Orestes sat in the dimly lit confines of his office in Mediolanum, the winter light filtering through narrow windows, casting faint patterns on the stone walls. The air was thick with the smell of parchment and wax, mingling with the faint metallic tang of armor stacked neatly in the corner. On the heavy oak desk before him lay an assortment of reports, scrolls, and letters, their seals broken and scattered.
His eyes skimmed over the latest correspondence from the northern front. The first reports, arriving days prior, had spoken of a massive raiding party of Alans crossing the Alps. Odoacer had wasted no time reacting to the threat. According to his messengers, the barbarian leader was already gathering his foederati forces to counter the incursion.
Orestes’ fist clenched as he reread the earlier report. How dare he overstep like this?
Odoacer’s unilateral move gnawed at him. He was the Magister Militum of Italy—the supreme commander of Rome’s forces. Any military mobilization required his authorization, and yet Odoacer hadn’t even sent a request, let alone a formal notice. Instead, the barbarian leader acted as if the power was his alone, rallying his troops and making bold declarations of his intent to defend Roman borders without so much as consulting his superior.
Orestes tossed the report aside with a low growl of frustration. He had tried to summon Odoacer to Mediolanum to explain his actions, but every attempt to do so had been met with delays, excuses, and vague assurances. “The situation in the north demands my immediate attention,” one messenger had relayed. “I will travel south as soon as the matter is resolved.”
Days turned into a week, and no confirmation of the Alan raiders’ presence had come. No scouts returned with news of battles fought, no terrified peasants fled south with tales of burning villages. Orestes’ instincts, honed by decades of political and military maneuvering, told him something was amiss. Why would Odoacer invent such a threat? What is his game?
The candle on his desk flickered as he leaned back, the wooden chair creaking beneath his weight. His thoughts churned, trying to piece together the barbarian’s motives. If this was a ploy, what was Odoacer after? Was he testing the limits of his authority, or was there a larger plan at play?
The door creaked open, and a messenger stepped in, his boots echoing on the stone floor. The young man held a sealed scroll in his hands, the imperial crest of Ravenna embossed on the wax.
“A letter from Caesar Romulus Augustus, Dominus,” the messenger announced, bowing as he extended the scroll.
Orestes raised an eyebrow, his tension momentarily replaced by curiosity. “From my son?” he said, more to himself than to the messenger. He reached for the letter, his fingers brushing the wax seal. For a moment, he hesitated. Letters from Romulus had grown rare since the boy had taken on the mantle of emperor, and the weight of this unexpected message was not lost on him.
“Leave me,” Orestes ordered.
The messenger bowed again and retreated, closing the door softly behind him. Orestes examined the scroll for another moment before breaking the seal and unfurling the parchment. The neat, deliberate handwriting of his son filled the page, and as his eyes moved over the words, his expression darkened.
Orestes’ grip on the letter tightened, his knuckles whitening as the words sank in. Betrayal within their ranks, Lucius Varius absconding with funds, and Lepidus—that snake—at the heart of it. He had known tensions were brewing, but to see it laid bare in his son’s handwriting filled him with equal parts fury and dread.
And then there was Odoacer.
If Odoacer’s mobilization was tied to this treachery, then the so-called raiding party was nothing more than a ruse—a smokescreen to obscure his true intentions.
He set the letter down carefully and rose from his chair, pacing the room as his thoughts churned. The emperor’s command was clear—he was to avoid direct confrontation with Odoacer and return to Ravenna. Yet the prospect of retreat grated against his pride as a general and a father. To pull back now would mean abandoning Mediolanum and ceding the north to the whims of a barbarian leader.
But Romulus’ warning echoed in his mind, reinforced by his own growing suspicions. If he acted rashly, he risked not only his life but his son’s as well. He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to calm. He would not let emotion dictate his next move.
