Port of Classis, Ravenna. October 17, 476 AD.
Seven days had passed since the sea burned, and Ravenna finally began to breathe a sigh of relief.
The view at the port of Classis had changed completely. In the place where a week ago there was only tension and a terrifyingly empty horizon, a forest of masts now crowded the water. Merchant ships from Sicily and grain convoys from North Africa that had previously been held back by the blockade were now docking at the piers, competing for space to unload their cargo.
The sound of wooden cranes creaking as they lifted sacks of grain became the most beautiful music to the citizens. The rotting smell of death from starvation was slowly replaced by the scent of warm bread being baked once again in every corner of the city.
Vitus stood atop the harbor watchtower, observing the activity with sharp eyes. Beside him stood Cassian, the gaunt old administrator who had once doubted Vitus's plan but was now busy recording every piece of logistics into his papyrus sheets with obedience.
"Make sure every grain is counted, Administrator," ordered Vitus firmly without turning his head. "Half for the public granaries as a winter reserve, and half directly to the market at prices fixed by the palace. I do not want any leech merchants taking advantage of this recovery."
"Understood, General," answered Cassian while nodding respectfully, his quill dancing quickly. "The people are starting to calm down. They are calling out the Emperor's name and your name in the streets. The markets are alive again."
Vitus only snorted softly. "Euphoria is a lulling poison, Cassian. Ensure the granaries are full before we celebrate anything. Continue your work."
While the city began to rise from its grave, a different atmosphere was created in the inner courtyard of the imperial palace.
Clack. Thud. Clack.
Romulus, bathed in sweat under the morning sun, was sparring. This was his new routine. Under the strict supervision of Spurius Maecenas, the Praefectus Praetorio, Romulus was no longer just a boy hiding behind a purple robe.
He held the rudis, a heavy wooden practice sword, with a stance that was becoming sturdier. His opponent was Spurius, who moved efficiently and lethally like a veteran who had spent half his life in the ranks of the Legio.
"Your defense is open, Caesar!" scolded Spurius as he easily deflected Romulus's attack and touched the tip of his wooden sword to Romulus's ribs. "You are too eager to attack. In battle, the one second you forget to protect your heart is the one second you die."
Romulus grimaced, regulating his ragged breathing. Sweat dripped from his temples, but his eyes burned with fire. He did not complain. He took a step back, fixed his footwork, and lifted his chin.
"Again," said Romulus briefly.
Spurius smiled thinly, proud to see that determination. "Good. Do not let victory at sea make you soft. The enemy does not care who you are. They only care where the gap in your armor is."
Romulus nodded, then attacked again. This time his movements were more efficient and sharper. He felt strong. He felt that the greatest threat from the sea had passed, and now he had time to build himself into an Emperor worthy of his father.
He laughed freely when he managed to block Spurius's attack. He felt the world was finally on his side.
He did not know that far away in the South, a different kind of sword was being sharpened to sever his neck. A sword made not of iron, but of dogma and ink.
Lateran Palace, Rome November 2, 476 AD
Rome was restless. Rumors spread by Nepos's spies had crept into the cracks of the Subura streets and up to the elite hills. Stories about "Green Fire" and "Burned Grain" had poisoned the joy of Ravenna's fledgling victory.
Amidst that anxiety, a procession entered the northern gate of Rome.
It was not an army, but a religious procession that was solemn yet grim. At the front, monks carried silver crosses and incense. In the center, a luxurious carriage carried Archbishop Theodore II of Milan. However, what made the citizens of Rome hold their breath and whisper in horror was what was carried in the open cart at the very rear.
Two survivors from Nepos's fleet. Their faces and bodies were bandaged, but the stinging smell of burnt flesh seemed like a perfume of death that followed them. Theodore deliberately displayed them, letting the people of Rome see the "victims" of what he called Romulus's cruelty.
The group did not stop at any inn. They moved slowly, parting the crowd, heading straight for the Lateran Palace, the official residence of the Pope.
The papal guards at the Lateran gate looked hesitant when they saw the Archbishop of Milan's entourage arriving without an official invitation. However, seeing Theodore's grand robes and his aura of authority, they gave way.
"Tell the Holy Father," said Theodore gently to the captain of the guard, his voice calm but full of pressure. "His brother from Milan comes bearing sad news that concerns the safety of his soul."
The Lateran gates were opened.
Inside the Consistorium Hall which was cold and dim, Pope Simplicius sat on his Cathedra throne. His old face looked tired, the burden of thinking about the hungry bellies of the Roman people had eaten away at his health. Beside him stood Deacon Gelasius, his right-hand man who was intelligent and always alert.
