Spurius stepped out of the Strategy Hall, his hand still gripping the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white. The palace corridor was dim and smelled of dampness. But he did not walk alone.
From the shadows of the stone pillars emerged the remnants of the elite Scholae Palatinae. Five soldiers in full armor stood there. They did not ask about the outcome of the debate inside. Spurius's hard face and tight jaw told them everything. Diplomacy was dead, and now it was the sword's turn to speak.
"They sold him, didn't they?" asked one of the young soldiers in a low voice. His hand unconsciously felt the hilt of his dagger. It was a nervous movement he could not hide.
Spurius let out a long breath. Heavy and weary.
"Vitus gave us ten minutes," he answered hoarsely. His eyes looked at each tired face before him. "Ten minutes to hand over the Emperor like a sacrificial lamb, or they will break down the doors."
"Ten minutes?" another soldier snorted roughly, spitting onto the stone floor. "Enough time to drink one last cup of wine before hell leaks open."
"Or enough time to make them regret ever being born," replied his burly comrade, tightening the straps of his shield with a sharp jerk.
Without the need for a formal command, the line formed behind Spurius. Their iron footsteps echoed in the stone hallway as they rushed toward the north wing where the young Emperor was confined.
Upon arriving at Romulus's chamber, the sight inside nearly crushed Spurius's old heart. Romulus Augustus, the Ruler of the West, was curled up in the corner of the room behind a massive pillar. His small body trembled violently. His hands covered his ears tightly, trying to block out the thunder and the shouts from the courtyard outside.
"My Caesar," called Spurius softly.
Romulus looked up. His eyes were swollen and red.
"They have come for my head, haven't they Spurius?" his voice cracked, sounding so small in the vast room.
Before Spurius could answer, a shadow moved from the dark corner of the room. It was Elaphius. The old servant looked weak, but his eyes burned with unusual determination. He crawled closer, dragging a worn leather satchel.
"We do not have much time, Your Majesty," whispered Elaphius, gasping for breath. He glanced warily at the door where Spurius and his soldiers stood guard. "Spurius plans to die here. He will fight to the last man to buy Your Majesty a few minutes. But a few minutes is not enough."
Romulus looked at the old servant in confusion.
"There is no way out, Elaphius. Vitus has surrounded the palace," said Romulus desperately. "We are trapped."
"There is always a way for those who know how to befriend the shadows," whispered Elaphius.
The servant opened the leather bag. Inside lay a thick parchment scroll sealed with wax that smelled of sulfur and bitumen, along with an old, rusted iron key.
"Come here, child," Elaphius said. With trembling hands, he draped the leather strap over Romulus's shoulder. He tightened it so the bag clung firmly to the boy's chest.
"What is this?" asked Romulus, feeling the weight of the scroll against his ribs.
"This scroll was smuggled from the ashes of Alexandria," explained Elaphius solemnly. "It is a lost fragment from the Great Library, written by the High Alchemists of old. It is the formula for the Fire that Burns on Water... the Ignis Dei, God's Fire. Your father hid it in the private archives for twenty years. Perhaps he lacked the courage to unleash such horror, or perhaps he feared its power would consume us all. But now it falls to you. Guard this bag with your life, Son. It is the only legacy Rome has left for you."
Romulus clutched the rough leather of the satchel. He did not fully understand how deadly the object inside was, but he nodded.
"And the key?" asked the boy.
"It opens the way," Elaphius pointed with a shaking finger to the east wall. "Behind that tapestry of the Trojan War, there is a keyhole in the gap of the third stone from the floor. It is an ancient drainage channel that leads straight to the northern marsh. It smells foul and is narrow, but it is the path to freedom."
Spurius, who had just finished signaling his men to bar the door, limped over to them. He saw the satchel on Romulus's shoulder and the key in his hand. He understood immediately.
"A sewer?" asked Spurius. His tone was a mix of disgust and awe. "You want the Emperor of Rome to crawl through filth?"
"Better to crawl through filth as a living king than to lie on silk as a headless corpse," retorted Elaphius sharply. "The path comes out behind enemy lines. Vitus will not suspect it."
