"The silence of a map is a deceptive thing. We trace lines of ink and call them borders; we paint cities in gold and call them eternal. But ink fades and gold flakes away. In the end, geography is not defined by mountains or rivers, but by the will of those who refuse to kneel when the sky begins to fall."
Ravenna, Capital of the Western Roman Empire. Two days after the death of Orestes.
I often ponder, whilst gazing upon the map of our vast empire; is destiny indeed as fragile as a spider's silk?
If one were to view Ravenna on that day through the eyes of a bird, one would not behold a glorious capital. One would see a stone sarcophagus floating upon the mire. The city was surrounded by swamps that stretched like an ocean of pestilence as far as the eye could see. Thick fog crawled amongst the reeds, hiding the narrow causeways that served as the sole thread connecting the remnants of the civilized world to the chaos beyond.
Inside one of the damp palace towers, Romulus Augustus stood staring out the window.
The sea breeze that blew in carried the scent of salt mingled with the stench of rotting moss and decay. It was the aroma of death. It was the scent of an empire that had been dying for too long and had forgotten how to perish with dignity.
Romulus pulled his mantle of Tyrian purple tighter to wrap his frail body. The fabric was woven from the finest silk of the Seres, yet against Romulus's skin the robe felt heavy and suffocating. It felt like wearing a wet funeral shroud.
He was but fifteen years of age. Yet his eyes bore deep dark circles, the mark of sleepless nights.
In the bronze mirror in the corner of the room, he saw his own reflection. A boy with dark curly hair and pale skin. Perched upon his head was the pearl Diadem, the sacred symbol of imperial power. The object looked ridiculous upon his small head; too large and too loose.
"Puppet," he whispered to his own shadow.
His voice cracked in the midst of that cold stone room. He knew what the servants whispered in the sculleries. He knew what the soldiers laughed about in the barracks. They called him Romulus Momyllus, or the Little Disgrace.
But today, those mockeries did not disturb him. What disturbed him was the silence.
It had been ten days since his father, Flavius Orestes, led the ten thousand strong main host out of Ravenna to intercept Odoacer at Placentia. It was the last gathering of legions remaining in Italia, mixed with barbarian foederati paid at great cost. A courier should have sent word every two days. But for the last four days, there had been no letters and no couriers. The road to the north was silent, as if the earth itself had swallowed ten thousand men along with their horses and iron without a trace.
"Father..."
Romulus gazed back at the window. Rain began to fall again, tapping against the blurred glass. He pressed his palm against the cold pane. His instincts screamed that something was wrong.
A soft knock on the door shattered his reverie. Romulus gasped in surprise, his heart beating fast.
"Enter," he said, trying to sound like a ruler of men.
The heavy oak door opened. It was not a military courier who entered, but Elaphius. He was the hunched old chamberlain who managed the Emperor's household. He carried a silver tray with trembling hands.
"Your midday sustenance, Augustus," Elaphius said while bowing deeply.
"Is there news from Placentia?" asked Romulus quickly, ignoring the food.
Elaphius shook his head slowly as he placed the wine goblet down. "None yet, my Caesar."
"You speak falsehoods," Romulus pressed. He stepped closer and smelled the sour scent of fear radiating from the servant. "I saw Garrison Commander Vitus and Senator Cassius arguing in the lower courtyard this morning. Their faces were pale as marble. What do they know that I do not?"
Elaphius stopped moving. He glanced at his master for a moment, then looked down again.
"They say the lines are broken, Augustus. The guard posts on the road to Placentia are empty. No one answers the signals."
"Empty?" Romulus felt a chill creep up his spine. "How can the guard posts be empty? Where did the soldiers go?"
"That is what the Commander fears. If the posts are empty, it means they were not attacked; it means they left their posts."
Romulus fell silent. He understood the terrible implication. If the soldiers left without battle, it meant desertion. Treason.
"Leave me," Romulus commanded with a trembling voice.
After Elaphius left, Romulus walked to his wooden chest. He took an old pugio dagger that he had stolen from the armory last month. He gripped the hilt tightly. If his father's ten thousand troops had defected, then Ravenna was no longer a fortress. Ravenna was a prison.