The hall doors opened. Theodore walked in with measured steps. He was not alone; he signaled for the two maimed victims to be helped in with him, supported by the monks.
Approaching the throne, Theodore knelt reverently. He bowed his head and kissed the fisherman's ring on Pope Simplicius's finger, showing perfect ecclesiastical etiquette. There was no arrogance on his face, only deep concern.
"Rise, Brother Theodore," the Pope's voice sounded hoarse and weak. "Your arrival surprises us. What wind brings you all the way from Milan?"
Theodore rose, his face implying the sadness of a father who had lost his child.
"Holy Father," he began with a smooth tone, "Forgive my presumption. I come not to disturb your rest, but my heart cannot be calm seeing God's sheep attacked by wolves in sheep's clothing."
He turned slowly toward the two bandaged men behind him.
"I bring proof, Your Holiness. Proof of a tragedy that occurred in the Adriatic Sea. These men... they are eyewitnesses to a dark power that now resides in Ravenna."
Gelasius narrowed his eyes, sensing a trap in those sweet words. "Dark power? Be careful with your accusations, Archbishop."
"I dare not accuse without basis, Deacon Gelasius," answered Theodore softly. He pulled a scroll from inside his robe, the letter written by Nepos, and handed it to a servant to give to the Pope.
"Julius Nepos wrote this with tears," continued Theodore, his voice now trembling dramatically but remaining polite. "He sent grain for the starving people of Rome. Humanitarian aid. But Romulus... that golden child... he burned it. And he did not burn it with ordinary fire."
Pope Simplicius read the letter with trembling hands. Theodore stepped a little closer, his voice lowering as if making a confession.
"Fire that burns on water, Holy Father. Green fire that eats flesh and bone, which cannot be extinguished by prayer or seawater. That is the sign of Maleficium. Black magic. I fear... Romulus has used forbidden arts to maintain his throne."
A heavy silence blanketed the room. An accusation of sorcery was the thing the Church feared most.
"That boy," continued Theodore, his tone full of false concern, "is surrounded by remnants of Odoacer's army who worship idols. I fear... I fear greatly... that the boy's soul has gone astray."
Pope Simplicius put down the letter, his face pale. "This is a very heavy accusation, Theodore. To say an Emperor practices magic... the implications could destroy the empire."
"Precisely because I love this empire, I come to you, Holy Father," said Theodore, clasping his hands over his chest. "If the Vatican remains silent, the people will ask. Does the Church protect devilish practices? I only fear... if Rome does not act, the faithful in the North will lose faith in the Holy Father's leadership."
It was a threat wrapped in silk. Theodore was implicitly threatening a schism of authority if the Pope did not act.
Gelasius whispered something in the Pope's ear, his face tense. They were cornered. Rejecting Theodore meant looking like they were protecting a "sorcerer" in the eyes of the people who had already consumed the gossip. Accepting Theodore meant attacking the only military protector they had at the moment.
Pope Simplicius sighed deeply, his shoulders dropping as a sign of surrender to the political burden Theodore had placed on them.
"The Church cannot allow heresy," said the Pope quietly, his voice sounding weary. "We must test this truth before God."
The Pope looked at Theodore with a dim gaze. "We will hold a Synod. Summon the bishops around Rome."
Theodore bowed respectfully, hiding the glint of victory in his eyes. "A wise decision, Your Holiness. When may this holy trial be held? The wounds of the faithful need to be bandaged immediately."
Gelasius answered on behalf of the Pope, his voice cold and formal. "Twelve days from now. November 14th. At St. Peter's Basilica. We will hold an open tribunal to investigate these allegations."
"I shall prepare my witnesses," said Theodore while bowing deeply. "May the Holy Spirit guide us."
Theodore retreated slowly, leaving the room with perfect manners, yet leaving a deadly poison in the heart of the Church. The date had been set. Romulus's fate would now be judged at the altar, far from the reach of Spurius's sword or Vitus's strategy.
Palace Courtyard, Ravenna November 6, 476 AD
The morning sun was not yet high, but the dust in the training courtyard was already thick in the air.
"Hold!" shouted Spurius Maecenas, raising his hand.
Romulus immediately stopped the swing of his wooden sword. His breathing was ragged, sweat soaked his wool tunic, but his eyes remained focused. He no longer complained of fatigue like in the first weeks.
At the edge of the field, a military courier with a dusty cloak was whispering urgently to one of the duty officers. The courier's face was pale, the kind of pale that signaled he brought news worse than a physical attack.
