4th of August 476 AD

  Gundobad’s mood was dark as a storm cloud, his pride bruised, his body still aching from the brutal fight at Ravenna’s northern wall. The tent was heavy with an oppressive tension, illuminated faintly by a few sputtering oil lamps whose pale flames flickered and danced in the shadows. Beside Gundobad stood Wulfgar, silent but rigid with barely contained anger, his powerful arms folded across his chest. Other foederati commanders—battle-hardened Germans, veterans of countless skirmishes—were gathered close, murmuring in low tones about the night’s disastrous outcome.

  In a far corner of the tent sat Crassus, Lepidus, and Pollio, their faces obscured partially by shadow. Crassus slumped, weary and shaken, while Lepidus and Pollio glanced nervously at Odoacer, whispering between themselves, uneasy about his mood.

  Gundobad raised his chin and finally broke the tense silence, speaking with the pride of a Burgundian prince and warlord who refused to appear weak, even after defeat.

  “The assault was strong, and it began as we planned,” he began grimly, eyes meeting Odoacer’s icy stare directly. “We drained part of the northern moat, as you instructed, and my Burgundians and Wulfgar’s Heruli attacked in full force. We even gained footholds atop their walls, for a moment. But the Roman defenders—”

  He hesitated briefly, then spoke the words he loathed to admit:

  “The Roman defenders were stronger than we anticipated. They stood their ground and fought bravely—too bravely. Their crossbows were relentless, deadly even against the best armor we possess.”

  Wulfgar shifted his weight impatiently beside him, his voice rumbling like distant thunder.

  “They fired quarrel after quarrel, picking off our men like deer in a hunt. Our ladders fell, the moat became a slaughtering pen. My Heruli lost good men tonight. It was no easy failure, Odoacer.”

  The silence stretched painfully, the tension building as Odoacer’s expression darkened. The great Germanic leader sat immobile, but his piercing blue eyes burned with barely restrained fury. He spoke slowly, each word heavy with anger.

  “How many did we lose, Gundobad?” The question was simple, blunt, dangerous.

  Gundobad stiffened his back, refusing to flinch before Odoacer’s intensity. “We’re still counting, but our losses are severe—at least twelve hundred warriors dead or gravely wounded. Proud Germans, men who deserved a better fate.”

  Odoacer shot to his feet, fists clenched, his frame towering as he rose. “Twelve hundred!” His voice filled the tent like a tempest, causing even the haughty Roman senators to shrink further into their seats. “How is this possible? How did those pathetic Romans defy me?”

  “They are not so pathetic,” Gundobad snapped back firmly, eyes blazing as his own warrior’s pride swelled. “They are disciplined, well prepared—and this boy-emperor’s new weapons, these crossbows—they tore through us like we were unarmored peasants.”

  Odoacer slammed his hand upon the wooden table, the loud crash silencing the murmurs instantly. His voice was low and harsh now, almost a growl of frustration.

  “If I were not forced to rush this siege, if that cursed eastern army were not approaching closer every day, I would starve these damned Romans into submission. They would beg me to open their gates.”

  Gundobad met Odoacer’s glare unflinchingly, proud blood rising in his veins. He was no mere subordinate—he was a prince of the Burgundians, heir to a great kingdom. He would not grovel in shame, even before Odoacer himself.

  “We rushed this siege because we had no choice,” Gundobad answered sharply, his voice edged with defiance. “But make no mistake: my warriors, Wulfgar’s Heruli, and the other foederati fought with honor and bravery. This defeat stings bitterly, but it stains my pride, not our courage.”

  Wulfgar added a deep grunt of agreement, folding his arms tighter as he glared at the others around them. “My Heruli never broke ranks. We withdrew in good order. The Romans did not rout us—they survived us. There is a difference.”

  Odoacer’s features softened slightly, though the embers of his rage still smoldered dangerously. He regarded Gundobad for a long moment, breathing slowly, visibly forcing his anger into submission. At last, he nodded once, grudgingly.

  “I do not question your courage, Gundobad. Nor yours, Wulfgar,” he conceded. “But twelve hundred warriors, the best among us, are now lost or unable to fight. This is not simply a defeat—it's a calamity. Our ranks thin as the enemy grows bolder.”

  From the shadowed corner of the tent, Crassus stirred slightly, seemingly gathering his courage. Lepidus whispered a hasty warning, but Crassus waved him off.

  “Perhaps now,” Crassus offered cautiously, voice uneven, “is the time to reconsider how—”

  Odoacer swung his burning gaze toward the senator, silencing him with a glare colder than winter frost.

  “Quiet, Roman,” he hissed. “You sit in my tent because I allow it. Do not mistake courtesy for tolerance.”

