Romulus Augustus sat tensely in his chamber, fingers tightly gripping the wooden armrest of his chair as the oil lamps flickered dimly against the marble walls. The distant, muffled clamor of battle drifted through open windows—shouts, horns, and screams mingling in a cruel, discordant symphony. It was long past midnight, yet sleep was unthinkable.
Across the room, Magnus stood rigidly, eyes fixed on the door, waiting for the next inevitable runner to arrive. Reports had been coming all night, fragments of information from exhausted soldiers sprinting from the walls. Each fresh update deepened the lines of worry etched across Magnus’s weathered face.
“They’re still pressing us from the south,” Magnus murmured quietly. “But Flavianus believes it’s really just a diversion. The northern wall is—”
“The real target,” Romulus finished, voice tense. He leaned forward, rubbing tired eyes with one hand. His heartbeat quickened every time footsteps echoed down the hallway outside. “And yet, Flavianus holds firm?”
“So far, Caesar,” Magnus replied, steady but grave. “He’s convinced that the crossbowmen can hold their positions until dawn.”
Another hurried knock at the door cut their conversation short. Romulus straightened sharply, anxiety tightening in his chest. Magnus swung the door open to reveal a young soldier, face flushed and breathing hard.
“Caesar!” he gasped, bowing hastily. “We have new reports—the northern wall is under heavy assault by Odoacer’s forces. Flavianus requests additional reserves.”
Romulus’s heart sank, frustration darkening his expression. “Does Flavianus have enough men to hold?”
The soldier hesitated, glancing quickly at Magnus before replying, “He believes so, Caesar.”
Romulus nodded curtly, gesturing dismissal, the soldier departing swiftly. He stood abruptly, pacing with tense agitation. “How long until the next update, Magnus?”
“Soon enough,” Magnus replied, calmly observing the young emperor’s restless movement. “Flavianus won’t falter. Trust him.”
“I trust him,” Romulus snapped, irritated—not at Magnus, but at his own helplessness. “Yet our men bleed every minute, and here I sit, waiting on mere words.”
He pressed a hand to his forehead, closing weary eyes for a moment. Exhaustion gnawed at him, but rest was impossible with the city under siege.
Only minutes later, a second runner burst through the door, even more breathless. He saluted shakily, visibly unnerved.
“Caesar… urgent news. A new force just attacked Odoacer’s flank at the northern wall. From the outside—they’re not ours!”
Romulus stared, bewildered. “What? Another enemy?”
Magnus stepped closer, eyes sharp. “Explain yourself clearly.”
“Germans,” the messenger panted. “They struck from behind Odoacer’s forces—chaos everywhere. Odoacer’s troops are in disarray.”
Romulus exchanged a confused, uneasy glance with Magnus. “German foederati—whose?” he demanded.
Before the messenger could reply, footsteps echoed loudly down the corridor. Tribune Antonius appeared in the doorway, face grim, helmet tucked under his arm. “Caesar, forgive the intrusion. The northern sector has stabilized, thanks to the foederati reinforcements. They’re Orestes’s loyal warriors. Your father personally leads them.”
Romulus’s eyes widened in shock, disbelief morphing swiftly into a cold, furious clarity. “Orestes acted without my orders?”
Antonius hesitated, lowering his gaze. “It appears so, Caesar.”
Magnus’s jaw tightened. The air grew thick, a painful silence enveloping the room as Romulus clenched his fists, knuckles whitening with suppressed anger.
“Prepare an escort,” Romulus commanded sharply, storming toward the doorway. “I’m going to the northern wall. Now.”
Magnus nodded grimly. “At once, Caesar.”
Romulus strode fiercely through the dimly lit streets, flanked by Magnus and a tight formation of personal guards. His heart thundered angrily, each step echoing against cobblestones. The city lay eerily quiet except for the faint moans of wounded soldiers being carried on stretchers toward the hospital, set up in the confiscated mansion of Senator Lepidus.
As they passed, Romulus’s eyes involuntarily followed the grim procession. Bloody bandages and pale, agonized faces glistened under flickering torchlight. His jaw tightened further. These men were his responsibility. How could Orestes dare act without even consulting him?
“Magnus,” he finally spoke through clenched teeth, voice tight with barely controlled fury. “My father has overstepped his bounds once more.”
Magnus kept pace, calm but clearly concerned. “Orestes is ambitious—but perhaps tonight he saw an opportunity we did not.”
Romulus shot him a sharp, bitter glance but said nothing. His mind raced. Perhaps Magnus was right—but such blatant disregard still stung bitterly.
