5th of August 476 AD

  Odoacer stood alone at the entrance of his command tent, the heavy leather flap drawn aside as the cool night air flowed in, carrying the lingering scents of smoke and damp earth. Behind him, the tribal chieftains—Gundobad, Wulfgar, Edeko, and others—had finally dispersed, leaving an empty chamber echoing with the silence of troubled thoughts. He drew a slow, heavy breath, feeling the weight of their discontent still pressing upon him.

  He had seen it in their eyes, heard it in the undertones of their voices—the subtle hints of doubt, the growing impatience. Once they had looked upon him with awe and admiration; now that same respect was starting to fracture. They questioned, openly and silently, if Odoacer could truly deliver what he had so boldly promised.

  Land. Stability. Honor. He had pledged it all to them, offering a vision of Italy as theirs for the taking—a fertile realm waiting for strong hands to seize it from Rome’s weakening grasp. The tribes had rallied eagerly behind that vision, their restless warriors believing his promise that they would carve out a future not as mere foederati, pawns used and discarded by Roman commanders, but as masters of their own destiny.

  But now, after the unsuccessful assault, after the blood spilled on Ravenna’s stubborn walls, their faith was faltering. Even loyal Gundobad—heir of the Burgundians and once his closest ally—now watched him with a wariness that stung deeply. Wulfgar, who rarely spoke but carried great weight among the warriors, had openly voiced his frustration during the council, questioning why Rome’s boy emperor and a decaying city should resist so fiercely.

  Odoacer felt a familiar anger burning in his chest—a slow, smoldering fury that had built steadily with each passing day of failure. This was supposed to be quick, decisive, inevitable. Ravenna should have fallen swiftly, the boy emperor forced to kneel and surrender the last threads of Western Rome. Instead, he found themselves thwarted at every turn, the Romans and their remaining foederati allies refusing to acknowledge that their empire was already dead.

  Rome, the dying corpse, was stubbornly clinging to a life that should have ended long ago. That stubbornness had cost Odoacer dearly: nearly twelve hundred of his bravest warriors were dead or crippled, their blood soaking the muddy earth around Ravenna’s walls, victims of Roman defiance. He remembered vividly the anguished cries of wounded warriors, carried from the failed assault. He could still see the looks of quiet reproach from the chieftains as those bodies were laid out—fallen brothers and sons whose sacrifice now demanded justification.

  Closing his eyes, Odoacer let his head tilt back briefly, feeling exhaustion settle into his bones like iron weights. He had fought so long, planned so carefully—year after year, carefully maneuvering through Roman intrigues, patiently binding together the fractious Germanic tribes. Piece by piece, he had painstakingly woven an unprecedented unity among the Burgundians, Heruli, Rugii, Sciri, and others—peoples who had once fought bitterly against each other, now gathered beneath his banners.

  Odoacer had dreamt of this moment, night after night, for years. A new Italy—free from Roman decadence, free from their endless corruption and disdain. A place where the warriors of Germania would no longer beg for scraps at the imperial table, no longer used as tools in the games of Roman senators. They would be equals, masters of their own land, their children and grandchildren raised in abundance rather than subjugation.

  For that dream, he had sacrificed everything—his pride, his comfort, countless sleepless nights. Yet Ravenna stood defiant, mocking his ambition, tarnishing the image of invincibility he had so carefully cultivated among his followers.

  He gritted his teeth, a surge of rage flaring again. Ravenna, Orestes, Romulus Augustus. They had taken far too much from him now—not just lives, but the confidence of his chieftains, the faith of his warriors. Odoacer’s vision of a united Germanic dominion over Italy had never been closer, yet now seemed impossibly distant.

  Slowly, Odoacer stepped back into his tent, letting the leather flap fall closed behind him. In the faint glow of lamplight, he moved toward a rough wooden table covered with maps and scattered reports. Leaning heavily on his hands, he glared down at the parchments, tracing with his eyes the lines that represented Rome’s final walls. Ravenna was not merely a city. It started to become a symbol—one that refused to surrender, refused to die.

  He would crush it. He had no other choice.