  Crassus’s mouth snapped shut instantly, face pale and humiliated. Gundobad ignored the Romans, keeping his eyes locked with Odoacer’s.

  “Rome will not fall easily,” Gundobad admitted after a heavy silence. “But it can still fall. Their crossbows may be deadly, but they cannot strike what they cannot see. Let us use night and cunning. Let us probe their defenses again, more carefully. My Burgundians are bloodied but not broken—give us another chance, and we will carve open Ravenna’s heart.”

  Odoacer took a long, slow breath, gathering himself visibly. He finally sank back into his seat, the fury now replaced by weary calculation. He steepled his fingers, thinking deeply.

  “Perhaps,” Odoacer murmured, finally nodding in reluctant approval. “But tonight’s disaster must not repeat. We will reorganize, and we will find another way.”

  Gundobad nodded stiffly, his pride somewhat mollified. Beside him, Wulfgar exhaled slowly, clearly readying himself for whatever came next. Their fellow commanders began quietly discussing new tactics and positions.

  As the war council continued, Gundobad felt anger and humiliation still smoldering inside him. He would not let this defeat linger. He had lost brave warriors, loyal men whose lives now stained the cold ground before Ravenna’s walls. His pride, his honor as a German prince demanded vengeance and victory. No Roman crossbow, no wall of stone would forever keep him out.

  In the shadows, Crassus, Lepidus, and Pollio sat silently, helpless observers, their hopes and ambitions reduced to whispers and fearful glances. They watched as Odoacer and his foederati commanders once more prepared for war, keenly aware that their fate was tied now, irrevocably, to the ruthless resolve and battered pride of these Germanic warlords.

  Gundobad stood firm, his eyes hard as steel, determined. Ravenna would fall. It was only a matter of when and how many more warriors must bleed before the Romans paid their debt.

  Lepidus stepped through the canvas flap into Crassus's tent, Pollio at his side, the flickering torchlight within illuminating the interior with a soft amber glow. Outside, the murmurs of Odoacer's officers still echoed through the night, filled with frustration, wounded pride, and barely-contained anger.

  Crassus slumped onto a cushioned stool, exhaling slowly, exhaustion briefly softening his sharp features. He sat in silence for a moment, eyes closed, breathing deeply as if savoring the scent of victory—even a small one.

  Then, abruptly, he began to chuckle, a quiet laugh that soon grew louder, filling the small space.

  Lepidus exchanged a puzzled glance with Pollio, unsure how to interpret this sudden outburst.

  "Is something amusing, Crassus?" Lepidus asked carefully, not wanting to risk another of Crassus’s infamous bouts of fury.

  Crassus opened his eyes, still smiling, an expression both bitter and satisfied. "Oh, yes, my dear Lepidus," he said softly. "Indeed, something is deeply amusing. That arrogant German savage Odoacer has finally got his nose bloodied. After weeks of watching him strut around, treating us Romans as if we were his personal servants, finally he tastes defeat."

  Crassus leaned back, eyes glittering coldly. "And I cannot help but savor the irony of it all."

  Pollio gave a slight nod, lips pursed thoughtfully. "It certainly changes things," he remarked, carefully choosing his words. "Until now, Odoacer’s aura of invincibility made our position… difficult. But now his men have learned firsthand that Rome is not easily conquered. Even those proud Germans must be questioning their leader."

  "Exactly," Crassus responded firmly. He rubbed his chin, eyes narrowing. "Odoacer needed humbling, badly. Tonight showed he is neither invincible nor infallible. His warriors are bloodied, their pride wounded—and proud men do foolish things when humiliated."

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  Lepidus eased onto a bench across from Crassus, smoothing the fabric of his toga in thought. "Indeed, this outcome serves us well. Now, instead of treating us as mere lackeys, Odoacer must consider us partners again, if only grudgingly. His setbacks will strengthen our hand."

  Crassus gave Lepidus a brief, approving nod. "Precisely. And we must not waste this opportunity. Odoacer’s men will not soon forget the Roman walls that humiliated them. He will hesitate before throwing them blindly forward again."

  Pollio folded his arms, voice cautious. "Do you think Odoacer will give up the siege?"

  Crassus shook his head firmly. "No. That barbarian is far too stubborn and proud to retreat now. He will not attempt a major assault again—not yet, at least. But he will certainly use probing attacks, small strikes to test the Romans’ readiness. He will try infiltration and deception. We must be ready to act swiftly when he does."

  Pollio nodded quietly. After a brief pause, Crassus turned toward him sharply.

  "And speaking of infiltration," Crassus asked pointedly, "how fares your task, Pollio?"

  Pollio straightened, his expression growing serious. "I’ve made progress. Within Odoacer’s retinue, I found one servant—a kitchen attendant—who is deeply indebted from gambling and desperate enough to cooperate. He fears Odoacer greatly but fears the moneylenders even more."