Orestes wasted no time. His resolve sharpened, he summoned his tribunes immediately. They arrived one by one, their boots echoing in the dim corridors of Mediolanum’s command center. When all were assembled, he laid out his orders with a tone that brooked no dissent. Every comitatenses soldier in the region was to be gathered at Pavia without delay. Supplies would be stretched thin, and morale would undoubtedly falter as the issue of delayed wages lingered.
“You will tell the men that their pay awaits them in Ravenna,” he instructed, his voice firm. “It is not ideal, but it will buy us time. Emphasize that their loyalty will not go unnoticed nor unrewarded.”
The tribunes exchanged wary glances but nodded in agreement. Orestes knew this would do little to ease the resentment festering among the ranks, but it was the best he could offer under the circumstances.
Once the tribunes were dismissed, he turned his attention to the foederati. Orders were dispatched to all still loyal or uncertain tribal leaders, summoning them and their forces to Pavia. There was no time for drawn-out negotiations or promises. Orestes’ messages carried the weight of both necessity and veiled warning: those who hesitated would find themselves on the wrong side of history.
As the messengers departed to carry out his commands, Orestes allowed himself a moment of silence. The room felt suffocatingly empty without the steady stream of movement and voices. He poured himself a cup of watered wine, but before he could take a sip, the door swung open.
Paulus strode in, his expression grim. Orestes didn’t need to ask how much his brother already knew. Paulus had a way of keeping himself informed, and the current upheaval was impossible to hide.
“So, we’re leaving Mediolanum?” Paulus asked, crossing his arms as he leaned against the edge of the table.
“We are regrouping at Pavia,” Orestes corrected without looking up. He sifted through a pile of reports, his focus divided but his tone sharp.
“Regrouping,” Paulus repeated, his voice edged with skepticism. “And what will the men say when they see us retreating from the capital of the north?”
Orestes finally met his brother’s gaze, his expression hard. “They will say what I tell them to say. Mediolanum is indefensible under current conditions. Pavia is better fortified and strategically positioned to control the Po.”
Paulus tilted his head, considering the explanation. “To defend the Po or to strike when Odoacer’s forces try to cross it?”
Orestes didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he turned back to the maps spread across his desk. His silence was answer enough.
Paulus straightened, his arms dropping to his sides. “Pavia isn’t a bad choice,” he admitted. “Its walls will hold better than these, and the river is a natural barrier. But if you’re thinking of using it to counter Odoacer…” He let the thought linger, waiting for a reaction that never came.
The roads southward grew rougher as the days dragged on. Lepidus sat in his carriage, shifting uncomfortably as the wheels creaked and jolted over the uneven surface. The once-proud Roman highways, the lifeblood of an empire, had long since fallen into disrepair. Cracks spiderwebbed across the ancient paving stones, and weeds sprouted defiantly between them. In some places, the road had all but disappeared, reduced to a muddy track by the passing of carts and the erosion of time.
Progress was slow, the journey plagued by frequent delays. Axles cracked under the strain of the broken terrain, and wheels sank into unexpected ruts. Twice, the caravan had been forced to halt entirely to repair a broken-down carriage, the laborers cursing under their breath as they wrestled with splintered wood and rusting nails. At one point, a bridge spanning a small stream had collapsed, forcing the entire column to wade through the icy waters, their boots slick with mud as oxen strained to drag the laden carts forward.
Lepidus peered out from behind the curtains of his carriage, his expression a mixture of irritation and weariness. He could see Pollio riding beside him, his face as grim as the overcast sky above. Crassus, further ahead, rode with an air of calm detachment, his posture unaffected by the jolting pace of the journey. The Palatini escort, though disciplined, showed signs of fatigue as their polished shields and gleaming helmets caught the occasional glint of sunlight filtering through the clouds.
As they neared Rome, the signs of neglect began to fade, replaced by an eerie sense of grandeur. The roads, though still cracked, bore fewer weeds. The air seemed to shift, carrying with it a faint sense of anticipation. By the time the caravan crested the final hill, the Eternal City spread out before them, its silhouette a testament to both its glory and its decline.
