Magnus stood at the edge of the barracks courtyard, his gaze sweeping over the row of empty bunks where, just two weeks earlier, his comrades had slept. A chill settled in his gut, despite the stifling heat of mid-July. He could still picture the moment they’d gathered their armor, slung spears across their backs, and walked out under the cover of dusk—four hundred Palatini turning their backs on the city, on Romulus, on their brothers-in-arms.
He exhaled slowly, a low hiss of air through clenched teeth. Betrayal. It tasted bitter on his tongue, more bitter than the stale bread he’d choked down for breakfast. For days he’d felt as though he were wading through a nightmare, watching as Crassus—with honeyed promises of power—lured some of the best soldiers Magnus had ever fought beside. The traitors had left without so much as a glance backward. And now, the Palatini who remained stood under a heavy cloud of suspicion.
He shifted his weight, the leather of his harness creaking in the silent courtyard. Officially, he was still a guard captain, entrusted with protecting Romulus Augustus. But in practice, trust was a fragile thing these days. The Palatini who had not joined Crassus were treated warily—some eyeing them with suspicion, others with resentment, as if waiting for them to slip away and join the traitors at any moment.
Magnus hated the tension that hovered like a thundercloud over every conversation. The city itself seemed to echo that tension: guards posted at the gates, rumors swirling about Crassus’s next move, murmurings of Odoacer’s support. No one knew how many more had been swayed by Crassus’s gold or the promise of revenge. And Magnus’s job was to keep a tight watch on the Palatini who were left, to make sure their resentment didn’t curdle into treason.
He walked the length of the courtyard, nodding silently to two sentries. They braced under his gaze, offering crisp salutes. Good men. Hardworking. Angry as hell, but in a different way—angry at Crassus for the betrayal, angry at themselves for not seeing it coming. That anger had fueled them through the last two weeks, spurring them to work harder, train longer, take on any task just to prove their loyalty to Romulus. Magnus admired them for that. At least most of them channeled their fury into something productive.
But not everyone was so direct. Some nights, Magnus spotted pairs of Palatini whispering in dark corners. Sometimes, it was just shared bitterness, a venting of frustrations. Other times, he wondered if they were weighing their own options, questioning whether they’d backed the right cause. Magnus couldn’t blame them for the doubt; Crassus had taken a substantial chunk of their elite force.
Walking through the archway that led from the barracks to the inner courtyard, Magnus paused to watch a group of soldiers drilling with spears. Sweat glistened on their arms, and the clack of spear shafts against shields echoed through the hot morning air. Two weeks of near-constant drills had forged a strange camaraderie among them. The men had their fears—everyone did—but by the gods, they were determined not to fail.
Magnus left the inner courtyard behind, traversing a narrow passage that led to Ravenna’s main thoroughfare. The hot wind rattled the canvas awnings of nearby workshops, carrying the pungent smell of boiled leather and freshly cut wood. As he emerged onto the street, his gaze drifted to a small knot of laborers hauling timber toward the eastern gate. They moved with weary determination, reminding him of how much had changed in just two weeks.
He thought back to those early days of confusion and mistrust, yet now, whenever Magnus ventured past the gates or into the heart of Ravenna, he found the young emperor at the center of everything—issuing instructions, inspecting supplies, checking the watchtowers. From dawn until the heat grew nearly unbearable in the late afternoon, Romulus was everywhere, determined to prove that he wouldn't abandon them.
Turning a corner, Magnus spotted the emperor himself, surrounded by a small entourage of palace scribes and an Alexandrian scholar whose sandaled feet and flowing robes stood out amid the armor-clad soldiers. Romulus wore a simple tunic—brownish from dust and sweat—hardly the attire of an emperor. But he moved with such purpose that no one seemed to question it. Locals paused their labors to watch him pass, some saluting, others bowing their heads in silent respect.
Magnus took up a discreet position behind them, close enough to hear snatches of conversation. He heard Romulus asking about the state of grain in the eastern granary, pressing a scribe for exact figures. The numbers he demanded, down to the last modius of wheat, made the scribe stammer as he flipped through his wax tablets. Then the group moved on to inspect a half-finished barricade at a critical city junction, where Romulus asked a laborer if more timbers would arrive before nightfall.
The swirl of activity was dizzying, and yet, Magnus marveled at how the boy emperor never seemed to tire. Morning to afternoon, he watched Romulus roam the city walls and the outlying villages, checking on militiamen reinforcing ditches or scouring the marshlands for vantage points. Sometimes Romulus made a point of talking to the volunteers themselves—city youths who’d never held a spear until now, older men who still remembered the last time barbarian hordes threatened Italy. Seeing the emperor in their midst seemed to galvanize them. A few months ago, many had scoffed at the idea of a teenage emperor. Now, after these two intense weeks, a cautious respect had begun to replace their scorn.