  At first, he had planned to be merciful. The boy emperor, Romulus, was but a child. A puppet placed on the throne by Orestes, an old friend turned bitter rival. Orestes was the true enemy—the traitor who had once shared Odoacer’s dreams of power, only to abandon their friendship in pursuit of Roman glories. Initially, Odoacer had intended to spare the child, exile him perhaps, as a gesture of leniency to secure goodwill among Romans and Germans alike.

  But now? Now his mercy had been bled dry by Ravenna’s stubborn resistance. Warriors loyal to him lay cold in the mud; their blood called out for vengeance louder than ever. Generosity had no place left in his heart, not after yesterday, not after Gundobad’s battered Burgundians and Wulfgar’s broken Heruli had limped back into camp, cursing their futile efforts against Roman walls.

  Odoacer’s knuckles whitened as his fists clenched upon the table’s edge. Orestes would pay dearly. And the boy, Romulus Augustus—no longer a puppet, but the heart of Roman defiance—he too would have to die. Rome had chosen to resist; Rome would burn. The memory of their empire would be purged from Italy forever.

  He exhaled slowly, forcing his pulse back under control, but the raw anger still simmered beneath his surface. He knew now that he must act swiftly, ruthlessly, without hesitation. Every day lost weakened his hold upon the tribes, every delay risked the dream he had labored for so long.

  His eyes moved again across the map, assessing once more Ravenna’s defenses, seeking any weakness he could exploit. Already he had lost valuable time. The Eastern emperor’s forces loomed ever closer, their arrival threatening to trap him between Rome’s stubborn defenders and Constantinople’s approaching legions. He would have to move swiftly, even recklessly. He had no other choice.

  Gundobad’s words echoed bitterly in his mind: "Our honor is at stake. Every warrior lost today weakens the faith our men have placed in you."

  Odoacer felt the sting of those words sharply. He was their leader, their hope, their future. He had sworn to carve out their destiny in blood and fire, to give them Italy as their rightful homeland. He could not fail them now.

  His gaze hardened, resolve crystallizing inside him, cold and unbreakable.

  He would deliver them their dream. Italy would fall beneath their blades. Orestes and his child emperor would become a footnote in history, their stubborn resistance just another futile gesture from a dying empire.

  Rome had to die. And if it refused to accept its fate, he would force that fate upon it. Whatever the cost.

  Odoacer straightened slowly, drawing himself up to his full height. Anger was no longer his enemy; it became his strength, his clarity. Tomorrow he would summon Gundobad, Wulfgar, and the others once more. Tomorrow he would stand before them, not weakened but more determined than ever, reminding them of their rightful place in history.

  They were no longer pawns. They were conquerors, and Ravenna’s defiance would end.

  He turned, walking from the table to the tent flap once more, pushing aside the heavy leather and stepping out beneath a darkened sky. Above, the stars flickered silently, indifferent to his struggles and dreams. Yet beneath them, he stood proud, fierce, ready to face the final chapter of Rome’s long decline.

  His voice was low, fierce and resolute, speaking to the silent darkness around him.

  "Italy will belong to us," he whispered. "The Age of Rome is over. The Time of the Germans has come."

  He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with cool night air, feeling a renewed determination swelling in his chest. Tomorrow he would set the final assault into motion, tomorrow he would remind them all why they had chosen him as their leader.

  Rome would die.

  And he, Odoacer, would ensure it.

  6th of August 476 AD

  Magnus tightened the final leather strap of his bracers, tugging firmly to ensure they sat securely over the padded sleeve of his tunic. Around him, forty Palatini—the very best horsemen Ravenna still possessed—moved methodically through their preparations. These men were battle-tested veterans, each carefully handpicked by Magnus himself. In the torchlit shadows near Porta Cassis -the eastern gate-, their breath formed misty clouds in the pre-dawn chill, the quiet murmurs of soldiers completing final checks carrying an air of practiced discipline.

  He cast a critical eye over the mounted warriors. They were not the uncertain recruits who had first struggled awkwardly to master the new stirrups—now they mounted with practiced ease, handling the equipment like natural extensions of their own bodies. Romulus’s reforms had initially met skepticism, but every man here had become a convert; the stirrups had proved their worth in countless skirmishes and quick maneuvers along Ravenna’s embattled perimeter.