Spurius fell silent for a moment, then nodded slowly. He stared at the chamber door, which began to be pounded from the outside. The thick oak groaned under the blows.
"Good," said Spurius. His tactical brain began to work. "But escape alone is not enough. Vitus and the garrison are watching every mouse hole. If they break in and find this room empty, they will comb the entire city and the marshes within an hour. You will be caught before reaching the treeline."
"We need a diversion," said the young soldier who now stood beside them. "Something to make their eyes turn away from the back door."
Spurius turned to Elaphius. His face was cold, stripped of all kindness.
"Elaphius," asked Spurius. "Is there a boy in the servant quarters? One of similar age and build to the Emperor?"
Elaphius hesitated. He knew where this question led. "There is, my lord. The laundry woman, Gaia. She has a son. Twelve years of age."
"Bring him," commanded Spurius.
"My lord, the mother..."
"Bring him!" barked Spurius. He gestured to two of his soldiers. "Go with Elaphius. Do not let anyone see you. And silence anyone who tries to stop you."
In the damp servant quarters on the lower level, a wooden door splintered under the kick of a heavy boot.
Gaia, a thin woman who was hugging her son in the corner of the room, screamed. Two armored giants entered, their faces hidden behind helmets. Elaphius stood behind them, looking down in shame.
"Forgive us," whispered Elaphius.
"No! Please!" screamed Gaia. She tried to shield her son with her body. "Take anything! Take the silver! Do not take my son!"
The soldiers did not speak. One of them grabbed the woman roughly and threw her aside. She clawed at the soldier's leg, biting and screaming like a lioness protecting her cub.
"Mama! Mama!" the boy cried, his hands reaching out.
The soldier raised his gauntleted fist and struck the woman on the temple. It was a calculated blow. Not to kill, but to silence. Gaia collapsed onto the stone floor, unconscious.
The boy was hoisted into the air, kicking and screaming, before a rough hand clamped over his mouth. He was dragged out into the darkness of the corridor, leaving his mother lying alone in the cold room.
Minutes later, the boy was thrown onto the floor of the Emperor's chamber. He was sobbing, his body shaking with terror.
Spurius grabbed the trembling servant boy. He looked at Romulus, who was clutching the strap of his leather satchel tightly.
"Augustus, give me your mantle," commanded Spurius. "And that Diadem."
"What... what are you going to do?" asked Romulus. His hands shook as he undid the clasp of his purple cloak.
"We will give Vitus what he wants," answered Spurius grimly.
He took the Tyrian purple robe and draped it over the servant boy's shoulders. The expensive silk swallowed the small, malnourished frame. Spurius took the pearl Diadem and placed it on the commoner's head.
"Forgive me, lad," whispered Spurius to the servant boy. His voice cracked with guilt. "Your sacrifice will save an Empire."
Spurius then took a rough burlap sack from the corner of the room. He covered the servant boy's head with the sack to hide his face, yet left the royal symbols on his body clearly visible.
"Elaphius," Spurius turned to the old servant. "You must take this prisoner to the main gate. Open the side postern. Tell Vitus that I could not bear to do it myself. Tell him I ordered you to surrender the Emperor to save our lives."
"And you?" asked Elaphius, looking at the disguised boy with heavy eyes.
"When you step out and all eyes are on you," said Spurius, staring sharply at his five soldiers. "We will move silently to the Main Hall. We will take position behind the gate doors. The moment they realize they have been tricked, we will slam the doors shut and lock them from the inside."
Elaphius nodded slowly. He understood. He was the bait that would die so the fortress door could be secured. His old hand gripped the arm of the servant boy who was now a sacrificial lamb.
"Go, Romulus," Spurius looked at his true Emperor for the last time. His eyes were hard but glassy with tears. He shoved the boy roughly toward the wall.
"Get into that hole. Do not let this boy's life be wasted in vain. And listen to me, Romulus. When you emerge, turn your face to the East. Run toward the coast. Do not stop until you find an old man named Marcus Valerius. He was a Centurion in your father's legion, a brother in arms who served with me in the Gallic Wars. He lives in a small fishing hut near the ruins of the old lighthouse. Tell him The Eagle has fallen. He is the only man left in Italy who still honors his oaths. He will find you a ship and get you out of this dying land. Now go! Live! That is my final order."