As they approached the northern wall, noise intensified. Shouts of triumph, soldiers’ cheers, and laughter echoed outward. Romulus quickened his step, ascending the stone steps leading up to the battlements.
Emerging atop the ramparts, he froze momentarily, stunned by the sight.
Torches illuminated hundreds of soldiers—both Roman and Germanic—lining the wall, their weapons raised high, faces flushed with exhilaration. In their midst stood Orestes, resplendent in polished armor, smiling confidently as troops clustered around him, shouting praises. His German foederati stood close by, proud, bloody, and triumphant.
“Long live Orestes!” a soldier shouted, the cry taken up by dozens more. “Honor to our brothers, the loyal foederati!”
Romulus’s breath caught sharply, bitterness surging painfully through his chest. His father stood at the center of it all, basking in cheers that belonged to Rome, to Ravenna, to every soldier who’d held these walls—not to one man’s dangerous gamble.
Orestes turned at that moment, their eyes meeting across the short distance. A flicker of something—perhaps surprise, perhaps defiance—passed over his father’s expression before smoothing into careful neutrality. He inclined his head slightly toward Romulus, a gesture formal yet undeniably proud.
Romulus stiffened, forcing composure, conscious of countless eyes watching him. The soldiers gradually quieted, sensing tension. Silence spread rapidly, leaving only the gentle crackle of torches and the distant groans of wounded men carried far below.
Slowly, deliberately, Romulus stepped forward, raising his voice clearly. “Tonight, the courage of Roman soldiers and loyal foederati warriors has defended Ravenna. You have my gratitude and Rome’s eternal honor.”
A brief pause. He turned sharply toward his father, meeting his gaze directly. “Yet I must remind all that victory belongs to Rome alone—not to any single man.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd; soldiers exchanged uncertain glances. Orestes, composed as ever, merely bowed his head. “As you say, Caesar. All glory belongs to Rome.”
Romulus held his gaze coldly for another long moment before turning deliberately away, striding toward Flavianus, who stood silently to the side, observing with caution.
“Dux Flavianus,” Romulus said quietly, “What are the casualties?”
Flavianus nodded grimly. “Significant but manageable, Caesar. Orestes’s intervention eased considerable pressure, though... unexpected.”
“Clearly,” Romulus muttered dryly. “We shall speak later in greater detail.”
Flavianus inclined his head respectfully, but his gaze conveyed understanding and quiet support.
Romulus turned once more to survey the rampart. Soldiers now avoided direct eye contact, sensing the conflict. Yet their spirits remained high, buoyed by victory, unaware of deeper tensions simmering just beneath the surface.
Magnus stepped quietly to Romulus’s side, voice low enough for only the emperor to hear. “They see your strength clearly tonight, Caesar. Orestes played a dangerous hand.”
“Indeed,” Romulus replied grimly, eyes fixed upon the distant horizon, where faint dawn colors already brushed the sky. “He gambled with lives that were not his to wager.”
He exhaled slowly, anger fading into steely resolve. Whatever victory had been won this night, he would ensure it belonged truly to Ravenna, to Rome, and to the men who had bled for it—not merely to the prideful ambition of his father.
Romulus stood motionless atop the northern wall, struggling to maintain his composure as waves of anger continued to churn inside him. The soldiers around them, still jubilant, celebrated their unexpected victory with shouts and laughter. He swallowed hard, his jaw set firm, determined not to show division in front of those who had risked their lives for him.
Taking a deep breath, he turned abruptly toward his father, voice low and tight.
“Father, may I speak with you in private?”
Orestes studied him briefly, the shadows of the torchlight dancing across his sharp, weathered features. He seemed momentarily uncertain, perhaps sensing the depth of his son’s quiet fury. But after a beat, he nodded slowly.
“Of course, Caesar. Let’s move somewhere quieter.”
Romulus turned swiftly, Magnus quietly following behind as they descended the battlements, leaving the cheering men behind. The three moved into the shelter of a guard chamber, a small stone room dimly lit by torches set upon iron sconces. As soon as Magnus closed the door behind them, sealing away the noise outside, Romulus spun to face his father.
Orestes spoke first, his voice level but filled with an unmistakable edge of pride.
“Tonight, Romulus, we achieved something remarkable. My men shattered Odoacer’s assault; we secured a victory for Ravenna, for Rome—for you. For our empire.”
Stolen story; please report.
Romulus felt his pulse quicken, rage rising again, hot and stubborn.
“A victory you orchestrated without once consulting me! Without even warning Flavianus or Magnus, or any of my commanders on that wall!”