  "Decimus," Magnus called softly, summoning his second-in-command. The tall, lean officer rode closer, his helmet under his arm, expression calm and resolute. "Are the men ready?"

  Decimus offered a tight, confident nod. "As ready as they'll ever be, Comes. Our equipment is sound, every horse fresh. These men know their purpose."

  Magnus returned the nod. "Good. Once we move, keep the formation tight."

  "Understood," Decimus replied firmly, and with a quick salute, he turned back toward the waiting column.

  Magnus took a moment to survey the Palatini ranks. Forty men, four turmae with four decurion at their lead, little more than a regular turma —but every single warrior here represented Ravenna's last truly elite cavalry, men who had endured the bitter blow of betrayal from Comes Lucius Varius. Magnus’s jaw tightened slightly at the thought. Today’s mission was not merely strategic; it was personal, a chance for redemption and justice.

  A sudden commotion from the west wall jolted Magnus from his thoughts. Distant shouts carried on the wind, accompanied by the faint clash of metal and the unmistakable, rhythmic thrum of incoming projectiles. Magnus tensed, hand instinctively reaching for his sword.

  Moments later, a breathless young rider appeared from the direction of the western gate, reining in hard as he reached Magnus.

  "Comes," he reported swiftly, breathing heavily, "Odoacer’s men have begun their harassment again at the western ramparts—volleys of arrows and javelins, but no direct assault yet. They're constructing more barricades to shield their positions."

  Magnus nodded grimly, feeling no surprise at the news. Lepdius had made this tactics already clear: relentless attrition, a constant wearing down of morale and stamina. Such harassment would become routine, but it changed nothing about Magnus’s immediate plans.

  "Understood," he replied calmly. "Tell the men at the walls to hold steady and conserve their ammunition. Do not let Odoacer’s baiting provoke wasteful fire. We must remain disciplined."

  The young rider saluted sharply and galloped back toward the western defenses. Magnus turned toward Decimus, signaling clearly.

  "Palatini—forward!" Decimus called, voice clear and authoritative.

  In disciplined formation, the column rode slowly through Porta Cassis, the heavy wooden gates creaking shut behind them. The street opened into a wide thoroughfare leading eastward through Ravenna’s untouched neighborhoods. The rising sun painted the sky in gentle strokes of gold and crimson, bathing the city in soft morning light.

  Magnus noted the sharp contrast here compared to the ravaged western districts near the siege lines. Life on the eastern side carried on almost as normal. Citizens moved along the streets—men and women heading to market stalls, children playing outside workshops, elderly matrons gossiping quietly beside fountains. Yet a heavy undertone lingered; eyes flicked anxiously towards the mounted Palatini, faces darkened briefly with concern. The siege was distant enough not to fully disrupt daily routines here, but near enough that tension rippled beneath the surface.

  Magnus studied the quiet resilience in these faces, feeling both pride and unease. Ravenna was prepared. Emperor Romulus had ensured it. Warehouses and granaries were fully stocked, vast amounts of supplies secured ahead of Odoacer’s arrival. Yet Magnus was no fool—supplies had a way of dwindling faster than expected, morale eroding beneath the constant strain of siege warfare.

  He'd witnessed too many sieges in his lifetime. Soldiers knew how to endure hardship, but civilians had limits, breaking points. When families ran short of food, desperation set in. Hunger turned good men ruthless, peaceful streets into battlegrounds. Violence, riots—death, senseless and inevitable. The thought of such chaos within Ravenna filled Magnus’s heart with quiet dread.

  He breathed deeply, refocusing. "We only need to hold firm until Gaius returns," he murmured to himself, as much prayer as reassurance. His old friend, the revered Dux Severus, was surely sailing westward even now, legions of disciplined Eastern troops with him. Until then, Ravenna must remain a bulwark, an unyielding fortress.

  The column passed the state-owned workshops near the eastern bank of the river. From behind their fortified stone walls, sounds of relentless activity filled the air—hammer blows, shouted orders, clanging metalwork. Magnus felt a flicker of pride. Romulus’s great reforms had taken root here, reshaping Rome’s productivity into something formidable, something that might truly withstand Odoacer’s pressure. The workshops, heavily guarded by watchtowers and sturdy walls, served as a reassuring anchor for the city’s industry and defenses.

