of Ravenna had won a stirring success, a deeper tension settled in Romulus’s heart: The true contest—Odoacer’s real assault—had not yet begun.

  Lepidus stood quietly at the side of the pavilion, hands clasped behind his back, trying to project an air of calm as confusion and anger rippled through the gathering. Inside the large command tent, the stale smell of sweat mingled with the acrid tang of lamp oil. Crassus, red-faced and visibly trembling, leaned over the central table, where a shaken officer had just finished giving a grim report of the failed morning assault.

  At the far end stood Odoacer and several of his Germanic officers. The notorious Comes Lucius Varius—reeking of stale wine—slouched in a camp chair, a near-empty flask on his lap. Pollio hovered near Lepidus, whispering anxious remarks under his breath.

  “Only a fraction even reached the moat…” the officer concluded, voice quavering. “They broke ranks once the Palatini were cut down. The men fled.”

  Crassus’s face flushed an even deeper hue. “Fled,” he repeated slowly, his voice tight with fury. “My men. They had the numbers to win but they ran off like dogs!” He shot a fierce glance at the officer. “I will see them punished.”

  Across the table, a faint ripple of mocking laughter came from one of Odoacer’s officer—a tall, hard-eyed warrior with braided hair and a set of silver-studded bracers. The corners of Odoacer’s mouth twitched in a thin smile, though he said nothing yet. Lepidus’s gut twisted: he knew that derisive chuckle would goad Crassus more than any formal insult.

  Crassus snapped upright, slamming a fist on the tabletop. “Who dares laugh?” His voice echoed in the enclosed space, and every conversation choked to a standstill. “By the gods, I’ll have your head for that.”

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  The Germanic officer lowered his gaze, still smirking. Pollio stiffened by Lepidus’s side, certain that violence would erupt. Crassus wheeled about to his Palatini guard. “Seize him—punish him now!”

  For a heartbeat, no one moved. The handful of Palatini standing behind Crassus exchanged uneasy glances, half drawing their swords. Meanwhile, Odoacer’s foederati stiffened, fists clenching around weapon hilts. Tension thickened the air; Lepidus found himself unconsciously inching backward.

  Then Odoacer cleared his throat. His voice emerged cold, commanding. “Enough.” The single word, spoken softly, carried a warning that halted everyone mid-motion. “Ulfgar,” he added, glancing at the man who had laughed. “Outside.”

  The officer gave a quick nod, stepping away from the table, escorted by two of Odoacer’s men. Lepidus saw a flicker of annoyance in the officer’s eyes, but he followed orders without protest. For a moment, nothing stirred but the heavy breathing of Crassus, still taut with anger.

  Odoacer turned his gaze on the Roman “emperor,” speaking with clipped calm. “He shall be punished, rest assured. Yet you should consider disciplining your own troops too, Crassus. They ran like startled goats—headless, no discipline, no pride. A shame, truly.”

  The remark was barbed, and everyone knew it. Lepidus felt Pollio tense again. Crassus’s cheeks regained that furious color, veins bulging in his neck.

  “You are one to talk,” Crassus hissed. “What did your men accomplish? We saw no glorious victory on your side either.”

  A faint grin tugged at Odoacer’s mouth. “That was hardly a minor skirmish.” His tone dripped condescension. “I felt no need to risk my best men on a morning’s whim. Let your troops break themselves against the walls first. It told me exactly how Romulus fights. You see, Crassus, I plan to test them again tonight—though differently.”

  Crassus leaned over the table, fists trembling atop it. “What do you mean, tonight?”

  Odoacer’s grin widened, feral. “Perhaps a night probe. Perhaps sabotage. Perhaps I will watch them scramble in the dark. None of this is your concern, so long as you remain useful with your… throng.” He gestured vaguely at the battered remains of Crassus’s levy. “But if you truly mean to be emperor, perhaps you should see to their discipline. I can’t do that for you.”

  Lepidus heard the near-mockery in every word. The other Germanic officers shifted, exchanging quiet chuckles. Comes Varius—still reeking of wine—slurred something under his breath about “green recruits,” but no one paid him heed.

  Crassus tried to speak, words catching in his throat. He shot a desperate look at Pollio and Lepidus, as if hoping they might confirm his right to be called emperor. Clearing his throat, he finally managed to respond. “I… I am Caesar of the West, rightful by the will of God and the Senate. I will not be dismissed!” He glared at Odoacer. “We have a bargain—I pay you to help me claim the throne in Ravenna. You are under my employ, not the other way around!”