Spurius, who possessed a sharp instinct for danger, immediately sheathed his sword. He walked closer to Romulus.
"Training is over for this morning, Caesar," said Spurius, his voice low but firm.
"But we only started an hour ago, Spurius," protested Romulus while wiping sweat from his brow. "I have not yet perfected that defensive stance."
"Duty calls, Dominus," cut in Spurius. He turned his head toward the line of guards standing alert at the edge of the field.
They were the Eleven. The same eleven soldiers who had held the palace doors when Romulus tried to flee on the night of Odoacer's death. Eleven men whose loyalty had been tested not with words, but with their lives.
"Decius!" called Spurius.
Decurion Decius Marius Cilo, the leader of the group, stepped forward and struck his chest. "Ready, Prefect!"
Behind him stood the others, a wall of silent loyalty. There was Optio Titus Flavius Silva, the second-in-command with eyes like a hawk; the giant Gaius Valerius Flaccus, who towered over the rest; and the youngest among them, Appius Claudius, looking eager yet disciplined. The rest of the brotherhood stood unmoving behind them, veterans whose names were etched in scars and service.
"Take over the drill," ordered Spurius efficiently. "Continue the sparring session. Do not let him rest until his footwork is perfect. I have urgent business with General Vitus."
"Understood!" answered Decurion Decius firmly. "Optio Silva, step forward! You are the Emperor's opponent now."
Spurius then bowed briefly to Romulus. Without another word, the head of the guard turned and walked quickly toward the main palace building, his red cloak billowing behind him.
Romulus watched his mentor leave with an uneasy feeling. Something had happened. Something that made Spurius, the calmest man in Ravenna, look rushed.
Strategy Room, Palace of Ravenna.
The oak door was pushed open roughly by Spurius.
Inside the room, the tension felt so dense it was suffocating. General Vitus was pacing back and forth like a caged lion, his hand gripped tightly on the hilt of his sword. Meanwhile, in a chair near the window, sat an old man in simple bishop's robes whose face implied deep wisdom.
It was Archbishop Johannes of Ravenna.
"What is happening?" asked Spurius immediately, skipping formalities.
Vitus stopped walking. He looked at Spurius with eyes burning with rage.
"Ask this holy man," growled Vitus while pointing at Johannes. "Ask what garbage the Papal messenger just threw at our feet."
Spurius turned to Johannes. The Bishop sighed deeply, his hand holding a scroll stamped with the lead seal of the Pope.
"A messenger from the Lateran arrived at dawn, Prefect," Johannes's voice was calm but trembling. "He brought a formal summons. Four days ago, Archbishop Theodore of Milan arrived in Rome. He brought two survivors from Nepos's destroyed fleet."
"And?" pressed Spurius.
"Theodore accused us before Pope Simplicius," continued Johannes. "He brought a letter from Nepos claiming that the fleet we destroyed was a humanitarian aid fleet carrying grain. And worse... Theodore accused Emperor Romulus of using black magic to burn those ships."
Spurius fell silent. He digested the information. An accusation of magic. In this age, that was a death sentence.
"The Pope swallowed his words?" asked Spurius sharply.
"The Pope is pressured," answered Johannes. "Rome is rioting. The people are hungry and easily incited. Simplicius had no choice but to agree to Theodore's demands. To maintain fairness, the Pope has sent this summons. They have set a date for a Synod of Inquiry."
Johannes lifted the scroll slightly.
"November 14th at St. Peter's Basilica."
"November 14th..." Spurius calculated quickly in his head. "That gives us eight days."
"Bullshit!" shouted Vitus suddenly, hitting the map table until the wooden pieces jumped. "Humanitarian aid?! Nepos blockaded our sea for a month! He let babies die of starvation in this city! And now he acts like a saint and accuses us of being sorcerers because we managed to fight back?!"
Vitus drew his dagger and stabbed it into the map, right on the point of the city of Rome.
"I will not allow this insult. If the Pope and Theodore want war, I will give them war! Prepare the legions! We will march to Rome right now!"
Vitus looked at Spurius and Johannes wildly.
"I will drag Theodore from the altar and force him to swallow that slanderous letter! We have 2,000 troops ready to die. We can reach Rome in five days if we ride hard!"
"And make Emperor Romulus an enemy of God?" cut in Johannes with a loud voice that was surprising.
The old Bishop stood up, staring at Vitus without fear.