  They crossed the river bridge southward, hooves echoing softly over wooden beams. Beneath them, dark currents flowed rapidly, glittering faintly in the morning sun. Magnus briefly remembered Athanasios’s warnings of enemy infiltrators trained to cross those very waters—another concern for another day. His mission was clear, immediate, and pressing.

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  They reached an intersection, turning decisively toward the southern bridge, ten miles out, still intact by Romulus’s careful calculation. From there, Magnus would execute justice upon Comes Lucius Varius, the Palatini's betrayer. His pulse quickened slightly at the thought.

  Decimus rode beside him silently, sharing a glance filled with shared understanding. "This victory will redeem us," the officer finally said quietly. "The men need it. We need it."

  Magnus nodded solemnly. "Lucius Varius betrayed us and Rome itself. His capture will cleanse the Palatini’s honor—restore the dignity our fallen brothers deserve."

  They continued onward, Ravenna gradually falling behind them, fields and scattered farms unfolding ahead. The cool morning breeze rustled through wheat stalks, sunlight sparkling faintly upon morning dew. It felt surreal that war raged mere miles away, as if the land itself rejected the bloodshed upon its fertile soil.

  Magnus allowed himself a final moment of quiet reflection, imagining a Ravenna free from siege and strife. A place where citizens could walk safely in the markets, children could laugh without fear, families could thrive without uncertainty. It was a vision he carried deeply within him, the reason he fought.

  But that vision demanded blood, demanded sacrifice—and today, it would demand justice. Lucius Varius would pay for his treachery. The Palatini would reclaim their honor.

  Magnus exhaled slowly, resolve steadying his heart.

  "Decimus," he ordered softly, "increase the pace. We have a traitor to hunt."

  They reached the bridge at mid-morning, the wooden structure spanning wide across the river, solid and secure. Magnus allowed a brief smile of satisfaction. The position had been chosen carefully—easily defensible, with clear sightlines and stout earthworks reinforcing the approach. A garrison of around one hundred disciplined infantrymen guarded this crucial crossing, and it showed.

  "Comes Magnus!" the centurion commanding the bridge called sharply, stepping forward with practiced precision. He was a veteran with eyes sharp beneath a helm polished meticulously. "Welcome to the southern bridge. Our position is secure and the defenses are well-maintained, sir. The enemy won't cross here without paying dearly for every step."

  Magnus nodded approvingly, dismounting briefly. "Well done, Centurion. Your vigilance is commendable." He allowed his gaze to sweep across the sturdy fortifications once more. "Hold firm and continue your watch. We have an urgent mission—we'll rest only briefly here."

  The centurion saluted crisply. "Yes, Comes!"

  Magnus turned to Decimus, issuing quiet instructions. "Give the men a moment to check their gear, water the horses, and eat quickly. I want no delay. When we leave this bridge, we ride swiftly. Understand?"

  Decimus nodded firmly. "Understood, Comes."

  While the Palatini swiftly took advantage of the respite, Magnus moved slowly along the perimeter, inspecting each detail. Stakes sharpened and driven deep into the earth provided obstacles against cavalry charges. Sandbags and earth ramparts shielded defenders from enemy projectiles. Archers had clear lines of fire. Everything spoke of diligent preparation. This garrison had done Rome proud.

  Returning to his horse, Magnus exchanged a few quick words with a pair of scouts familiar with the southern terrain—swift riders who knew every copse, every hidden gully and ridge. "Ride ahead quickly. Report back the moment you sight Varius’s column. Do not engage—return immediately. Go!"

  The scouts saluted sharply, mounted, and galloped away.

  The centurion stepped forward again, offering Magnus a brief nod of respect. "Good luck, Comes Magnus. Bring honor back to the Palatini."

  Magnus offered a solemn salute. "We will," he replied gravely, before swinging himself back into the saddle.

  Behind him, the forty Palatini were already mounting, leather armor and polished mail clinking softly, horses tossing their heads restlessly. The centurion raised his arm, and every soldier stationed there snapped to attention, fists clenched against their chests in a disciplined salute.