Romulus gazed into Spurius's old eyes for the last time before turning away. He clutched the strap of the leather satchel tightly against his chest, feeling the weight of the scroll inside. With bated breath, he crawled into the dark hole behind the tapestry. The stench of the ancient sewer immediately stung his nose. The stone wall slid shut behind him with a soft click, separating the Emperor from his protector forever.
Inside the chamber, Spurius wasted no time. He signaled to Elaphius.
"Take him now," Spurius commanded roughly.
Elaphius nodded. He dragged the servant boy, now wearing the oversized purple robe with his head covered by a sack, out of the room.
The moment Elaphius disappeared behind the corridor door, the atmosphere in the room turned into a chilling silence. Spurius turned to face his five soldiers. There were no shouts. No sound of swords clashing.
"Now," whispered Spurius sharply. "While Vitus is busy with the bait, we take the Main Gate. Move silently like ghosts. Let no guard see us before that door is shut."
The five soldiers nodded. They moved swiftly and soundlessly down the dark corridors toward the front hall to prepare their final defense.
Meanwhile, in the palace courtyard, General Vitus stood impatiently. The rain had stopped, but the night air felt cold and smelled of metal. Behind him, dozens of mutinous garrison soldiers stood with burning torches. Their shadows danced on the wet stone walls.
The side door of the main gate opened slowly.
Elaphius stepped out with a limp. He dragged a small figure whose head was covered by a sack. The figure wore a dirty Tyrian purple robe, and on his trembling fingers was the imperial signet ring.
Vitus let out a breath he did not know he was holding. His shoulders slumped, not in triumph, but in sheer exhaustion.
"Where is Spurius?" asked Vitus. His eyes searched for the old veteran behind Elaphius. "Why does he not hand him over himself?"
Elaphius stopped before Vitus. He pushed the boy to his knees on the muddy ground.
"Spurius could not bear to watch this," answered Elaphius with a hoarse voice. "He is an old wolf, too proud. He ordered me to bring him to you so he need not look into his Emperor's eyes as he is surrendered."
Vitus nodded slowly. He stepped forward and looked down at the kneeling figure. There was no hatred in his eyes, only a profound sadness.
"Forgive me, child," whispered Vitus, his voice trembling slightly so only the boy could hear. "I have no choice."
Vitus reached out and grabbed the burlap sack on the figure's head. With a gentle but firm tug, he pulled it off.
Vitus froze.
Before him was not the pale and noble face of Romulus Augustus. It was the dirty face of the servant boy, Gaia's son, with missing teeth and snot running down his face from tears of terror. The boy stared at Vitus with wide eyes full of horror, like a rabbit looking at a wolf.
A deadly silence fell over the courtyard. The garrison soldiers looked at each other in confusion.
"What is this?" whispered Vitus. His voice was barely audible.
Panic began to rise in his chest, cold and sharp. The city was waiting. If he did not have the Emperor, everyone would die.
He turned slowly toward Elaphius.
"Where is he?" Vitus asked, his voice shaking.
He drew his sword, not to strike, but to threaten. He pointed the tip of the blade at the old servant's chest. His hand trembled visibly.
"Tell me!" shouted Vitus, fear taking over his senses. "Where is Romulus? We have no time for games!"
Elaphius looked at the trembling blade, then up into the General's terrified eyes. He stood tall, defying the steel.
"Long live Caesar," said Elaphius softly.
The defiance snapped something inside Vitus. The immense pressure, the fear of Odoacer, the weight of fifty thousand lives, it all exploded in a single moment of blind panic.
"NO!" screamed Vitus.
He thrust the blade forward without thinking.
The steel pierced Elaphius's chest. The old servant gasped, his eyes wide in shock. He collapsed onto the muddy ground right next to the servant boy who screamed hysterically.
Vitus recoiled. He pulled his hand back as if the sword handle were burning hot. He stared at the falling body, horror filling his eyes. He took a step back, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
"God..." Vitus whispered, looking at his bloody hands. "What have I done?"