  "Excellent," Crassus replied softly, a smile twisting his lips. "And you believe this man will poison Odoacer without hesitation?"

  "Once the order is given and the payment secured," Pollio assured confidently, "he will act without hesitation. He understands the risks, but fear can be a powerful motivator."

  Crassus tapped his fingers together, satisfied. "Good. But tell him nothing until I instruct you further. When the moment is right, we will strike swiftly. It must be perfectly timed."

  Pollio bowed his head respectfully. "Understood."

  Satisfied, Crassus turned toward Lepidus. "And you, my good Lepidus—how are your preparations proceeding?"

  Lepidus drew in a slow breath. "My messenger will make contact with Romulus's men tomorrow evening, as planned. Of course, I cannot appear there myself—that would arouse too much suspicion. But I've selected a man I trust implicitly. He’s loyal to me, discreet, and cunning. But he'll need a secure way into the city."

  Crassus nodded, leaning forward intently. "How do you propose to accomplish this?"

  Lepidus's expression sharpened, confidence returning. "We will use the levy to extend their trench-digging to the southern approach, near the Porta Flamini. My messenger will slip in unnoticed, appearing merely as a laborer. We need time and we need to provide Romulus with useful information about Odoacer movements. If we can gain their trust and our agent can move freely in Ravenna and with enough gold, the guards can be persuaded to let us through the side entrance near the Golden Gate. Once inside, we can strike at the palace when the perfect opportunity arrives."

  Crassus smiled broadly, clearly pleased. "An excellent plan, Lepidus. If your messenger succeeds in infiltrating Ravenna, it will turn the siege in our favor decisively. Romulus thinks that the walls are unbreachable. But every fortress has its weakness—and often it is a man, rather than stone, that proves easiest to compromise."

  Lepidus inclined his head graciously, carefully masking his anxiety beneath a veneer of calm. "We must tread carefully. One misstep and we lose everything. Romulus’s commanders are not fools, nor are they easily deceived. But my man is resourceful."

  Pollio leaned forward, his voice filled with quiet urgency. "But remember, Romulus must genuinely believe that our betrayal of Odoacer and you Caesar is sincere. It is the only way he’ll allow our messenger enough freedom within Ravenna. If Romulus suspects it is merely a ruse to weaken him, he will arrest the messenger immediately."

  Lepidus nodded slowly. "We have already provided him intelligence once, and it proved accurate. He should be willing to risk hearing us again. But we must give him something more, something genuine and truly valuable, something to win trust permanently."

  Crassus waved a hand dismissively. "We shall find it. If the messenger fails, we lose nothing we have not already lost. If he succeeds…" His voice lowered dangerously. "Then Ravenna opens her gates to us. The city, the emperor, and Odoacer himself—all placed firmly within our grasp."

  The three men sat quietly for a long moment, each absorbed in thought, fully aware of the great stakes of their conspiracy. Outside, the murmurs of soldiers and the low crackling of fires seemed distant, unreal. Here, in the shadowed confines of their small tent, Rome's future balanced precariously on the edge of a knife.

  Finally, Crassus rose, stretching stiffly, his earlier fatigue now replaced by cold resolve.

  "Then we proceed," he announced softly but firmly. "Pollio, ready your servant. Lepidus, send your messenger. Soon it is time we show Odoacer, Romulus, and all others who dare oppose us what happens when they underestimate the true strength of Rome."

  Lepidus and Pollio exchanged determined glances, each nodding solemnly. As they rose to leave, the tent flap opened, briefly allowing a gust of cool night air to sweep inside. Lepidus hesitated briefly, sensing the immense weight of history pressing down upon him.

  He stepped into the darkness, heart pounding quietly with excitement, uncertainty, and grim determination. There could be no turning back now.

  Romulus stood silently at the edge of the palace garden, bathed in the silvered glow of moonlight. The rustle of leaves, stirred by a gentle night breeze, mingled with the soft murmur of distant voices from the walls. His gaze wandered along the darkened pathways, hedges casting deep shadows, the peacefulness contrasting starkly with the turmoil he felt inside.

  Footsteps approached softly on the marble tiles behind him. He turned to see his father, Orestes, stepping into the moonlit clearing. Romulus met his father’s gaze hesitantly; the usual fierce composure in Orestes's eyes had softened, replaced now by a flicker of regret and weariness.

  "Romulus," Orestes began quietly, "I owe you an apology."

  Romulus said nothing at first, watching his father’s face carefully. He rarely saw Orestes display vulnerability like this, and despite himself, he felt a pang of guilt stir within his chest.

  Orestes stepped closer, his voice unsteady. "I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that. You must understand, these past weeks... it’s been difficult." He paused, turning slightly away, eyes distant. "Paulus’s death weighs heavily upon me still. He was my brother, and I sent him to his end. I carry that burden with every breath."