  Magnus and his Palatini thundered across the bridge, hooves pounding heavily on timber, sending echoes across the tranquil waters below. On the opposite side, the land opened up: rolling fields interspersed with clusters of woodland and sparse farms, gently rising hills in the distance. The scouts had quickly disappeared ahead, scouting the enemy's movements.

  Once past the bridge, Magnus slowed his men slightly, allowing Decimus to catch up. The younger officer's expression was tense, focused on the task ahead.

  "Varius is arrogant," Magnus remarked softly, almost to himself. "He believes we would never dare ride out against him, that he is protected by Odoacer’s lines. But arrogance is always a man's undoing."

  Decimus exhaled slowly. "Let him think himself safe. It will make his surprise sweeter."

  Magnus nodded grimly, spurring his horse slightly. They rode in near silence, the only sounds the soft jingle of harnesses, the heavy breaths of their horses, and the rustling of leaves stirred gently by the morning breeze.

  Hours passed as the sun climbed higher. By midday, the early morning chill had faded into warmth, casting a golden haze across the landscape. Magnus’s eyes continually scanned the horizon, nerves taut, anticipation heavy in his chest.

  Then, abruptly, a scout appeared from a distant tree line, racing toward them at full gallop, cloak billowing behind. Magnus instantly raised his hand, signaling a halt. Every rider stopped, eyes fixed upon the approaching figure.

  The scout drew rein sharply in front of Magnus, his horse skidding to a halt in a spray of dust. Sweat beaded his forehead, his breathing rapid and labored. "Comes Magnus!" he reported breathlessly, voice tight with urgency. "I've found them. It's Varius—exactly as described. A small escort, no more than a dozen men, lightly armed. They're heading directly toward the southern bridge, about two miles west of here."

  A ripple of anticipation swept through the Palatini ranks. Magnus felt his heart quicken, adrenaline sharpening every sense. "Good," he growled softly. "He walks blindly into our hands."

  Decimus edged forward. "Should we attack now or move to intercept ahead?"

  Magnus’s gaze narrowed in thought. "We ride swiftly ahead and intercept him on the road. Varius must have no avenue of retreat. He betrayed his honor and betrayed Rome—today he pays the price."

  Decimus nodded grimly, his face a mask of determination. "Yes, Comes. He will not escape us."

  Magnus turned to the scout. "Lead us quickly to an intercept point. Avoid open areas—we strike from cover."

  "Follow me," the scout replied sharply, wheeling his horse around.

  Magnus spurred forward, the Palatini swiftly forming behind him into disciplined ranks. He felt a surge of emotion, his chest tight with the enormity of this moment. Today was not merely vengeance; it was redemption—a chance to erase the shame and dishonor Varius had inflicted upon his brothers-in-arms.

  He could almost see Varius’s face, arrogant and confident, completely unaware of his impending fate. The traitor would soon learn that betrayal carried a heavy price.

  Magnus drew a deep breath, focusing once more. "Palatini," he called firmly, voice carrying clearly over pounding hooves, "this is the hour of our redemption! Strike swiftly, strike true, and reclaim the honor Varius stole from us."

  Magnus thundered forward, his pulse hammering in his temples as they rounded a gentle rise. The scout’s guidance had been flawless. The traitorous Comes Lucius Varius and his small escort were leisurely trotting along the dusty road, completely oblivious to the thunder of hoofbeats rapidly approaching.

  Magnus raised his sword high, sunlight glinting off polished steel. His voice rang out, powerful and clear. "Palatini—charge!"

  Instantly, the heavy cavalry surged forward as one, forty armored horsemen closing rapidly on Varius’s tiny column. The traitors spun around in sudden, shocked confusion, scarcely able to comprehend the threat barreling towards them. Magnus saw their bewildered faces clearly—Varius himself, red-eyed, clearly hungover, his helm tilted askew on his head.

  Varius screamed a panicked order, scrambling desperately to form some semblance of defense, but it was already far too late. With the raw fury of wounded pride and honor, the Palatini hit their former comrades like a hammer upon brittle stone.