Suddenly, the sound of a horn trumpet was heard from the direction of the main fortress gate.
It was not the neat and melodious cornu of the legions. It was a long, rough, and broken blow. A single emergency arrival signal.
Romulus ran back to the window. His heart raced.
Down there, on the narrow stone causeway that split the swamp, he saw a single figure of a horseman.
The horse ran in a strange and limping manner, as if its leg was broken but it was forced to keep moving. The rider was slumped over the horse's neck. His red cloak was tattered and covered in black mud.
Romulus narrowed his eyes. Where was the legion's banner? Where was the line of Praetorian guards? Where was his father?
There was no one behind the rider. The road behind him was completely empty. The ten thousand troops who departed ten days ago now left only this one dying man.
Romulus recognized the dented bronze helmet.
It was Spurius.
Romulus did not wait. He turned and ran toward the door. He cared no longer for imperial dignity or palace protocol. He had to know. He had to hear for himself that his nightmare had not yet come to pass.
But deep within his heart, as his feet trod upon the cold stone stairs, Romulus knew. The silence of four days had broken, and what came to replace it was the storm.
Often do I read these old records and wish I could turn back the hands of time. I long to scream at that boy in the tower to remain in his chambers and close his ears against the truth that would shatter his childhood. But history is not built upon hope; it is built upon unavoidable pain. And that pain was now entering the palace gates.
Romulus did not recall how his feet descended the spiraling stairs of the tower. All imperial protocols were forgotten in an instant. The mantle of Tyrian purple, which should have served as a symbol of majesty, now fluttered pitifully behind his back like a broken wing as his small frame sprinted through the cold stone corridors. Servants and sentries stepped aside with pale faces; never before had they witnessed an Emperor running like a child chased by a phantom.
His breath came in ragged gasps as his bare feet struck the slick stones of the central courtyard.
The sight there stopped the young Caesar's stride. Spurius's mount stood trembling, white foam mixed with blood dripping from its muzzle. The beast had been driven beyond the limits of life until its legs finally gave way, and it collapsed onto the hard paving stones. And beside the beast lay a figure barely unrecognizable beneath a thick layer of mud and dried blood.
"Spurius!"
The scream was high-pitched, shattered by panic. Romulus threw himself onto the muddy ground, not caring for his stained silk. His thin hands shook the shoulders of the old soldier before him roughly.
"Wake up! Where is he? Why are you alone?"
Spurius's eyelids fluttered open. His eyeballs were red and clouded, as if his soul had been left behind on the muddy streets of Placentia. His gaze struggled to focus on the boy's face before him. His cracked lips could only hiss weakly.
"Water..."
"Give him water! Quickly!" Romulus's command snapped a guard out of his stupor.
A leather waterskin was pressed to the soldier's lips. Spurius drank greedily until he choked. Slowly, consciousness began to creep back into his pale face. His old eyes fixed on Romulus, and instantly dirty tears leaked out, washing away the dust on his cheeks.
"Forgive your servant, Son..."
The whisper was hoarse and painful. No title of Emperor was spoken. On the brink of this destruction, Spurius saw only a poor orphan child.
"The Patrician Orestes... he does not wake."
Silence.
The sound of the rain seemed to vanish, swallowed by the earth. The world stopped turning, leaving only a long ringing that deafened the ears.
"What do you mean he does not wake?" A small, hysterical laugh escaped Romulus's lips. His brain refused to accept the sentence as truth. "Father is strong. He cannot lose. Did Odoacer wound him? We have palace physicians. We can..."
Spurius shook his head weakly. The movement seemed to snap his own neck. His rough hand gripped Romulus's arm with desperation.
"Not by the sword, my Caesar. His heart. The burden was too heavy. He fell from his horse in the middle of the road, and God called him right there in the mud."
The truth struck his solar plexus like a war hammer. Romulus's mouth opened, but no sound came out for several seconds, as if the air had been stolen by force from his lungs.
"And his army?" asked Romulus, his voice choked. "The ten thousand men... where are they?"
Spurius's face twisted into a mask of pure hatred.