Orestes narrowed his eyes slightly, maintaining his poise despite his son’s outburst.
“Opportunity required swift action. If I had hesitated, if I’d run around begging for permission from every officer on the wall, that opportunity would have slipped through our fingers. I ascended to Magister Militum precisely because I seize chances the instant they arise—”
“You ascended to Magister Militum because you’ve always placed ambition above everything else!” Romulus cut him off angrily, stepping closer, his smaller stature overshadowed by the intensity of his gaze. “You call it initiative, but I see only arrogance and disrespect!”
Orestes’s expression darkened visibly, his own carefully controlled anger finally beginning to surface.
“Arrogance?” he hissed. “Disrespect? Everything I’ve done, every risk I’ve taken has been for you, Romulus. I placed you on the throne! I made you emperor—not to indulge your childish pride, but because it was best for Rome. Because I knew I was the strength behind that throne!”
Romulus’s chest tightened painfully at the stinging words. His throat burned, and for a moment, his voice trembled, the raw emotion of a twelve-year-old boy momentarily breaking through his imperial dignity.
“You put me here, Father—but I’m the one who wears the crown. You’re supposed to guide and support me, not undermine and overshadow me at every chance! I need to know I can trust you completely—that you stand by my side, not that I must look over my shoulder, wondering when you’ll defy me next!”
Orestes stared hard at him, eyes flaring with indignation, his jaw working silently as if struggling with his next words. Magnus shifted uncomfortably behind them, sensing the tension approaching a breaking point.
Orestes stepped closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
“You speak to me of trust? Of loyalty? Who taught you those concepts, Romulus? Everything you understand of ruling, of war, of politics—you learned from watching me! You question my loyalty, accuse me of vanity—yet you enjoy the fruits of all that I have sacrificed. You’re emperor because I carried you on my shoulders! I made the sacrifices; I risked my life, my honor, my fortune to give you an empire, and this is how you repay me—lecturing me like a spoiled child?”
Romulus felt heat rise into his cheeks, humiliation and fury crashing over him in waves. His small hands balled into fists, shaking visibly.
“I never asked for you to make me emperor! But since you did, I must rule! You continue to defy and overshadow me, making me look weak before my own soldiers, before everyone!”
“Because without my strength,” Orestes growled, stepping even closer until their faces were mere inches apart, “you are weak.”
Magnus tensed noticeably, stepping half-forward as if to intercede, but Romulus shot him a firm glance, signaling for him to hold his place. Romulus held his father’s furious gaze steadily, both breathing heavily, a painful silence stretching between them.
Finally, after several heartbeats, Orestes pulled back. He straightened, smoothing the front of his armor and exhaling deeply. The anger gradually receded from his eyes, replaced by a look of exhaustion and regret.
“Forgive me,” he muttered quietly, the venom now absent from his tone. “I spoke in anger. My intention tonight was to secure victory—not wound you or threaten your authority.”
Romulus remained silent for a long moment, the sting of his father’s words still raw in his heart. Yet he recognized the sincerity in Orestes’s voice and felt his own rage slowly ebbing. He drew a long, shaky breath, steadying himself before speaking.
“Perhaps tonight’s victory was necessary, Father. But your methods—this disregard for me, for my officers, for trust and command—they cannot continue.”
Orestes nodded slowly, visibly drained, his voice quiet.
“You are right. My actions tonight were hasty—but they served Rome. Let us both rest and speak again tomorrow, when our heads are clearer and tempers cooler.”
Romulus hesitated, still angry, but exhaustion and sadness now crowded in, softening his stance. He managed a stiff nod.
“Very well. Tomorrow, then.”
Orestes bowed his head respectfully.
“Caesar.”
Without another word, he turned and left the chamber, the door closing softly behind him.
Magnus stepped closer, quietly placing a comforting hand upon Romulus’s shoulder. Romulus stood there, trembling slightly, staring down at the floor. His eyes stung with unshed tears, his pride and anger mingling painfully with regret.
He was emperor, yes—but in this moment, he was painfully aware that he was also a child, aching for trust and support from the one man whose respect and approval he most desperately desired.
Romulus Augustus paused at the iron-banded doors of what had once been Senator Lepidus’s grand atrium. The air smelled of vinegar and boiled linens—a far cry from the perfumed halls that used to define this mansion. Gone were the marble busts, the silken draperies, the elaborate mosaics. In their place stood rows of makeshift cots, tables piled with bandages, and a steady flux of wounded men moaning or calling for aid. Even from the threshold, Romulus sensed the grim undercurrent that pulsed through this newly repurposed military hospital, a place he had ordered into existence mere weeks ago.