  The collision was violent and swift. Magnus leaned forward, gripping the reins tightly, his sword poised and ready. His massive warhorse, powerful and fearless, crashed directly into one of Varius's stunned escort, hurling the rider violently backward into the dirt, bones cracking under the impact. All around Magnus, the Palatini's lances and swords flashed, striking decisively against lightly armored opponents. Varius’s escort—once proud and elite Palatini themselves—shattered like brittle pottery.

  A handful of Varius’s men broke immediately, wheeling their agile horses in desperate flight, their lighter equipment giving them just enough speed to evade capture. Magnus allowed them to escape; his purpose here was singular—Varius himself.

  Magnus’s gaze locked onto the traitor. Varius desperately shouted commands, his voice cracking with panic. The stench of alcohol was almost palpable even over the smell of blood and sweat. His eyes were wild, hair damp with perspiration and terror, his authority in ruins.

  "Varius!" Magnus roared, his voice filled with raw anger. The traitor spun his horse around, visibly trembling. One of Magnus's men, Decimus, swiftly hurled his lancea forward—it flew true, piercing deeply into Varius’s horse. The beast screamed and collapsed sideways with bone-jarring force, trapping Varius beneath it.

  Within moments, the skirmish was over. Magnus drew rein sharply, dismounting swiftly, sword still in hand, breathing heavily with exertion and wrath. He moved toward Varius, who was sprawled helplessly beneath his dying mount, moaning softly, barely conscious.

  Magnus knelt next to the traitor, his face contorted with disgust. The smell of rancid alcohol, stale sweat, and filth overwhelmed him. Varius’s tunic was stained with blood, his armor askew, and he had clearly soiled himself in sheer terror.

  Magnus's voice trembled with anger as he spoke, each word a bitter accusation. "Why, Lucius? Why have you betrayed your oath, your brothers? Why have you forsaken Rome?"

  Varius coughed violently, spattering blood onto the dusty earth. His eyes fluttered open weakly, struggling to focus on Magnus’s face. "Magnus…" he wheezed, voice weak and rasping, his gaze unfocused and clouded. "Doesn't…doesn't matter anymore. Too late…for all of us."

  Magnus clenched his jaw tightly, gripping the hilt of his sword harder, fighting down a surge of frustration. He leaned in closer, forcing Varius to meet his gaze. "You had everything! Honor, loyalty—what madness drove you to Crassus’s side? Answer me, damn you!"

  Varius suddenly began muttering deliriously, eyes staring blankly beyond Magnus, seeing something—or someone—far away. "Livia…" he whispered hoarsely, tears mingling with blood on his face. "I'm sorry…Tell the children…" He paused, gasping for air, his breath coming in ragged sobs.

  Magnus drew a breath, caught between anger and an unexpected pang of pity. "Varius," he said, his voice quieter, but still harsh with disappointment. "At least face your death with dignity."

  Varius blinked weakly, the delirium briefly clearing from his eyes. He locked gazes with Magnus, sudden clarity cutting through the haze. "Magnus," he rasped, his voice urgent and strained, "listen…carefully. Beware…beware of Lepidus." He grimaced in pain, coughing violently, his voice barely audible. "He…he sent me…he sent me here…he won't hesitate…to betray you, Romulus—anyone…"

  Varius’s brief moment of clarity faded, his eyes glazing over once more as delirium reclaimed him. "Livia," he murmured softly, voice trembling with sorrow, "my love…forgive me. Tell Lucius and Julia…tell them Papa tried to come home… Tell them I tried…"

  Magnus felt an unexpected wave of pity wash over him as he watched the broken, dying man before him. Varius’s breathing came in shallow, labored gasps, each breath weaker than the last. The once-proud Comes was reduced now to a pathetic figure, muttering broken promises and desperate apologies to a wife and children he would never see again.

  "Forgive me…" Varius whispered again, eyes unfocused, lost in memories. His voice was heartbreakingly gentle, as if his family stood just before him, waiting patiently for him to come home. "I wanted only peace… a life for us… away from war…"

  Magnus’s chest tightened painfully. He had despised Varius, had hated him deeply for the dishonor and betrayal he had brought upon the Palatini. Yet now, watching the life slowly drain from him, Magnus felt no victory—only a heavy, bitter sorrow. Varius had once been a brother-in-arms who had stood shoulder to shoulder with him in countless battles. How far had he fallen?