The day’s oppressive heat was just beginning to recede when Romulus broke from his inspections, heading toward the eastern edge of the palace complex. Here stood a small courtyard once used for horticulture, now repurposed as a makeshift workshop under the supervision of a handful of Alexandrian scholars. At first, Magnus had been kept at the entrance—told to wait while the emperor conferred with these men of exotic learning. But after a few days, Romulus had waved him in, apparently deciding the guard captain’s loyalty was beyond question.
Magnus followed now, stepping through the courtyard’s gate. The moment he entered, he caught the distinct tang of metal filings, sawdust, and the pungent aroma of burning charcoal. A row of benches stood against the far wall, each scattered with parchment diagrams and half-finished mechanical components. Scholars in flowing garments murmured to one another, occasionally hushing as Romulus asked a question or tested the weight of an unfamiliar tool.
Magnus drifted closer to one of the benches where a stout craftsman was fitting iron parts into a wooden stock. It resembled a crossbow, yet its limbs were reinforced, and a peculiar mechanism at the trigger suggested greater tension and easier reloading. He recalled overhearing excited chatter about new “composite crossbows,” though he hadn’t imagined how different they would appear from the standard-issue bows he’d seen for years.
Moments later, one of the scholars held up the first fully assembled model. “Shall we demonstrate, Caesar?” he asked, glancing at Romulus. The emperor nodded, his eyes gleaming with barely contained anticipation.
Magnus watched as they set up a target at the far end of the courtyard—a rough plank with a crude bull’s-eye drawn in chalk. The craftsman wound the crossbow with surprising ease, took aim, and released. The bolt zipped across the yard, striking just off-center with a solid thunk that reverberated in Magnus’s chest. Far stronger, far faster than the current crossbows, he realized. A hush fell over the workshop.
“One day’s worth of use, and I’ve already matched or exceeded the range of our standard crossbows,” the craftsman declared, wiping sweat from his brow. “Give us two weeks, Caesar, and we can produce more like this.”
Romulus’s grin was a faint, tired thing—but genuine. “Excellent. We may yet hold these walls against whatever Crassus or Odoacer throw at us.”
Magnus couldn’t help feeling a stir of pride. For all his doubts about a teenage emperor, he’d seen how Romulus had spent the past fortnight—pouring his soul into the city’s survival. And here was the fruit of those efforts: new weapons, new ideas, new determination.
Magnus watched as Romulus continued his inspection of the fortified districts, speaking with workers, overseeing the progress of barricades, and listening to reports on supply distribution. The boy emperor moved with a clarity of purpose that belied his age, yet Magnus knew the truth beneath the facade.
In the shadows of his private quarters, Romulus fought battles of an entirely different kind.
The first night Magnus noticed it, he heard a muffled crash: parchment and scrolls scattering across the floor, a half-choked gasp that teetered between rage and despair. Tentatively, Magnus pushed the door ajar. A single lamp flickered on the desk, casting elongated shadows across the walls. Romulus stood in the midst of strewn parchment, some ripped, some crumpled, his shoulders heaving with labored breaths.
Magnus stepped inside, boots crunching paper underfoot. “Caesar?” he ventured softly.
Romulus startled, whipping around with wild eyes. “Get out!” he hissed, voice cracking. He gripped the edge of the desk as if steadying himself, chest rising and falling too quickly. The flush on his cheeks suggested tears or fury—perhaps both. Magnus hesitated, uncertain, then took another step.
“Caesar, let me—”
“I said get out!” Romulus’s voice rose, echoing off the stone walls. In the half-light, he looked more child than emperor, but fury twisted his features. “What good are you here? You can’t fix this—none of you can fix this!”
Magnus opened his mouth to protest, to ask what plagued him so deeply. Yet the raw anger—and something more vulnerable beneath it—made him pause. In that moment, he felt a pang of pity that undercut all the wariness and discipline that had governed his life thus far. He watched Romulus tremble, caught between grief and anger, a boy forced into a role even grizzled veterans might shrink from. Magnus wanted to stay—wanted to help—but he saw the wildness in the emperor’s gaze, the tears that threatened to spill over at any second.
So he backed away, slipping through the door. Even then, he heard the crash of another object flung against the wall, followed by curses flung at gods and men alike. Outside, he stood sentinel, fists clenched at his sides. From within the chamber, the tirade reached a fever pitch: Romulus lamenting the future, raging at men’s greed, hurling bitter accusations at the gods for gifting him knowledge he could neither fully wield nor ignore. It was a litany of anguish no soldier’s shield could block.