Lepidus leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he took in the view. The great Aurelian Walls loomed in the distance, their massive towers rising like sentinels over the city. Though weathered and scarred, the walls remained formidable, a reminder of Rome’s enduring strength. Beyond them, the domes and spires of temples pierced the sky, their marble facades glowing faintly in the afternoon light. Smoke curled lazily from countless hearthfires, painting the horizon in hues of gray.
As they descended toward the gates, the clamor of the city grew louder. The steady hum of voices, the clatter of hooves on stone, and the distant cries of merchants filled the air. The road widened, lined now with villas and mausoleums, their mosaics and carvings hinting at the wealth of Rome’s elite. Statues of emperors watched silently as the caravan passed, their faces worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain.
The gates themselves were a spectacle, their iron-clad doors etched with intricate reliefs depicting Rome’s triumphs of old. As the caravan approached, the gates creaked open, and they were swallowed by the city’s embrace.
Within the walls, the streets teemed with life. Crowds parted reluctantly to make way for the procession. Children darted between the legs of the Palatini, laughing as they dodged the wary glances of the soldiers. Merchants hawked their wares from stalls overflowing with goods—bronze trinkets, dyed fabrics, and fruits brought from far corners of the Mediterranean. Yet, amidst the vibrancy, signs of decay were unavoidable. Crumbling facades and shuttered shops spoke of fortunes lost, while beggars crouched in the shadows, their hands outstretched in silent plea.
Lepidus felt a pang of unease as he took in the scene. Rome was a city of contrasts, its grandeur and squalor interwoven like the threads of a tapestry.
The caravan wound its way toward the Forum, where the true heart of the city pulsed. The ancient columns of the Basilica of Maxentius loomed over the square, their sheer scale dwarfing the crowds below. Nearby, the Senate House stood, its once-pristine marble now tinged with the stains of time. Statues of long-dead heroes lined the plaza, their gazes fixed eternally on the horizon.
As the caravan came to a halt, Lepidus stepped down from his carriage, his boots striking the worn stone with a dull thud. He straightened his tunic and glanced toward Crassus, who dismounted with an air of quiet confidence.
Crassus turned to Lepidus, his lips curling into a faint smirk as he spoke. “Is everything ready?”
Lepidus nodded, his gaze sweeping over the throngs of people that had gathered around the Forum. “They’re all waiting for you,” he replied, his tone edged with both satisfaction and disdain.
Crassus’s smirk widened into a confident smile, and he adjusted the clasp of his cloak before striding toward the Senate House. The crowds thickened as they neared the steps, a chaotic mix of commoners, beggars, and opportunistic merchants drawn by the unusual assembly of elites. Their presence was a stark reminder of the city’s fraying edges. Ragged men and women thrust their hands forward, pleading for scraps or alms.
Lepidus followed Crassus closely, his nose wrinkling at the smell of unwashed bodies and damp wool. His gaze flickered over the crowd with thinly veiled contempt. “Vultures,” he muttered under his breath, loud enough for Crassus to hear. “As if they’ll gain anything from this gathering.”
Crassus glanced sideways at Lepidus, his expression amused but faintly irritated. “Let them gape. It’s the closest they’ll come to power.”
The two men passed through the heavy bronze doors of the Senate House, leaving the bustling crowd behind. Inside, the atmosphere was markedly different. The grand chamber was illuminated by shafts of sunlight streaming through the open arches, casting long shadows across the marble floors. Senators filled the curved rows of seating, their voices a low hum of anticipation and whispered conversations. The faint scent of incense lingered in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of polished armor worn by guards stationed along the walls.
Lepidus’s keen eyes swept over the assembly. While the chamber was packed, it was clear that a portion of the Senate was absent. Sections of the seating remained conspicuously empty. He leaned closer to Crassus and murmured, “They’ll come when the benefits are handed out. Cowards never miss their reward.”
Crassus let out a quiet chuckle, his confidence undiminished by the noticeable gaps. “They’ll fall in line soon enough,” he said. “We deal with those who have the stomach to be here.”