"Think, General! That is what Nepos wants! If you march to Rome carrying swords when the Church calls for a trial, you validate all their accusations! The world will see Romulus not as a victim of slander, but as a tyrant attacking God's Vicar on earth!"
"Then we just stay silent?!" snapped Vitus.
"We do not stay silent, but we must not be foolish," replied Spurius, his voice cold and calculating. He stepped to the map table, pulling out Vitus's dagger.
"Tactically, leaving Ravenna right now is suicide, Vitus," explained Spurius. "If you take the legions to Rome, Ravenna is empty. Nepos's spies are surely watching. The moment the main force exits the gates, the rest of Nepos's fleet in Dalmatia will cross over and take this city in a single night. We lose the throne to chase a Bishop."
Vitus fell silent, his breathing heavy. He knew Spurius was right, but the sense of injustice burned in his chest. "So what? We let them judge our Emperor in absentia? We let them pronounce excommunication on the boy?"
"No," said Johannes gently. "Church Law states that every accused has the right to a Defender. The arrival of that messenger proves the Pope is still giving us a chance to answer."
Johannes straightened his robes, his face showing steel determination.
"I will go."
Vitus and Spurius turned simultaneously.
"You?" asked Vitus doubtfully. "You are old, Johannes. The journey to Rome will crush your bones."
"My bones may be old, but my tongue is still sharp, General," answered Johannes smiling thinly. "I know Canon Law. I know the cracks in Vatican diplomacy that cannot be slashed with swords. I will stand in St. Peter's Basilica. I will be the shield for Romulus before the Pope."
Spurius nodded slowly. "That is the best solution. Political war must be fought with politicians."
Vitus wiped his face roughly, trying to calm his anger. He looked at the old Bishop with new respect.
"Very well," said Vitus finally. "But you will not go alone like a beggar. You represent Ravenna. You represent the Emperor."
Vitus pointed toward the window, toward the cavalry barracks.
"I will give you the best escort. One Hundred Cataphracts," said Vitus. The mere mention of the heavy cavalry carried a weight of lethal promise. "The heaviest and most terrifying mounted troops we have. Let Theodore see the glint of their armor and think twice before touching you."
"One hundred?" asked Johannes. "That is... a bit excessive, General."
"It is not for war, Father," Spurius added with a slight smirk. "It is a message. A message that Ravenna is not afraid. A message that behind your worn robes stands an iron force ready to destroy anyone who harms you."
Vitus nodded firmly. "Depart this afternoon, Father Johannes. Do not spare the horses. Do not stop until you see the gates of Rome. You must arrive there before the judgment is passed."
Johannes clutched the wooden cross on his chest. "Pray for me. For I am going into the wolf's den."
"Go safely," said Vitus. "And by God... make that Bishop of Milan regret being born."
Johannes nodded and hurried out of the room to prepare.
Silence returned to the Strategy Room. Vitus slumped into his chair, looking drained. He looked at Spurius with a gaze full of deep anxiety, the fear of a soldier who could not protect his master from an invisible weapon.
"Spurius," whispered Vitus, his breath heavy.
"Yes, General?"
"We can fight armies. We can burn ships," said Vitus, his voice trembling slightly. "But if they excommunicate that boy... then we are finished."
By late afternoon, the usual shouting of drill sergeants in the Scholae barracks had been replaced by a heavy, disciplined silence. The sun began to dip lower, casting long orange shadows across the training grounds, but inside the heavy cavalry stables, the air was thick with the smell of leather, horse sweat, and cold iron.
One hundred chosen men were donning their armor.
They were not ordinary soldiers. They were the Cataphractii, the heaviest cavalry unit the Western Empire possessed. Their bodies were encased in lorica squamata, scales of iron overlapping tightly that covered them from neck to knee. Even their mounts were not spared from the weight of war. The massive warhorses wore bardings of thick leather and chainmail, transforming them into living battering rams.
Vitus walked among the rows of these iron monsters, inspecting every bridle strap and every tip of the long kontos lances.
"Remember my orders," Vitus said with a low voice, directed only at the Tribune leading the unit. "You do not ride to slaughter, but you must look ready to slaughter. If a single dirty hand in Rome tries to touch the Bishop's carriage, I want that hand severed before its owner realizes he has made a mistake."
"Orders received, General," answered the Tribune from behind an iron helmet that covered his entire face, leaving only dark slits for his eyes.
A few yards away, near the heavy wooden gates of the barracks, Archbishop Johannes was making his final preparations.
He wore no golden vestments of high office today. His frail body was wrapped in a thick grey wool tunic and a rough traveling cloak.