"They are dogs, my Caesar. Cursed mercenary dogs." Spurius spat blood onto the ground. "The moment your Father fell, they did not raise their swords to avenge him. They turned their coats. They sold our eagles to Odoacer for promises of land and gold. Those ten thousand men now march behind Odoacer to attack us."
That news was worse than a defeat in war. It was total treason. Romulus felt his knees turn to water. He was an Emperor without an army.
Spurius forced himself to sit upright, though pain was etched clearly upon his face. His warrior instincts took over his grief. He turned toward the main gate where the guards still stood in confusion.
"Close the gates!" Spurius screamed with the last of his strength. His voice thundered, shattering the panic. "Bar the gates now! Odoacer is behind me! Let no one enter or leave!"
The guards at the gate looked at one another with hesitation. They required an official order.
Garrison Commander Vitus, who had been observing from the upper veranda, finally descended with heavy steps. His face was hard and unreadable. He looked at the wounded Spurius and the weeping young Emperor. He had not yet turned traitor, but the gears of calculation had begun to turn within his mind.
"Do as he commands!" Vitus barked at his men. "Seal the main gates! Raise the drawbridge! All archers to the north wall stations, now!"
The sound of iron chains groaned loudly as the giant gates of Ravenna began to close, locking them inside this stone coffin.
Spurius stared at Vitus with suspicion, but he was too weak to stand. He turned his gaze back to Romulus, who was still sobbing in the mud.
"Caesar," whispered Spurius, grasping the boy's hand. "This place is not safe. Your Majesty must not be seen weak before them."
Spurius pointed to two Scholae guards who still stood loyally nearby.
"Take the Emperor to his chambers. Lock the door and let no one enter but me. Guard him with your lives."
"But I want Father..." moaned Romulus. He did not want to leave. He wanted to wait at the gate.
"Take him!" Spurius commanded, his voice harder.
The two guards lifted Romulus's small body. The boy struggled weakly, calling out the names of his father and his late mother. But his strength was no match for full-grown soldiers. He was forcibly carried away from the wet courtyard and the smell of the dying horse.
As Romulus was borne away, he cast a glance backward. He saw Garrison Commander Vitus whispering seriously with Senator Cassius in the corner of the courtyard. Their eyes were fixed sharply upon the gate that had just closed; as if calculating how long the wood could withstand the coming storm, or perhaps calculating the price required to open it.
The door to the palace tower closed before Romulus's face, separating him from the only person who still cared for him. He was alone once again in his cold room, accompanied by the shadows of treason that began to creep through the corridors of the palace.
Betrayal rarely occurs in a sudden explosion of fury. As a historian, I have studied a thousand coups and regicides. The conclusion is always the same. Betrayal is a fruit that ripens slowly upon the tree of terror. It is fed by desperation and watered by the instinct of survival. When that fruit falls, it makes no loud sound. It lands only with a pathetic thud.
In the Strategy Hall of Ravenna, that fruit was ripe and ready for the picking.
The room smelled of cold sweat and dying candles. In the center of the chamber, Spurius stood with a pale face, yet his eyes burned with the remnants of honor. Surrounding him, the wolves in senators' robes and generals' armor circled the map table that now seemed utterly useless.
"We must dispatch a courier to Dalmatia!" urged Spurius. His fist struck the wooden table. "Julius Nepos still holds a claim as the legitimate Emperor there. If we promise to restore the throne to him and name Romulus as his Caesar, perhaps he will send a fleet to break Odoacer's siege."
Senator Cassius laughed. The sound was dry and sharp, like the friction of two stones.
"Nepos?" sneered Cassius, pouring wine into his goblet with a trembling hand. "You wish to beg for aid from the man whom the boy's father deposed last year? Nepos hates Orestes more than he hates Odoacer. If Nepos comes, he will butcher us all and hang Romulus's corpse from the mast."
"Then Constantinople!" Spurius did not yield. He pointed to the east on the map. "Emperor Zeno will not let the West fall to barbarians. We must hold out for another week. The relief ships must come."
Garrison Commander Vitus shook his head wearily. He walked to the window, staring out at the dark city of Ravenna beneath the pouring rain. His face was not that of a cartoon villain, but the face of a man bearing the weight of an impossible decision.