The two men moved to the central dais, their presence drawing the attention of the assembled senators. Conversations ceased as all eyes turned toward them, the weight of expectation heavy in the chamber. Crassus took his place at the forefront, his posture commanding and his expression resolute. Lepidus stood just behind him, his sharp gaze scanning the room for signs of dissent or disapproval.
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Crassus stepped forward, his presence commanding as the chamber fell into expectant silence. The faint echo of his boots against the marble floor added a rhythmic weight to his steps as he reached the center of the dais.
“How far have we fallen,” Crassus began, his voice deep and resonant, the kind that demanded not just attention but deference. “How far has Rome descended that a child—a mere child—now sits upon the throne and dares to rule over us? Over you, the Senate of Rome, the descendants of the men who forged an empire that stretched across the known world!”
He paused, his piercing eyes scanning the chamber, letting the weight of his words settle like a stormcloud. His tone shifted into barely contained anger. “How far have we descended, that the ancient families—those whose wisdom, courage, and sacrifice built this eternal city—must now endure the indignity of bowing to a boy emperor? A boy who is no more than a puppet to those who truly wield the strings, hidden in the shadows of Ravenna’s halls.”
A low murmur rippled through the chamber, a wave of unease and reluctant agreement sweeping over the senators. Some nodded solemnly, others muttered to their neighbors. Crassus raised his hand, silencing them with a commanding gesture that was as effective as it was effortless.
“But Rome endures,” he continued, his voice softening momentarily, taking on a tone of reverence. “Rome has endured the sack of Gauls, the flames of Nero’s folly, and the treachery of tyrants who sought to undo her from within. She has endured invasion and division, triumph and despair. Through all of it, through every trial, Rome has endured. And she will endure still.”
His gesture encompassed the chamber, his eyes sweeping over the men seated before him. “Look around you,” he urged, his voice growing in strength with each word. “Rome is not the boy in Ravenna. Rome is here. Rome is you. The Senate—the heart of her governance, the soul of her destiny.”
Crassus’s voice rose in tempo and power, each word striking like a hammer on an anvil. “Rome’s strength lies in the honest men who sit in this chamber, in the dignity of your families, in the legacy of your ancestors who bled to build this city. Rome is not a shadow of what it once was. She is merely waiting—waiting for us, her rightful stewards, to take back what is ours by right.”
The senators leaned forward in their seats, some gripping the edges of their benches, their attention rapt as his words burned into their minds. Crassus allowed his voice to soften again, weaving his tone into a thread of conspiracy and promise. “Join me, my friends. Together, we can cast off this yoke of shame, this humiliation of being ruled by a child. Together, we can restore Rome to her rightful glory. The eagle of Rome has not fallen—it waits to soar once more.”
He stepped forward, his voice reaching its crescendo, resonating with every corner of the chamber. “Join me, and together we will make Rome great again!”
The chamber erupted in applause, senators rising to their feet in waves, their voices joining in a resounding roar of approval. Some clapped furiously, their faces alight with fervor, while others shouted their agreements, their words echoing in the grand hall like a battle cry. The fervor was electric, a tide that seemed to swell with every passing moment. Crassus stood tall amidst the din, his posture unyielding, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips. Behind him, Lepidus stood with arms crossed, his eyes gleaming with triumph as he watched the Senate rally to their cause.
Titus Servianus wiped the sweat from his brow as he made his way through the crowded streets of Rome, the weight of the day’s labor still clinging to his aching shoulders. The merchant’s work had been grueling, the grain sacks impossibly heavy and the sun relentless. Yet, the few coins jingling in his pocket provided a faint sense of accomplishment, even if they would barely stretch to feed his family for another day.
As he neared the Forum, Titus noticed the growing crowd gathering outside the Senate House. The noise of the city seemed to shift, the usual clamor of merchants and beggars replaced by murmurs of anticipation. His stomach tightened. Crowds like this often meant something important—or at least a chance for food distribution. He quickened his pace, weaving through the throng of Romans jostling for a view.