  He watched in silence, a cold breeze sweeping through the battlefield, gently stirring the fallen man’s bloodied cloak. Varius’s eyes fluttered closed slowly, and his ragged breathing grew quieter. "Forgive me, Livia…," he murmured one final time, the faint words barely more than a sigh, drifting away into the stillness.

  And then he was gone.

  Magnus exhaled a long, shaky breath, gently releasing Varius’s limp body and rising slowly to his feet. Around him, the Palatini stood silently, their faces solemn. Victory felt hollow in the face of this grim truth: beneath all the layers of betrayal and treachery lay a man broken by war and ambition.

  "Decimus," Magnus said quietly, voice steady but subdued, "pull Varius’s body from under his horse. Gather the other dead traitors—we take them all back to Ravenna. The Emperor and the people must see the price of betrayal."

  "Understood, Comes," Decimus replied quietly, signaling the men to carry out Magnus’s orders.

  Magnus stepped back, turning his gaze away from the grisly scene. His chest felt heavy, burdened by unexpected sadness. He had achieved his goal; Varius had faced justice. But Magnus found no satisfaction in this. Instead, emptiness gnawed at him, a hollow ache deep within his spirit.

  He gazed at the horizon, his thoughts drifting back through the years. Varius had been a proud and capable officer once—a man whose courage and loyalty had been beyond question. Magnus remembered clearly the days when they had stood together, defending Rome from threats both external and internal. Varius had laughed, had loved his family deeply, had spoken earnestly about peace.

  What had broken him? Magnus wondered bitterly. Ambition, fear, greed, desperation—perhaps all combined. War had a way of grinding down a man’s soul, reshaping him into something unrecognizable. How far had Varius traveled down that dark road, to betray comrades, to forsake his oath, to sell himself to treacherous senators like Lepidus?

  Magnus clenched his fists, anger and sorrow intertwining painfully within him. He knew, of course, that Lepidus had sold Varius out, had sent him here to die as a token of false sincerity. But Magnus said nothing. The Palatini deserved this victory untarnished, and exposing Lepidus now would only complicate matters. Still, the thought filled him with silent rage: Varius, reduced to a pawn in the senator's twisted games, his life discarded like a worthless coin.

  He stood quietly as the men finished loading the bodies onto makeshift carts they had quickly prepared. Varius’s broken form was covered respectfully, his face hidden beneath a cloak. Magnus mounted his horse slowly, every motion heavy with weariness.

  "Back to Ravenna," he commanded softly, voice flat and emotionless.

  They rode slowly, the journey feeling longer and heavier with each passing mile. No one spoke. The victory had brought no cheer, no relief—only a grim, somber silence. Magnus’s mind drifted again to Varius’s final words, his desperate whispers of apology to Livia, his children. Magnus wondered briefly about them—where were they now? Did they know the truth of their husband, their father? Would they ever understand why he had chosen betrayal, or would they live forever under the shadow of his disgrace?

  Magnus knew this burden too well himself—the scars betrayal left on a man’s heart, never fully healed. He understood loss, and knew that the pain Varius had carried—the longing for peace and family—was no different from his own. They had both been shaped and battered by years of endless war, relentless duty, and cruel fate.

  As Ravenna’s towering walls finally appeared again on the horizon, Magnus exhaled slowly. The city waited, secure and proud, its defenses strong and supplies ample. But beneath that strength lingered human fragility, the vulnerability of all men who lived and fought for Rome. Varius had succumbed to that fragility; others surely would as well, before this siege ended.

  The eastern gates opened solemnly as they approached, revealing silent crowds gathered along the streets, staring in grim awe as the carts bearing the traitors moved slowly through the city. Varius’s covered body lay still and quiet amid the dead, a silent testament to the terrible price of betrayal.

  Magnus rode at the head of the column, shoulders heavy with the weight of this hollow victory. He felt no pride, no satisfaction—only lingering regret and sorrow. Rome’s enemies had paid a cost, but the victory had not come cheaply. It never did.

  He whispered softly to himself, eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Forgive us, Varius. Forgive Rome. May you find peace now, brother."

  The words vanished quickly into the silence, drowned by the slow, rhythmic hoofbeats echoing through the streets of Ravenna.