He had not meant to kill him. He only wanted answers.
But there was no time for guilt. The reality of his failure crashed down on him. Spurius had tricked him. The Emperor was gone. And Odoacer would soon be at the gates.
Vitus forced himself to look away from the corpse. He hardened his heart, burying his guilt under the necessity of survival. Rage took over, replacing his shame.
He turned to the main door of the inner palace.
"THEY ARE BUYING TIME!" roared Vitus, his voice cracking with desperation. "SPURIUS IS AT THE MAIN GATE! BREAK DOWN THE DOOR BEFORE THEY LOCK IT! KILL THEM ALL!"
The garrison soldiers ran charging toward the giant teak door like a flood.
But they were one second too late.
Behind the main door of the inner palace, Spurius heard the shout. His plan had worked. Elaphius had bought the time they needed. Spurius and his troops were in position.
"Close the door! NOW!" commanded Spurius.
It was not five men who moved to push the giant door leaf.
From the shadows of pillars, from behind marble statues, and from the dark corners of the hall emerged other soldiers who had been hiding, waiting for Spurius's signal.
Legends often simplify heroism into numbers that are easy to remember. In the folk songs sung in the taverns of Ravenna for centuries, it is said that only five guards stood to defend the last Emperor. But historical truth is far grander and more painful than drunken songs.
I have held with my own hands the remnants of Spurius's diary, whose pages have petrified with blood and time. The book was discovered by an archaeological team in the Crypta Obscura three centuries after these events. There, in hurried handwriting, Spurius recorded their full names so that God would not forget.
They were not five. There were eleven soldiers who chose to die with Spurius that night.
They were Centurion Decius Marius Cilo.
Optio Titus Flavius Silva.
Gaius Valerius Flaccus.
Publius Servilius Casca.
Marcus Ulpius Traianus.
Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus.
Flavius Severus.
Manius Valerius.
Vipsanius Agrippa.
Antonius Felix.
And the youngest, Appius Claudius.
Together with Spurius Maecenas, they numbered twelve.
Twelve ordinary men standing to hold the door against hell. Just like the Lord's twelve disciples faithful until death knocked hard on the door. That night, they were no longer mercenaries fighting for gold. They were martyrs fighting for a principle that an oath of loyalty must not be broken simply because of fear.
With the combined strength of those twelve men, they pushed the giant door shut. The heavy iron bar was dropped into place with a loud CLANG just as the spear tips of Vitus's troops began to strike the wood from the outside.
Spurius turned to look at his eleven brothers. Their breath was ragged, but there was no fear in their eyes. There was only calm acceptance.
"Do you hear that?" asked Spurius, pointing to the trembling door.
He smiled, a proud smile of an old wolf.
"They are panicking. Thousands of men out there are trembling," said Spurius loudly, his voice echoing in the closed hall. "Look how an entire garrison fears twelve men."
The soldiers chuckled, their confidence rising.
Spurius raised his sword high.
"We have bought the Emperor time. Now, let us show those bastards the high price they must pay for every inch of this wood! For Rome!"
"FOR ROME!"
The shout of the twelve men thundered, answering the challenge of thousands of enemies outside.
In the Inner Palace Hall, the sound of the battering ram striking the main door echoed repeatedly like the heartbeat of an angry giant. Every thud shook dust from the ceiling and made the room feel even more grim.
Spurius did not sit still. The old veteran moved nimbly among his men, leading with an energy that seemed to turn back his years. He and his eleven brothers piled tables, benches, and marble statues against the cracking double doors.
Their shoulders took turns bracing the iron bar. The soldiers' faces were tense with bulging neck veins as they shouted encouragement to one another to deafen their ears to the threats of Vitus's troops outside.
"Hold!" shouted Spurius loudly. "Tighten the shields at the door! For the love of God, do not let those dogs in for another hour!"
Meanwhile, on the other side of the door, General Vitus saw that the door would not break in minutes. Spurius had barricaded it very well from the inside.
"Keep battering!" ordered Vitus to his centurions. "Do not stop until you get the boy. Kill anyone who resists."