Titus’s tunic, patched and faded, clung to his damp skin. His sandals, worn thin from years of use, slapped against the uneven stones of the street. He glanced at the towering marble columns of the Senate House, their grandeur a stark contrast to his own existence. The carved figures of emperors seemed to mock him, their frozen gazes indifferent to the struggles of men like him.
Rome, in all its splendor and decay, pressed down on Titus as he moved through the streets. To the rich, the city was a monument to power and history, a living reminder of Rome’s greatness. To Titus, it was a maze of crumbling insulae and overflowing streets, where the scent of baking bread mingled with the stench of open sewers. The marble-clad temples and statues were as unattainable as the stars, their beauty lost in the shadow of his daily toil.
The crowd thickened as he approached the steps of the Senate House. Titus craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening. He recognized the polished armor of the Palatini guarding the entrance, their spears gleaming in the sunlight. The sight of their disciplined formation gave him a pang of envy. To be one of them—a soldier with a steady pay and a purpose—seemed an unreachable dream.
As he moved closer, Titus overheard snippets of conversation. “Crassus is addressing the Senate,” an older man whispered. “They say it’s about the boy emperor.”
Titus frowned. He had heard rumors about the unrest in Ravenna, but politics felt as distant to him as the gods of Olympus. What mattered was whether today’s gathering would mean bread for his family. He shifted uneasily, his calloused hands brushing against the hem of his tunic. Around him, others seemed to share his hopes, their ragged clothing and gaunt faces a mirror of his own struggles.
The senators began filing into the building, their richly embroidered robes and jeweled rings gleaming in the sunlight. Titus watched them with a mix of resentment and awe. These men lived lives beyond his comprehension, their concerns centered on power and wealth while he fought to keep his children fed.
As the bronze doors of the Senate House creaked shut, Titus settled on the edge of the crowd, his arms crossed over his chest. He could hear muffled voices from within, but the details were lost in the murmur of the gathering. The energy in the air was palpable, a mixture of hope, fear, and curiosity.
The crowd in the Forum continued to grow, a sea of faces and voices blending into a cacophony of shouts, murmurs, and the occasional laugh. Children darted through the throng, their games oblivious to the tense anticipation hanging in the air. Titus shifted his weight uneasily, his calloused hands resting on his hips. His stomach growled faintly, a reminder of the meager lunch he had managed to scrape together after his labor. Around him, others shared the same gaunt expressions, their hollow eyes fixed on the Senate House.
An argument broke out a few feet from him—a gray-haired man shouting at a younger one about being pushed. The clash escalated quickly, drawing attention, but it ended just as abruptly when a watchman intervened, his cudgel raised in silent warning. The crowd, like a restless beast, swayed and murmured again, pockets of discontent rising and falling in waves.
The bronze doors of the Senate House creaked open, and the crowd surged forward, necks craning to see who would emerge. A man stepped into view, his every movement oozing self-importance. His finely tailored toga shimmered faintly in the light, and his face bore an expression of smugness so pronounced it seemed almost theatrical. Titus couldn’t help but sneer as he muttered to himself, “He’s never known a day’s work in his life.”
The man began to speak, his voice rising over the murmuring crowd, but it was lost to Titus in the din. His words, carefully crafted and no doubt meant to inspire, fell flat among those gathered outside the Senate House. The faces around Titus grew bored and impatient, the initial curiosity giving way to irritation. Titus could feel the restless energy building, a hum of dissatisfaction spreading like a spark through dry grass.
“Give us bread!” Titus shouted suddenly, his voice cutting through the monotony of the man’s speech. Heads turned toward him, and for a moment, he wondered if he’d made a mistake. Then another voice joined him, and another, until the cry became a chant. “Bread! Grain! Bread!”
The crowd roared in unison, their demand echoing through the Forum. Titus watched as the man on the steps faltered for the briefest moment, his smug expression twisting into one of disdain. He turned to the senators behind him, speaking quickly and gesturing toward the guards. One of the senators—a man with a balding head and a bejeweled hand—nodded and gave orders to a nearby guard. The guard turned and sprinted toward the inner chambers of the Senate House.