A cluster of his guards stepped aside to let him pass, their own faces betraying subdued unease at the sight. Though they had accompanied him on battlefields, this display of men’s suffering felt more intimate and jarring—sickness and injury not by steel alone but from infections and poor care. Romulus squared his shoulders. He was Emperor, after all, and if he could command troops in a siege, he would command better healing for them, too.
He moved deeper into the entry hall, stepping carefully to avoid a splotch of dried blood on the tile. Voices rose and fell in tense conversation—medici and attendants rushing to and fro with basins of steaming water, half-empty jars of salves, wooden trays of crude surgical tools. A stout man, his apron stiff with old stains, hurried by carrying an armful of bandages. Despite the flurry, there was a purposeful energy here.
Romulus paused near a line of cots. Soldiers—some in bandaged arms, others with half-healed leg wounds—shifted restlessly, contending with pain or fever. A young soldier looked up, caught Romulus’s eye, and tried to rise in respect. The Emperor gently shook his head, pressing a hand to the soldier’s shoulder to keep him down.
“Rest,” Romulus whispered, throat tight with emotion. “I am here to see that you recover fully.”
The soldier exhaled a trembling thanks. Romulus managed a small, reassuring nod, then pressed on, mindful not to lose composure. The state of medical care had appalled him since he first visited the wounded after the battle against Crassus’s counter ambush. Shredded bandages were reused without cleaning, surgical knives rinsed casually in a bucket of tepid water. Men left screaming in corners because staff were too few and poorly trained. Once Romulus had forced himself to watch an amputation done without either boiled instruments or steady sedation. The memory still burned behind his eyes.
He approached a wide corridor once leading to Lepidus’s opulent triclinium. Now a row of men with splinted limbs lined the walls, some half-asleep, others staring blankly at the ceiling. He felt anger stirring—anger at the incompetence of the old head medicus who refused every new method. Anger at the notion that these men risked their lives in his name, yet were abandoned to substandard care.
That was why Romulus had seized Lepidus’s mansion—ample space for wards, open courtyards for fresh air, private rooms that could become surgery alcoves. Then, after discovering the old medicus actively ignoring his decrees to boil instruments and properly discard soiled bandages, he cast the man out with harsh words.
He stepped into a large open room that once was a banquet hall. Benches lined one side, piled with fresh linens. Wooden screens partitioned off areas where more serious surgeries could take place. There, in the center, stooped over a battered soldier, was the new head medicus—an Alexandrian named Nicanor.
Nicanor straightened at the sight of Romulus, bowing slightly. He was a lean man with a calm, piercing gaze, clad in a short, practical tunic. At first, some had mocked him as “the Greek physician with bizarre theories,” but Nicanor had shown eagerness to adopt the Emperor’s instructions, such as soaking bandages in boiled water or using lightly fermented wine to clean open wounds.
“Caesar,” Nicanor greeted softly, though his voice carried across the hush. “I was not expecting you so soon.”
Romulus waved off the courtesy. “How could I not see what you’ve accomplished here, Master Medicus?” He glanced around, noticing a soldier on a cot with heavily bandaged ribs. “We must ensure every improvement is followed, no matter how small it seems. The men deserve better.”
Nicanor dipped his head. “We do our utmost. The wards are near capacity, but we have begun rotating patients once their fevers subside, moving them to convalescent corners so new arrivals can receive urgent attention. And, as you wished, I ensure every surgical instrument is boiled thoroughly—some older staff protest, but I enforce it strictly.” He paused, exhaling. “The infection rates for fresh wounds have started dropping, Caesar.”
He caught sight of a small furnace near the corner, a pair of medici carefully lowering instruments into a pot of rolling water. They wore thick cloth around their mouths—another measure Romulus had insisted. At first many had deemed it strange, but if it reduced the stench and contagion, they had to accept it.
A sudden cry made them turn. On a nearby cot, a soldier lurched, gripping his badly burned forearm. An attendant rushed over with a bowl of cooled vinegar solution, gently pouring it onto the wound. The soldier’s groans subsided to ragged breaths. Nicanor murmured instructions, then beckoned Romulus closer.
“This man was scalded unfortunately with oil in the last skirmish,” Nicanor explained. “We’re using your recommended approach—gentle rinsing, fresh bandages daily, always boiled to kill any unseen contaminants.”