  Odoacer’s eyes narrowed, and a hush fell so deep Lepidus could hear the faint crackle of a lantern wick. Pollio’s face paled. A corner of Lepidus’s mind reeled at Crassus’s rashness, but there was no turning back. Crassus had all but spat the words I pay you in Odoacer’s face.

  At length, Odoacer spoke. “You think coin alone buys my loyalty?” His voice was so soft that Lepidus had to strain to catch each syllable. “No. My men follow me for greater reasons—honor, survival, conquest.” He allowed the slightest shrug. “Gold is useful, but not the measure of everything. If you want my unwavering dedication, Crassus, you will earn it by proving your worth as a leader. Enforce your right to rule. Impress me with your armies, your cunning, your will to conquer. Then I might treat you as a true power.”

  He paused, letting the sting of that sink in. Crassus stood quivering, face blazing red, lips parted in outrage but no words emerged. Lepidus felt the silence grow suffocating—a hush pregnant with unspoken threats.

  Odoacer gave a curt nod. “In the meantime,” he continued, his tone now businesslike, “my scouts tell me the moat is still intact. We must drain or fill sections if we want to assault effectively. Command your levy to start digging ditches around the city perimeter, to redirect water and reduce that moat. Build more sturdy siege engines—provided they can even manage that.” He snorted. “Not the flimsy contraptions we saw this morning.”

  A faint wave of laughter spread among the Germanic officers. The Palatini present, scowling in the background, said nothing—few were in a position to defy Odoacer now. Lepidus sensed Pollio bristle at the insult, but he, too, held his tongue.

  “Furthermore,” Odoacer added, “there’s a crossing to the south, about ten miles out. Romulus’s men guard it fiercely, limiting our movement toward the port or to the city’s eastern flank. I suggest you send some of your men to harass them. If we let them keep that crossing, it grants them easy supply runs or evacuation. We want them penned in, starving and desperate.”

  He straightened, turning away in what could only be described as a deliberate gesture of dismissal. “That is all. I have matters to attend to.”

  Crassus, trembling with indignation, flung out a hand. “You— you dare to dismiss me? I am Caesar! A Roman Emperor! You do not simply walk away.”

  The entire tent went still. Lepidus’s heart drummed in his ears, watching how Odoacer paused, half-turned, and let a slow, dangerous grin spread across his features. “You style yourself Caesar, do you?” he replied softly. “Then enforce it. Make the world bow, or at least me.” He shrugged lightly, an edge of scorn twisting his mouth. “Until then… I owe you nothing beyond the terms of our mercenary contract—and not more.”

  A hush fell so deep it felt like a vacuum. Everyone’s eyes flicked to Crassus, who stared back, speechless, his face a tapestry of fury and helplessness. Lepidus felt a pang of pity for the man. A so-called emperor, overshadowed by a warlord who held the real advantage.

  Finally, Odoacer offered a small, almost sarcastic bow. “We shall speak more soon—once your troops start draining that moat and forging better siege gear. Good day, Emperor Crassus.” His tone dripped with condescension. With that, he strode out, his officers trailing after him. The silence lingered until the sound of their footsteps faded.

  Inside the tent, Crassus inhaled sharply, fists clenched. “Coward,” he muttered, voice shaking. “He coddles his troops, letting my men die… and dares insult me.” He raked a hand through his hair. “But he’ll see. Once I muster more resources—once I reclaim the Church—once—”

  Drunken Comes Varius tried to lift his flask in a hollow toast, then promptly spilled half its contents. No one helped him. Pollio merely stared at the table, looking miserable. Lepidus recognized the gloom in the posture of every Roman officer present, each burdened by the reality: they were stuck in an alliance with a man who had little respect for them, and they lacked the strength to break from him.

  Crassus glanced around the room, realized no one would challenge Odoacer on his behalf, and scowled deeper. “Fine,” he said, the word full of bitterness. “We’ll do as he says—for now. I’ll order the levy to dig those blasted ditches, gather actual lumber for real siege equipment. But mark my words—once we breach those walls, once I prove my rightful place, Odoacer will regret mocking me.”

  With that, the war council dissolved, leaving the tent in a sullen hush. Lepidus and Pollio trailed after Crassus, hearts heavy, the sting of humiliation still fresh.

  Lepidus trailed a pace behind Crassus and Pollio, the three of them picking their way through the muddy pathways that veined the camp. The early evening sky dimmed overhead, stained in dusky hues, as scattered groups of levies trudged back to their tents or lingered around smoking braziers. Near the outskirts, a grim hush fell; the wounded from the day’s assault now lay moaning under ragged canvas shelters. The entire atmosphere seemed heavy with defeat and uncertainty.