Titus felt a surge of satisfaction as the man on the steps struggled to regain control of the moment. The demands for bread grew louder, the crowd swelling with renewed energy. Titus could see the faint sneer return to the man’s face, but it was different now, tinged with contempt and irritation. To him, they were nothing but a mob, a sea of hungry faces that didn’t deserve his attention.
At last, the clattering of wheels and the groaning of wooden axles heralded the arrival of several carriages into the Forum. The crowd surged forward, the chant of “Bread! Grain! Bread!” transforming into a jubilant roar. Titus craned his neck, his heart pounding with anticipation. The carriages were packed to the brim with sacks of grain, their bulging forms secured with coarse ropes. A wild cheer erupted as the first cart came to a halt, its wooden frame creaking under the weight of its precious cargo.
The air grew electric, a mix of desperation and elation sweeping through the crowd. Men and women pressed closer, their hands reaching toward the grain as though it were manna from the gods. Titus felt himself carried forward by the tide, his breath quickening as he approached the carriages.
From his vantage point, he saw the smug-faced man raise a hand, attempting to calm the crowd. He opened his mouth to speak, but his words were drowned out by the growing fervor. The crowd had no interest in speeches or gestures. They wanted action, and they wanted it now.
“Give us the grain!” someone shouted, and the cry was echoed by dozens, then hundreds. The crowd pushed closer, and the guards stationed around the carriages stepped forward, their spears raised in a futile attempt to maintain order.
The first man clambered onto a carriage, his hands clawing at the sacks. A guard barked a warning, but it went unheeded. The soldier lashed out, the flat of his spear striking the man’s shoulder. He fell back into the crowd, but others quickly took his place, their hunger driving them forward with reckless abandon.
Titus felt the press of bodies around him, the heat and chaos overwhelming. He saw a gray-haired man clutching at the side of a carriage, his fingers gripping the wood as if his life depended on it. A guard stepped forward and, without hesitation, drove his blade into the man’s side. Blood spilled onto the stones as the man crumpled to the ground, his eyes wide with shock.
The crowd’s mood shifted in an instant. A roar of fury erupted as those nearest to the scene turned on the guard. Titus saw the soldier’s face twist in panic as fists and clubs rained down upon him. He stumbled, his cries of pain lost in the cacophony. Moments later, he disappeared beneath the mob, his fate sealed.
The guards around the carriages hesitated, their formation breaking as the crowd surged. The Palatini, stationed near the senators, closed ranks and began to retreat, their shields forming a protective barrier as they escorted the officials away from the chaos. Titus caught a glimpse of the smug-faced man, his expression now one of irritation and distaste as he was hurried toward safety.
With the guards retreating, the crowd swarmed the carriages. Men clambered onto the wooden frames, tearing at the ropes and tossing sacks of grain into the throng below. Each sack that hit the ground was pounced upon, its contents spilling out as desperate hands clawed for a share. Women held out their skirts to catch the grain, while children scrambled underfoot, scooping up handfuls from the dust.
Titus found himself near one of the carriages, his arms outstretched as a sack was thrown toward him. It struck the ground, splitting open to reveal a cascade of golden kernels. He dropped to his knees, his hands trembling as he gathered as much as he could into the folds of his tunic.
Around him, the chaos intensified. Fights broke out as men grappled for the grain, their fists flying in a frenzy of desperation. A woman screamed as her sack was torn from her hands, and a boy cried out as he was shoved aside. The Forum had become a battlefield, the air thick with the sounds of shouting, crying, and the dull thud of blows.
Titus pressed himself against the side of a carriage, clutching his haul to his chest. His heart pounded as he scanned the crowd, searching for a path to escape the madness. The carriages, now almost empty, stood as skeletal remnants of the frenzy, their broken frames creaking under the strain.