A young deacon named Paulus was busy arranging piles of parchment and writing tools inside a modest traveling carriage. Unlike the grand vehicles of the court, this was a sturdy wooden carriage with a canvas roof to protect against the wind. Paulus looked nervous amidst the surrounding iron-clad warriors, his hands trembling slightly as he organized the scrolls.
Vitus approached the carriage. He did not waste time with pleasantries. He rested his hand on the wooden frame of the door, his shadow falling over the two clergymen inside.
Johannes looked up, meeting the General's gaze calmly.
"We are ready, General," said Johannes.
Vitus nodded, then leaned in closer through the carriage window.
"Listen to me closely. This mission does not exist until you are well past the city gates. Keep the curtains closed."
Vitus shifted his sharp gaze to Paulus. The young deacon swallowed hard, shrinking under the stare of the man who had burned an entire fleet.
"And that applies to your assistant as well," said Vitus coldly. "Keep him on a tight leash. If I hear he has been gossiping in a tavern on the road, he will not live to see the gates of Rome. Do you understand?"
Paulus turned pale and nodded quickly. "I understand, General. My lips are sealed."
Vitus turned his attention back to Johannes.
"The Emperor does not know you are leaving. He thinks you are going on a prayer retreat at a monastery on the outskirts. I have forbidden anyone from telling him otherwise."
"You hide this from him?" asked Johannes softly.
"He is still a child, Johannes. The burden of sorcery and excommunication is too heavy for him to carry right now," answered Vitus firmly. "Let him practice swordsmanship with Spurius. Let him feel strong. This dirty business of politics... let it be the sin we adults carry."
Johannes exhaled, shaking his head slowly. He looked at Vitus with a gaze that was not approving, but deep with warning.
"You shield him from the storm, Vitus. But an oak tree that never faces the wind will fall at the first breeze. By hiding this reality, you are not saving him. You are merely delaying the moment he must become a man. An Emperor must know that his crown is made of thorns, not just gold."
Vitus fell silent for a moment, his jaw tightening. He knew there was truth in those words, but his protective instinct was stronger.
"Ride," Vitus commanded shortly, ignoring the advice and stepping back to signal the driver.
As the sun began to bleed into the horizon, the massive bronze gates of the Porta Aurea, the Golden Gate of Ravenna, groaned open with a thunderous sound.
The citizens of Ravenna who were winding down their activities, merchants closing their stalls, women fetching the last jars of water, and children playing in the streets, instantly froze.
They watched, mouths agape, as the spectacle unfolded.
One hundred iron horsemen marched out in a double column. The hooves of the warhorses made the ground tremble rhythmically. Their scale armor reflected the dying reddish light of the sun, creating an illusion as if a river of molten metal was flowing out of the city.
In the center of those iron monsters, protected like a precious jewel, rolled a simple wooden carriage containing the Bishop and his assistant.
The combination was confusing and terrifying. Why was a simple carriage being escorted by so many killing machines?
"Where are they going?" whispered a baker to his neighbor.
"Look at that! Those are Cataphracts. The core force. Are we going to war again?"
"Who is inside the carriage?"
"I saw Bishop Johannes and young Paulus entering it earlier. Are they fleeing?"
"Hush! Do not speak carelessly. Perhaps he is sent to bless the borders."
Rumors began to spread like wildfire through the crowd, but no one dared to ask aloud. The lethal aura radiated by the silent, faceless guards made the citizens' tongues go stiff.
High atop the defensive walls, Spurius stood watching the procession move away. Dust began to rise on the Via Flaminia leading South, slowly swallowing the glittering figures and the small carriage into the twilight.
Behind him, a young soldier, one of the Eleven, approached hesitantly.
"Prefect," the soldier asked quietly. "If the Emperor asks where Bishop Johannes has gone, what should we answer?"
Spurius did not turn his head. His eyes remained fixed on the shrinking cloud of dust on the horizon.
"Tell him the Bishop has gone to pray for the salvation of Rome," answered Spurius flatly. "It is not a lie. It is just that the Emperor does not need to know that his prayers will be recited inside a lion's den."
The sun finally set, swallowing the shadow of the army into the darkness of the coming night. Ravenna was safe behind its walls, but the carriage was now racing against time toward the gathering storm.
Meanwhile, inside the warm and brightly lit palace dining hall, Romulus Augustus ate his soup peacefully. He chatted eagerly with a servant about a new parrying technique he had learned, completely unaware that his life and soul were being gambled on the dusty road to the Vatican.