Romulus studied the wound: charred skin peeled away, but no blackening or rotted flesh. It looked ugly but not as dire as other burns he’d seen untreated. “Does it appear to be healing?” he asked quietly, eyes flicking to the soldier’s pained face.
Nicanor nodded. “Far better than the older methods, which often led to festering or sepsis. With frequent cleaning, the risk of that rotting smell is decreased.” A grateful solemnity underpinned his tone, as though each success validated their painstaking efforts.
Romulus smiled faintly at the patient, who—despite the agony—managed a small nod of thanks. Then the Emperor turned away, pressing onward. There was so much more to see.
He wound through narrow hallways, once lavish private chambers. Now they housed rough cots jammed side by side. The men occupying them wore expressions from dull resignation to fervent hope. Some recognized him, extending shaky salutes or murmuring, “Ave, Caesar.” Others were lost in feverish delirium.
One corridor ended in a well-lit courtyard, ringed by colonnades. Steps had been built around a simple fountain to turn it into a place for rehabilitation. Several men with mended limbs practiced walking, aided by assistants. Romulus lingered there, heart twisting at the sight of a soldier missing half a foot, hobbling with a rough crutch. But at least he was alive—and able to stand, thanks to these new measures.
A hush accompanied Romulus’s presence—some men were in awe, others uncertain how to address him. The entire mansion thrummed with a sense of possibility, overshadowed by the raw truth of injuries and disease. He found a strange comfort in seeing that, while it remained grim, the staff’s morale had improved as they saw better outcomes.
Over near a row of patients with deeper wounds, he witnessed a short demonstration: an attendant carefully dabbing a soldier’s gash with honey-based salve, then wrapping it in boiled linen strips. A second man recorded the date and the soldier’s name on a wax tablet—another of Romulus’s new ideas: keep track of who received what treatment and whether it helped. The head medicus had admitted it was tedious but recognized its value for analyzing success or failure.
As he stepped back inside, away from the courtyard, he nearly collided with a cluster of younger medici carrying jars of herbal mixtures. They froze, flustered, not expecting the Emperor to be in their path. Romulus raised a hand in gentle reassurance. “Continue your work,” he said. “We mustn’t waste time.” They bowed and scurried off.
Eventually, he reached the far end of the building, where a broader hallway opened onto a row of private chambers. The mansion’s original occupant—Senator Lepidus—had no doubt kept these for his personal use. Now, the largest served as a quiet space for the severely injured who needed concentrated care. Soft moans and the murmur of hushed conversation echoed in the low lamplight.
Magnus, his loyal guard captain, stood discreetly near the threshold vigilantly scanning the environment. At Romulus’s approach, Magnus inclined his head. “Caesar, I was told you’d come this way. Everything is secure. No threats, just tired men.”
Romulus offered a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Magnus. It’s… humbling, seeing them like this.”
Magnus nodded, stepping aside to let him pass. “They owe their chance to recover partly to you, Caesar. Some soldiers say that the new methods saved them from infection that claimed others in past battles.”
The Emperor’s throat constricted. “I pray it’s enough.” His eyes flitted to a boyish-faced soldier lying half-sedated, a fresh stump wrapped where a leg used to be. “We’ve far to go, but I’d rather fight this war with better healing behind us than accept the old ways that kill our men off the field.”
Magnus said nothing, just bowed his head in agreement.
Eventually, Romulus drew a deep breath and turned back toward the exit. He cast a final glance over the new military hospital—the bustle of medici, the acrid smell of boiled bandages, the swirling tension of pain and hope.
He had uprooted Lepidus’s mansion to forge this place in a matter of weeks. He could not ignore the wounded’s plight. If he asked them to face death on the walls, he owed them more than halfhearted care after. He would do everything possible to ensure each soldier had a chance to see tomorrow.
"The hero begins to heroically invent a plow and a gear. What nonsense. It is known for certain that an iron plow was used in ancient Rome. Gears were known to the ancient Egyptians. 600 years before the time described in the work, complex mechanisms with dozens of gears were already created to calculate astrological dates. Then his mentor says that the lorica segmentata went out of use hundreds of years ago because it was inferior to the lorica hamata in everything. Also complete nonsense. Any plate armor provides much better protection than any chainmail. This type of armor also appeared later than chainmail and weighed 1.5 times less. Perhaps further fiction amazes with its plot and characters, but for me, it is impossible to read something that so neglects facts and logic. Even if it is later revealed that the action takes place in a pseudo-historical setting that only refers to the real Roman Empire, the existence of such a state is impossible without knowledge of the gear. I don't understand why you would write a book in a historical setting if you don't care so much about the material culture of that time."