As the dust began to settle, Titus saw groups of men working together to carry away what remained of the grain. Others lingered, their faces streaked with sweat and dust, their eyes hollow with exhaustion. The Palatini and senators were long gone, retreating to the safety of the Senate House or beyond.
Titus rose to his feet, his legs shaky but determined. He glanced down at the grain cradled in his tunic, a small but precious prize. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep his family fed for another day. As he made his way out of the Forum, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of bitter triumph. The rich might sneer and scoff, but today, the people had taken what was theirs.
Titus moved quickly through the labyrinthine streets, clutching his meager prize as if it were the most valuable thing in the world. The further he went from the Forum, the more the grandeur of the city faded. The neatly laid stones of the thoroughfares gave way to uneven, muddy tracks. The smell of fresh bread and incense was replaced by the stench of overflowing latrines and rotting refuse. Shadows grew longer as the evening approached, and the familiar squalor of Subura, his home district, came into view.
The insulae, the towering apartment blocks, leaned precariously against one another as though the weight of the city itself had bowed their walls. Cracks spiderwebbed across their surfaces, and patches of hastily applied plaster clung desperately to the eroded brick beneath. Laundry lines crisscrossed above the narrow streets, heavy with faded tunics and patched cloaks that fluttered limply in the polluted breeze.
Titus stepped over a broken clay pot and side-stepped a stray dog gnawing on a scrap of bone. Children, their faces smeared with dirt, darted past him, laughing as they kicked a makeshift ball of rags. A woman perched on the edge of the street, hunched over a bucket of murky water, scrubbing at a stained tunic with mechanical repetition. The air was filled with the cacophony of voices—vendors hawking their wares, a mother scolding her son, and a group of men arguing loudly over a game of dice.
He reached the crumbling staircase that led to his flat, the wooden steps creaking ominously under his weight as he ascended. The faint scent of smoke from the communal brazier below wafted up, mingling with the sour smell of sweat and stale air that clung to the insula. Reaching the second floor, he navigated the narrow hallway, its dim light barely illuminating the graffiti-scrawled walls. A rat scurried across his path, disappearing into a crack near the door of his flat.
Titus pushed open the warped wooden door, the hinges groaning in protest. Inside, Claudia was sitting on a low stool, sewing a patch onto their daughter’s tunic. The children were huddled in the corner, their small faces lighting up at the sight of their father.
“You’re home,” Claudia said, her voice weary but relieved. She set the tunic aside and rose to greet him. Titus nodded and placed the grain carefully on the small wooden table that served as their only real piece of furniture.
“I brought this,” he said simply, his voice rough from the day’s exertion. He glanced at his children, who were now eagerly inspecting the grain, their excitement barely contained.
Claudia smiled faintly, her eyes softening as she ran a hand over the precious kernels. “This will make a fine stew,” she murmured. “Thank the gods.”
Titus sank onto a stool, the weight of the day’s events pressing down on him. The small room, dimly lit by an oil lamp, felt stifling despite the cool evening air seeping through the cracks in the walls. The single shuttered window offered no view beyond the alley below, where muffled voices and occasional shouts echoed through the night.
As Claudia set to work preparing the grain, Titus leaned back against the wall, his head tilting toward the ceiling. His thoughts flickered briefly to the Senate, to the men in their fine robes and polished words. They lived in a different world—a world of power and ambition, where their games decided the fate of the empire. But here, in Subura, their machinations meant little.
For people like Titus, life was a day-to-day struggle, one illness away from starvation, one injury from ruin. The grain he had brought home was a victory, but a fleeting one. Tomorrow would bring more uncertainty, more toil, and more sacrifices. The senators could fight their battles and craft their schemes, but for Titus and countless others like him, survival was the only war that mattered. In a way they were more Roman than the senators with their rich togas.
As he watched his children play with a handful of grain kernels, giggling at the simple joy of their small treasure, Titus allowed himself a rare moment of contentment. No matter how fleeting, this was his world—a fragile, beautiful fight to keep his family alive. Everything else was noise.