Magnus remained by the door, unsure if he should reenter or merely stand guard. At length, the shouts subsided into harsh sobs, muffled by the heavy stone walls. Even then, Magnus couldn’t bring himself to intrude again. Instead, he stayed there, silent, guarding the privacy of a boy who wore a crown but carried the weight of an empire’s ruin.
By dawn, when Romulus emerged from the chamber, red-eyed and hollow-cheeked, it was as if the night’s outburst had never happened. He moved with the same determined stride, barking orders about supply ledgers and new training drills, meeting with architects or Alexandrian scholars as if the world itself were a puzzle he aimed to solve before dusk. But Magnus, close enough to observe the emperor’s pale complexion and the deepening circles beneath his eyes, saw the truth: the boy was running on fumes and heartache.
Worried, Magnus sought out Andronikos, the Greek adviser whose counsel Romulus trusted above all others. The stooped scholar listened intently, his brow creasing as Magnus recounted the nocturnal episodes. That same night, Andronikos slipped into Romulus’s chamber when the hour grew late, and from that point on, Magnus would see the Greek emerge at dawn, face drawn with concern but quietly resolute.
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Whatever the two discussed, it seemed to help. The screaming and crashing ceased. The nights no longer echoed with Romulus’s rage. Yet, in its place, a profound sadness lingered. Magnus would see the young emperor at breakfast, eyes ringed with the faint red of half-shed tears, head bent over parchments that glimmered with diagrams and formulas most men could scarcely comprehend.
Thankfully, Romulus found a kind of reprieve during the daylight hours with Gaius’s two sons—Lucan and Marcus. Whenever official business allowed, the boys would rope him into a brief archery practice or a game of strategy with hand-carved figurines. Magnus would stand at a respectful distance, overhearing the easy banter and laughter that chased away Romulus’s dark moods for a moment. It was strange to see the emperor—who’d been wielding the fate of Rome since he was barely more than a child—enjoying boyish camaraderie again. But it was also heartening: a promise that somewhere beneath the crown and burdens, Romulus was still human.
Yet Magnus could not ignore the tension that tied everything together. Day by day, the city braced for siege, the improvements to its defenses racing against the approach of Crassus and Odoacer. Each time Romulus stumbled back from an inspection, a new swirl of ideas would gather in his chamber—ideas to improve crossbows, to reorganize the militia, to ration grain more effectively. And each night, he wrestled with the haunting knowledge that it might all fail.
Magnus saw it most clearly in those tired red eyes, bloodshot from too little sleep and too many nightmares. The emperor’s brave front might comfort the city, but behind closed doors, the cost was crushing him. And while Andronikos’s late-night counsel or the rowdy companionship of Lucan and Marcus provided some relief, it could never fully dispel the darkness gnawing at Romulus’s heart.
Still, Magnus respected him all the more for it. Whatever else Romulus Augustus might be—child, emperor, doomed dreamer—he was undeniably committed, pouring every scrap of himself into saving Ravenna. He left nothing in reserve, even if it meant tearing himself apart in the process. And that, Magnus thought grimly, was more than many grown men had done for Rome in decades.
One afternoon, late in this two-week whirlwind, Magnus spotted Romulus stepping away from a conversation with Andronikos and the Alexandrian scholars. The emperor moved toward a small alcove in the palace corridor, where a scribe awaited him with two sealed letters. One bore an unfamiliar wax seal, the other the symbol of the Magister Militum. The scribe bowed and handed them over before melting back into the bustle of the corridor.
Magnus watched from a respectful distance. Romulus, for his part, appeared more at ease than usual—likely buoyed by a successful test in the workshops or the latest progress report on the city’s defenses. He slid a thumb under the first letter’s seal, breaking the wax with careful anticipation.
Magnus inched closer, sensing the faint shift in Romulus’s posture as he read. There was a hushed excitement about him, his tense shoulders slowly relaxing. The lines on his young face gave way to something like a genuine smile. Then, quite abruptly, he laughed—an unguarded, almost boyish laugh that Magnus had scarcely heard in the weeks since Crassus’s betrayal. It was a sound so free and unburdened that it startled nearby servants, causing them to glance curiously in Romulus’s direction.
Still laughing, Romulus pressed the parchment to his chest, his eyes brimming with sudden tears. For a moment he stood there, tears of joy or relief streaming down dusty cheeks. Then he carefully folded the letter, tucking it inside a small drawer of a nearby cabinet and locking it away.
Magnus stepped forward, his heart lightened by the sight. “Caesar?”