"Look at our granaries, Spurius," said Vitus, his voice low and heavy. "The city has been flooded with refugees from the north since last month. Our wheat reserves are depleting drastically. Perhaps enough for one week with strict rationing. Zeno in the East is busy with his own rebellions. No ships are coming. The sky is empty, and the sea is empty."
The debate continued into a vicious circle. Every door of hope was slammed shut by cruel reality.
Suddenly, the hall door burst open roughly.
A young officer entered, gasping for breath. His cloak was soaked, and he held a leather scroll sealed with rough red wax.
"A message," he panted. "From King Odoacer."
Silence swept the room instantly. Vitus stepped forward and snatched the scroll. He broke the seal and read it in silence. The tension in his shoulders slowly loosened, replaced by a kind of pathetic resignation.
"What does it say?" asked Cassius impatiently.
Vitus placed the letter on the table.
"Clementia," said Vitus flatly. "Odoacer offers Clementia. Full pardon for the entire Senate, Generals, and citizens of Ravenna. The city will not be burned. The property of citizens will not be looted."
"The price?" Spurius asked in a low voice.
Vitus looked into Spurius's old eyes.
"The Symbol of Power," answered Vitus. "He wants Romulus Augustus delivered alive tonight. Odoacer wants Romulus to surrender the crown personally tomorrow morning before his troops to legitimize his rule."
Silence returned. Spurius could see the relief in Cassius's eyes.
"We have no choice," said Vitus finally.
"What do you mean no choice?" Spurius stepped back, his hand feeling for the hilt of his sword. "He is our Emperor! We swore before God to protect him!"
Vitus stared sharply at Spurius, but there was a pleading tone in his voice.
"Listen to me, Spurius. Outside these walls are fifty thousand civilians. Women, children, merchants... they know not how to hold a sword. If Odoacer breaks in tomorrow morning because we refuse to surrender, he will not distinguish between a senator and a nursing babe. He will slaughter them all."
Vitus pointed at the scroll.
"One life, Spurius. Only one life to buy a future for a city. This is not merely betrayal. This is a necessary sacrifice."
"You sell your soul, Vitus," hissed Spurius. Spittle flew from his mouth in rage. "You are all disgusting cowards!"
Spurius drew his sword. The sound of metal clashing against the leather scabbard rang loud.
But he was too late.
Vitus was faster. The General drew his blade and pointed it at Spurius's throat. Five other officers in the room also drew their weapons, surrounding Spurius from all sides.
"Do not make me do this, Brother," growled Vitus, pressing his sword against Spurius's neck until a drop of blood appeared. "I respect you. But your blind loyalty will kill us all."
Spurius fell silent. He looked around. He was alone.
"Go to the Emperor's chambers," Vitus ordered his two guards without lowering his sword. "Secure the boy. Take him to the main gate."
"Wait!"
Spurius dropped his sword to the floor. It clattered loudly, a sign of surrender.
"Do not let your rough men touch him," said Spurius with a voice feigning calm. He looked at Vitus. "The boy is scared to death. If your soldiers barge in, he might do something foolish and hurt himself. Odoacer wants him alive, does he not? If he dies or is injured, Odoacer will burn this city."
The argument hit its mark. Vitus narrowed his eyes, realizing the risk.
"Let me do it," continued Spurius. "I know him like my own son. Let me be the one to persuade him to come out and bring him to you."
Vitus nodded slowly and sheathed his sword.
"Very well," said Vitus. "You have ten minutes. But remember, Spurius, my duty is to ensure Ravenna stands at sunrise. Do not force me to destroy that tower."
"No tricks," said Spurius, lying. "Only a farewell."
Spurius picked up his sword and sheathed it. He turned to leave the room full of snakes. His steps were heavy, but his mind raced. He would not hand over Romulus. He would lock the door. He would barricade the way. He would buy time, even if he had to pay for it with his life.
Spurius walked down the dark corridor toward Romulus's room. Outside, thunder roared again, as if the universe were preparing to close the curtains on the Western Empire.
History would record this night as the night of betrayal. But for me, who reads the hearts of men long dead, tonight was a night of redemption for one old soul who refused to yield.