  Romulus lowered his gaze briefly, feeling the grief in his father’s words. Paulus had been more than just an uncle—he had been a steadying presence, a man whose very presence reassured them all. Losing him had wounded the family deeply, but for Orestes, it had been particularly devastating.

  "I know you bear a heavy burden, Father," Romulus finally said, voice soft but steady, "and Paulus's death still haunts us both. I understand your pain."

  Orestes looked up, his eyes reflecting a mixture of gratitude and sadness. "Thank you, my son. And yet, that doesn’t excuse how I acted toward you. You were right to confront me."

  Romulus sighed, feeling suddenly older than his years. The tension of command had carved itself deeply within him; he had no room left for boyish stubbornness or petty victories. "Father," he said carefully, choosing his words deliberately, "I’m grateful—deeply grateful—for everything you have done for me and for Rome. You’ve given me my throne, you’ve fought tirelessly to hold it. Your courage, your strength, and your vision have carried Rome this far."

  Orestes watched him, brow furrowed slightly, sensing that more was coming.

  "But," Romulus continued, his voice firming, "you must understand how your actions reflect upon me. I’m not merely your son, Father; I am the emperor. Every decision you make without my knowledge, every order you give behind my back, it weakens me."

  Orestes flinched subtly, as if struck, but remained silent.

  Romulus pressed on, emboldened by the sincerity of his own words. "You must see this clearly. It is already painfully difficult to show competence and authority, being as young as I am. Each day I struggle to prove myself to senators, soldiers, and even servants. If my own Magister Militum acts without my consent or knowledge, how can I expect the others to follow me willingly?"

  He took a hesitant step closer to his father, searching his eyes earnestly. "Father, I must know—do you trust me?"

  Orestes blinked, visibly taken aback by the bluntness of the question. For a moment, he stared at Romulus, speechless, before slowly exhaling and lowering himself onto a stone bench. He ran a tired hand across his brow, gazing down at the ground.

  "Do I trust you..." he repeated slowly, as if testing the question itself. He looked up again, sincerity raw on his face. "Romulus, I trust you with my life. You are my son, and my pride in you is beyond words. But it’s not as simple as trust. I have spent a lifetime clawing my way up from nothing—fighting, bleeding, striving to earn respect and authority. I am accustomed to making difficult decisions swiftly and alone. Stepping back… it is a challenge beyond mere trust."

  His voice softened further, weighed down by his own reflections. "I want—no, I need—to be the pillar that supports you. Rome will only see you as strong if they see strength behind you. That is what I have always tried to be. But perhaps in doing so, I forget sometimes that you need to be seen as strong yourself."

  Romulus felt a tightness in his chest, a mingling of pride, sympathy, and frustration. "You must understand," he said carefully, his voice gentle yet firm, "I don’t wish to diminish your sacrifices or your efforts. I do not doubt your strength or your devotion. But every time you act alone, every time you strike without my consent, you unintentionally undermine me. It makes me appear weak, a mere figurehead to your power. And we both know Rome cannot survive a weak emperor."

  Orestes stared quietly at his son, the truth of Romulus’s words striking him profoundly. He let out a long, slow breath, nodding thoughtfully. "You’re right. We face an impasse. My instinct is to seize every opportunity swiftly and decisively—to act before the moment passes. But by doing so, I undermine the very thing I’ve worked hardest to achieve: your legitimacy."

  Romulus sat beside him, their shoulders nearly touching, the silence between them heavy but no longer tense. They sat quietly, each absorbed by his own thoughts, the quiet murmurs of the garden surrounding them. The emperor and his Magister Militum; father and son, each bound by loyalty, love, and unspoken fears.

  Finally, Orestes broke the silence, his voice a weary whisper. "How can I help you then, Romulus? How can I serve you without overshadowing you? What must I do?"

  Romulus turned toward his father, placing a tentative hand on Orestes’s arm. "Stand by my side," he said earnestly. "Not in front of me. Be my counselor, my guide—but not my shadow. Let Rome see that you follow my orders because you believe in me, not because I am simply your creation. If you show the people that you trust me, they will learn to trust me, too."

  Orestes looked deeply into his son's eyes, his expression softening with acceptance. "I will try, my son. For you. For Rome."

  Romulus squeezed his father’s arm gently. "Thank you, Father. That is all I ask."

  They sat together in silence for a while, under the quiet watchfulness of the moon, each reflecting on the conversation they'd just shared. Father and son, emperor and general, each realizing anew the complexity and fragility of their relationship.

  Yet despite the uncertainty that lay ahead, for that single, quiet moment beneath the moonlit sky, they felt the beginnings of a mutual understanding that might carry them through the days to come.