Romulus turned, face still shining with that rare happiness. “It’s from Gaius,” he explained, voice thick with emotion. “He’s—he’s well. Better than well. He’s…” He trailed off, wiping at his eyes, unable to articulate more. But the relief in his tone was unmistakable.
Magnus allowed himself a small smile, inclined his head in acknowledgement, then gestured to the second letter resting on the cabinet. “And the other, Caesar?”
Romulus, still buoyed by the first letter’s warmth, took it up. Immediately, his demeanor shifted. The seal—he recognized it. Orestes. He broke the wax, the good humor slipping from his features like sand through an hourglass.
Magnus watched the emperor’s expression twist in confusion at first, then morph into something far darker. Romulus’s lips parted as though to speak, but no words emerged. His eyes flicked rapidly across the page, brow furrowing deeper with each line. By the time he finished reading, all traces of that earlier joy had vanished.
He simply stood there, letter clutched in trembling fingers, staring at the floor. His shoulders sagged, a desolate weight settling over him.
“Caesar?” Magnus ventured again, quieter this time.
Romulus didn’t respond, didn’t even seem to register Magnus’s presence. Slowly, as though moving underwater, he set the parchment on the cabinet’s edge. Then he sank onto a nearby bench, elbows on his knees, head bowed. He stared into the distance, eyes unfocused, breath shallow.
Alarmed, Magnus stepped forward. He glanced at the letter, lifting it carefully, aware that Romulus was too lost in shock to protest. Skimming the script, Magnus immediately recognized Orestes’s curt phrases and terse style. His gut twisted with every sentence.
Orestes had tried to regroup the remaining forces in the north, pulling together comitatenses from Mediolanum, hastily recruited militias, and what loyal foederati they could muster. But Odoacer had moved with devastating speed, crossing the Po undetected. The Roman defenders, entrenched at Pavia under Paulus—Romulus’s uncle—faced an impossible choice: defend a city with scarcely a week’s worth of supplies, or attempt a breakout while Odoacer’s vanguard waited to envelop them.
Following Romulus’s earlier instructions for strategic fallback, Orestes had ordered a retreat. Most of their troops escaped, but the rearguard, led by Paulus, had stayed behind to delay Odoacer’s forces. Paulus and his men were massacred. Odoacer had personally executed Paulus afterward.
Magnus felt a chill claw down his spine. He looked over at Romulus: the boy was almost statuesque in his grief, the corners of his eyes still damp from the earlier tears of joy. But now those tears spoke of a different pain entirely.
Tentatively, Magnus set a hand on Romulus’s shoulder. “I—I’m sorry, Caesar,” he murmured. “Your uncle—”
Romulus’s head bobbed once, a dull acknowledgment. He lifted his gaze, eyes swimming with shock. “Paulus. My uncle,” he whispered. “He…he’s gone.”
Magnus nodded grimly, unsure what solace he could offer. “Your father’s letter mentions he’s retreating now. Heading for Ravenna, to make a final stand.”
Romulus swallowed hard. “Paulus stayed behind… to buy them time…” His voice cracked, and he buried his face in his hands. For a heartbeat or two, he simply breathed in and out, uneven and ragged.
Magnus stood guard over his emperor, letting the quiet stretch. The corridor around them seemed to recede into the distance, as if all the activity—servants, scribes, the echo of footsteps—had faded to a dull hum. This was loss in its rawest form, and for once, Magnus found no protocol or training manual to guide him.
Eventually, Romulus lowered his hands. His face was pale, but his features had set into a determined, if haunted, mask. “We can’t let his sacrifice be in vain,” he said softly. “We’ll prepare Ravenna. We’ll…we’ll stop Odoacer. We must.”
Magnus nodded. “Yes, Caesar.”
Romulus stood, teetering slightly before steadying himself. He glanced at the locked drawer where Gaius’s letter lay hidden, remembering for a brief, flickering moment that there was still hope somewhere in this unfolding tragedy. Then his gaze shifted to the bleak parchment of Orestes’s letter. Two messages, two vastly different worlds: one brimming with promise, the other soaked in blood and betrayal.
For an instant, the boy emperor closed his eyes, drawing in a slow breath. When he opened them again, a faint trace of steel undercut the grief in his stare. He squared his shoulders, gave Magnus a stiff nod, and turned back toward the palace corridors.
“Summon Flavianus and the council,” he said, voice cracking but resolute. “We have much to do—and precious little time to do it.”
That night, long after council meetings and frantic preparations had wound down, Magnus stood watch in the palace corridor outside Romulus’s chambers. The torches were burning low, and most of Ravenna’s denizens had finally sought their beds. Magnus expected much the same from the emperor; the day’s news of Paulus’s death and Orestes’s retreat had weighed visibly on the boy. Yet a faint shuffle of sandals told him otherwise.