But suddenly, a terrible sound tore through the night air and pierced the noise in the palace courtyard.
WUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNG!
The movement of the battering soldiers stopped instantly. The strike of wood against the door halted mid-air. All heads turned toward the outer fortress gate.
It was not the sound of a Roman legion's cornu, rhythmic and disciplined. It was the sound of a rough horn trumpet, discordant, long, and howling badly. Its sound sliced the air like the scream of a dying giant wolf or a demon escaping from hell.
The howling sound made Senator Cassius's hair stand on end instantly. His legs trembled. It was a pure barbarian sound. A sound that promised slaughter.
Vitus's face hardened. He knew what that sound was.
"Our guests have arrived," said Vitus coldly.
He grabbed the arm of Cassius, who looked ready to faint.
"Follow me to the fortress gate," commanded Vitus. "Now."
The two traitors left the troops still frozen in front of the hall door and ran up the stone stairs to the outer defensive wall. The cold night wind slapped their faces the moment they reached the parapet.
Down there, in front of the closed drawbridge, a lone horseman waited with a torch in hand. He was not Roman. He wore bearskin and a horned helmet typical of the Heruli tribe, holding the large horn he had just blown.
Behind him, in the darkness of the night, the roar of thousands of footsteps and the screech of war chariot wheels approached like a storm, as if answering the trumpet's call.
"I speak in the name of King Odoacer!" shouted the messenger upon seeing Vitus's silhouette on the ramparts. His voice thundered through the night. "Open the gates! Hand over Romulus Augustus or we will burn Ravenna to the ground tonight!"
Cassius clutched his robe in fear.
"They will kill us," whispered the senator, his voice trembling. "They will not wait until tomorrow."
"Silence," hissed Vitus.
The General stepped forward to the edge of the fortress wall to be seen by the messenger.
"I am General Vitus, Commander of the Ravenna Garrison!" he shouted back. "We accept the offer of Clementia from King Odoacer! The city surrenders!"
"If you surrender, why are the gates closed?" challenged the messenger roughly. "Where is the boy? Our King demands him alive and in chains. Now!"
Vitus raised a hand to calm him.
"The Emperor is in our hands!" lied Vitus. "But there is a complication. A group of fanatics led by Orestes' former guards have barricaded themselves inside the palace hall. They hold Romulus hostage."
The messenger spat on the ground.
"That is your problem, Roman. If you do not hand him over in one hour, we will break in and take him ourselves. And if we have to enter, there will be no mercy. All necks will be cut."
"Wait!" cried Vitus. "We need time to break down that door without harming the boy. We promise to hand him over tomorrow morning at sunrise. As a sign of good faith and proof that we truly have him, take this!"
Vitus took the bundle he had brought from below. It was the Tyrian purple robe and the pearl Diadem he had seized from the servant boy used as bait.
With one strong swing, Vitus threw the items down.
The purple robe floated down and landed in the mud right at the feet of the messenger's horse. The pearl Diadem clinked as it hit the stone road.
Odoacer's messenger dismounted. He picked up the crown and examined it under the torchlight. Real pearls. And the robe was imperial silk that could not be faked.
He looked up at Vitus.
"Tomorrow morning," said the messenger in a low, threatening voice. "When the first sunlight touches this gate, the boy must be here. If not, we will dip this robe in your blood."
"You have a Roman's promise," replied Vitus.
The messenger snorted. He tied the purple robe to his saddle and tucked the crown into his belt. Without another word, he turned his horse and spurred his mount back into the darkness toward the waiting main army.
Vitus and Cassius let out long sighs of relief. They had managed to buy one night.
But that relief was short-lived.
As the messenger left, the clouds covering the moon slowly shifted. Moonlight illuminated the plain in front of Ravenna. And for the first time, Vitus and Cassius saw what was truly there.
Their eyes widened. Cassius's mouth hung open, but no sound came out.
The fields beyond the marsh, which had been dark, now began to twinkle. Not with one or two torches, but thousands.
Odoacer's army had arrived.