  Yet here, away from prying ears, Crassus’s demeanor shifted dramatically—calmer, more deliberate. Lepidus felt the difference in the man’s gait and the measured set of his jaw. Gone was the flushed fury that had nearly sparked a bloodbath in Odoacer’s pavilion. Now Crassus carried himself with a cold, calculating resolve.

  He paused by a spot of trampled grass and glanced over his shoulder. “Lepidus… Pollio,” he said, his voice quiet but clear over the clamor of distant blacksmith hammers. “Tell me honestly—do you think I can challenge Odoacer?”

  Lepidus blinked. Just minutes ago, they had watched Odoacer demean Crassus in front of their officers. Pollio shot Lepidus an anxious look, uncertain if a truthful answer might spark Crassus’s anger again. But something in Crassus’s bearing suggested he truly wanted candor, not flattery.

  Cautiously, Lepidus spoke first. “My lord, Odoacer has ten or twelve thousand well-armed foederati. You have…eight to ten thousand levies, no small sum, but they’re under-equipped, reeling from defeat. Right now, you… cannot match him in open battle.”

  A sigh slipped from Pollio’s lips, as if relieved that Lepidus had voiced the hard truth. Crassus’s face remained unreadable for a moment, then he nodded. “Yes. Precisely.” A wry smile tugged at his mouth. “Then he won’t see me as a threat.”

  They exchanged puzzled glances, Pollio’s brows knitting in confusion. Lepidus felt a cold prickle on the back of his neck as Crassus continued, voice low and intense: “I’m not blind. Odoacer fancies himself the next power in Italy. He believes me a fool—someone to bleed my levy on Ravenna’s walls while he stands aside, waiting for the kill. But you see, that same arrogance is a weakness. He will not fear my moves. That is how I’ll slip a dagger between his ribs, metaphorically speaking—or literally.”

  “Metaphorically… or literally?” Pollio repeated, blinking.

  Crassus let out a humorless chuckle. “We all know Odoacer intends to kill me eventually. He sees me as a pawn. And once Ravenna falls—if it does—my usefulness ends. Better I kill him first, secure the foederati, seize the city for myself.” He paused, letting that sink in. “We can’t wait until the walls crumble. By then, Odoacer’s men will be unstoppable. We must strike soon, while he’s fixated on draining moats and harassing defenders. Before he can claim Ravenna”

  For a moment, Lepidus couldn’t quite reconcile the image of Crassus from earlier—raging, humiliated—and this clear-eyed strategist calmly planning regicide. Pollio seemed equally astonished, mouth parted slightly. But the logic was undeniable; if Odoacer truly harbored ambitions for the throne, Crassus’s crown was in jeopardy.

  Pollio found his voice. “My lord, how… how do you plan to kill a man like Odoacer? His guards are formidable, his own officers fiercely loyal. He’s rarely alone.”

  Crassus gave a thin smile. “That’s where we use cunning. I need both of you.” He nodded at Pollio. “You, Pollio— you have a gift for negotiation, for bribes. I want you to find your way into Odoacer’s retinue. Perhaps pay off a minor clerk or messenger in his circle. Then bribe the cook or serving staff. Have them poison his wine or soup. Do it discreetly, carefully. The less direct involvement from me, the better.”

  Lepidus stiffened at how matter-of-factly Crassus spoke. Poison. Not a pitched battle or sly dagger in the night, but a cold, quiet murder. Pollio inhaled, struggling to hide his alarm. “You’re… certain the servants can be bought?”

  Crassus waved dismissively. “Everyone can be bought for the right sum. The important part is secrecy. If Odoacer suspects for a moment that I’m behind it, he’ll end me first. So you must slip among his staff, —better if you can hire someone who can do it in your stead— than bribe them in small increments. Promise more once the deed is done. Then vanish before suspicion lands. Understood?”

  Slowly, Pollio nodded, though his face was pale. “I— yes, Caesar. I can try. But it’s extremely dangerous.”

  Crassus glanced at Lepidus. “Danger is all around us. I’d rather risk the poison plot than watch Odoacer claim the prize and then take our heads. Now, Lepidus…” His gaze hardened. “You must contact Romulus’s forces within Ravenna.”

  Lepidus opened his mouth in shock. “Why would I—?”

  “To keep them informed of Odoacer’s movements. Let the defenders know that Odoacer’s main push might come at night, or that he’s focusing on that southern crossing. If we’re cunning, we can force Odoacer into a pinch between the city and us once he’s weakened. If Romulus’s men coordinate with me behind Odoacer’s back— I might suddenly come out on top.”