Magnus glanced back to see Romulus stepping out, cloak draped over a simple tunic. Shadows played across the emperor’s tired features, but his gaze was alert. He met Magnus’s eyes with an unspoken question—would the guard follow him? Of course he would. Magnus fell into step without a word, letting the hush of the night envelop them.
They passed through darkened halls and out into the palace gardens. Here, the moonlight cast a gentle silver glow on marble statues and neatly trimmed hedges. The air was a touch cooler, though still laden with the midsummer heaviness that clung to every stone of Ravenna. Crickets chirped in the distance, a quiet chorus that offered a strange sort of comfort.
For a time, they walked in silence, their footsteps muffled by the gravel path. Then, with a sigh that sounded far too weary for his years, Romulus spoke.
“Magnus,” he began softly, as though each word cost him effort. “What does it mean to you to be Roman?”
Magnus inhaled, taken aback. A handful of heartbeats passed before he found any words at all. “I’m... not sure how to answer that, Caesar.”
Romulus’s tone was quiet but intent. “Humor me. I want your honest thoughts.”
They paused near a modest marble bench next to a small fountain. In the dusk, water glimmered under sparse moonlight, each ripple sending faint reflections dancing against the stone. Magnus shifted his weight, feeling oddly exposed.
“My father served in the legions,” he said at last, voice rougher than he intended. “He wasn’t born a citizen—came from a village near Mediolanum. He earned his status by fighting in campaigns from Hispania to the Rhine. Used to boast how Rome gave him a chance. I grew up on those stories, sir. All the battles, the oath to protect what we’d built. Being Roman, to him, was everything: a badge of belonging, pride, a reason to keep going when your feet bleed and your rations run out.”
He glanced at the emperor, noticing how Romulus stood unnervingly still, listening. “So for me,” Magnus continued, “being Roman means you pick up where your father left off. You serve. You hold the line when it’s your turn. That’s... basically it. No regrets, even now.”
Romulus nodded, gazing toward the fountain. “Duty and pride,” he echoed softly. “You do seem to embody them. Staying here, even when others left...”
They walked on, leaving the murmur of the fountain behind. The night smelled of damp stone and summer bloom, the narrow path lit by torchlight dancing against the palace walls. Romulus hesitated, as if steeling himself, and spoke more quietly.
“Magnus—what if Rome on the West falls?” he asked, nearly whispering. “If a man like Odoacer seizes everything and this city—everything we stand for—vanishes under foreign rule? What changes for you?”
Magnus felt a cold knot twist in his gut. He pictured the gates forced open, the eagle hauled down—replaced by some barbarian banner. “Honestly, Caesar? Day to day, maybe I’d still guard something, still try to feed my kin. Men adapt to new rulers. That’s just how it is. But...” He took a measured breath. “It’d still be a knife in the ribs. Wouldn’t feel like ours anymore. The laws, the Latin speech, that sense of old pride we share—gone or twisted. Even if a new king lets me keep my job, it wouldn’t be Rome. Not truly.”
Romulus’s eyes glimmered, hurt and anger warring in his gaze. “We do everything to stop that. We stand here, building walls, forging weapons, refusing to yield—because we can’t let it all slip away. If we do, what’s left of that pride? Of our meaning?”
Magnus’s throat felt tight, but he forced a steadiness into his voice. “I can’t promise victory, Caesar. But as long as I’ve got a sword arm, I’ll fight for it. Because Rome is more than land—it’s the legacy of those who came before. It’s the chance my father had and the oath I took.”
The emperor inhaled slowly, then exhaled, as though some invisible weight pressed on him. In the torchlight, he looked both too young and far too old at once. Tentatively, he placed a hand on Magnus’s shoulder—a rare gesture that spoke more than any speech could.
“Thank you,” Romulus whispered, the faintest tremor in his words. “For your honesty... and for staying, even when so many walked away.”
They stood together in the hush of the garden, two silhouettes against the pale marble of an empire on the brink. The fountain gurgled softly, carrying away their uncertainty in its gentle flow. Above, a new drift of clouds obscured the moon, darkness deepening around them. But in that moment, the fear of what might come gave way to a fragile spark of resolve.
Magnus bowed his head. “You’re welcome, Caesar.”
A breath passed, and Romulus squared his shoulders. “Let’s go back,” he said, gesturing toward the palace’s lit windows. “We’ve still got a city to save.”
And so they turned, steps firm against the gravel, determination kindling in the hush of night.