  Pollio stared, breath catching. “You mean… form a secret arrangement with the same city we’re besieging?”

  A flicker of amusement crossed Crassus’s face. “Oh, we’ll keep up appearances, launching halfhearted attacks or draining the moat. But if they realize I can feed them Odoacer’s plans they may lower their guard to us. We may even bribe some of them to open a side gate for us. There are many possibilities. Imagine it if both sides grind each other to dust while we just ride in on an open side entrance to take Ravenna by surprise. The best case scenario is for us to take out Odoacer and Romulus on the same day.”

  Lepidus felt the magnitude of this plan swirl around him— betray Odoacer, collaborate with Romulus and betray him as well, all while outwardly maintaining the siege. It was brazen, dangerous, and ironically reminiscent of Odoacer’s own cunning. Lepidus’s pulse raced as he considered the implications.

  “And how exactly do I contact them?” Lepidus asked, forcing calm into his tone.

  Crassus shrugged. “That is your craft, Senator— you’ve brokered alliances, managed hush deals in the past. The Church has exiled us, but money can still talk. Ravenna has merchant families, watch captains, old acquaintances of yours. Bribe the right folks, pass messages. A piece of intangible good faith might do wonders. The city’s intelligence on Odoacer’s next steps will carry weight. Keep it secret. If Odoacer catches wind, we’re done for.”

  Lepidus nodded, tension coiled in his belly. “I’ll try. But it won’t be easy. The city’s closed off. The watchers at the gates are thorough.”

  Crassus scoffed, “I don’t need you strolling through the main gate. Use subterfuge. Pay a nighttime runner who can slip by. Or produce a letter with false addresses. I leave the details to you. But do it soon.”

  Silence settled over the three men. Pollio’s eyes flicked between them, still clearly reeling from the boldness of the plan. Lepidus inhaled, letting the stale camp air fill his lungs. “Time is short,” he agreed softly. “If Odoacer sees us as incompetent, he won’t suspect we’ll strike first. But if we wait until the city walls fall, we lose any advantage—he’ll crush you the moment Ravenna is his.”

  Crassus’s lips curled in a grim smile. “That’s exactly right.” He briefly laid a hand on Lepidus’s shoulder, unusual warmth in his voice. “I know you two see me as a volatile man. But I’m not ignorant or blind. I see a clear path: sabotage him from within. And with Romulus busy defending his city, we can angle ourselves to seize power in the confusion.”

  Pollio swallowed. “Very well, Caesar. I’ll do what I can. I’ll watch for opportunities to… reach the cook or the stablehands in Odoacer’s retinue. But if we slip up—”

  Crassus cut him off. “We all die, yes. Or worse. I trust your cunning to avoid that. This is war, Pollio. Everything is a risk.”

  Lepidus exhaled, steeling himself. “And I shall find a way to speak with or bribe men in Ravenna. Pass them Odoacer’s intended strategies. Maybe let them know you’re not their real enemy— that if it comes to it, you’d betray Odoacer for a foothold in the city.”

  Crassus nodded. “Exactly. Meanwhile, I will lead my men in the arranged tasks— draining moats, building new siege towers. Odoacer will see me preoccupied, incompetent even.” A glimmer of cold satisfaction sparked in his eyes. “He’ll never suspect the poison creeping under his nose.”

  A hush overcame them once more, broken only by distant camp sounds: pot-laden mules clattering, harsh words from weary conscripts. At length, Crassus pulled himself straighter. “Swear it— that you’ll keep your tongues still, share this plan with no one. Our lives hang by a thread.”

  The two senators exchanged glances and answered almost in unison, “We swear.”

  Crassus nodded curtly. “Then get to work. I’ll give you what coin remains from the war stash to grease palms, though it’s not much after Odoacer demanded so much for ‘mercenaries.’ Discretion is everything. May God favor us.”

  With that, he turned on his heel, cloak rustling, and strode away. Lepidus and Pollio lingered, staring after him in a mix of admiration and dread.

  Pollio finally let out a low whistle. “By Jesus balls, I never thought I’d see him so… calm. So set on a plan.”

  Lepidus tugged at his cloak. “Neither did I. But I suppose desperation sharpens a man’s wits. Let’s hope ours are sharp enough.”

  Quietly, they parted ways, each consumed with the tasks that now lay at their feet: to poison a powerful warlord, to feed intelligence to a besieged city, all while hiding behind an outward show of loyalty.