Thousands of tents began to be pitched with terrifying speed. The sound of stakes being driven into the ground, horses neighing, and the laughter of thousands of barbarian soldiers carried on the wind up to the ramparts. Campfires began to be lit one by one from the east end to the west, creating a sea of fire that seemed to besiege their small city.
It was not merely a besieging army. It was the migration of a nation ready to devour anything in its path.
Vitus gripped the parapet stone with a trembling hand. He realized how small his force was compared to the giant sleeping out there.
"God help us..." whispered Cassius. "If we do not hand over Romulus tomorrow morning, they will eat us alive."
Vitus turned with a pale face, but his eyes burned with panic.
"Then make sure that damn door down there falls tonight!" barked Vitus. "I do not care how many soldiers must die. Break the door! Kill Spurius! Drag Romulus out of there before dawn breaks!"
Far across the marsh, in the heart of the camp Vitus had just viewed with dread, Odoacer's messenger spurred his horse through the crowd of barbarian warriors. He passed thousands of wildly burning campfires and the smell of roasting meat that filled the night air.
He stopped before a giant pavilion tent made of blood-red hide.
Inside sat the King of the Heruli.
Odoacer was a terrifying giant. He sat upon a makeshift throne made of piled loot crates covered in black bearskin. His massive body was covered in dark blue war tattoos winding around his muscular arms like snakes. His face was rough and covered in old scars. His sharp, wild eyes stared at the tent entrance while he tore into a roast pork leg with bare hands. Grease and fat dripped onto his roughly braided blond beard.
The messenger entered and knelt. He placed the purple bundle at his king's feet.
"They surrender, My Lord," reported the messenger. "General Vitus begs for one night. He promises to hand over Romulus Augustus at sunrise tomorrow morning."
Odoacer stopped chewing. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned forward to take the items brought by the messenger.
His giant hand lifted the pearl Diadem. The small, beautiful, and fragile object looked ridiculous in his large, rough fingers. Then he took the Tyrian purple robe, the symbol of supreme power in the civilized world, and felt it between his fingers. The silk was smooth, expensive, and smelled of palace perfume.
"One night," muttered Odoacer. His voice was heavy and deep like distant thunder. "They want one more night to breathe."
"Shall we attack now, My Lord?" asked one of his warlords standing nearby. "We can bring down that gate in an hour."
Odoacer laughed. It was a dry and cruel laugh.
"No," answered Odoacer. He threw the crown onto a table cluttered with food scraps. "Let the rats tremble in the dark tonight. Fear will make their meat tender by morning."
He stood and raised his horn cup high.
"We will wait!" shouted Odoacer to his commanders. "And we will wait with a feast! Tonight Rome is dead! Tomorrow we just bury the carcass!"
Cheers exploded inside the tent and spread outside like a plague.
The camp turned into a sea of madness. Thousands of Heruli, Scirii, and Rugii warriors began opening barrels of looted wine. They drank greedily, spilling the red liquid onto their beards and armor as if it were enemy blood.
In the midst of the party, Odoacer committed his greatest insult.
He took Romulus's purple robe and threw it into the crowd of drunken warriors.
"Look!" cried Odoacer. "Here is the skin of your Emperor!"
The soldiers laughed wildly. They scrambled to pull at the expensive silk. A painful tearing sound was heard as the finest woven fabric from the East was ripped into small shreds. They tied strips of purple cloth around their arms, around the necks of their dogs, and even used them to wipe their muddy boots.
The pearl crown suffered a worse fate. A drunken soldier grabbed it and wore it askew on his head. He danced on a table mimicking the walk of an arrogant Roman noble, making the whole camp roar with laughter.
And in the corner of the king's tent, leaning against a wooden pole, stood an object that should have been sacred.
Aquila. The Eagle Standard of Rome made of pure gold.
That object was once the soul of a legion. Thousands of Romans had died to keep the Eagle from falling into enemy hands. But tonight the Eagle had been stolen from the armory of Placentia. Its golden wings were bent and dirty. Someone had stuck a roasted pig's head on the tip of its pole as an absolute mockery of past glory.
They danced around the stained standard. They sang, spat, and celebrated a victory they thought was certain.
Their laughter and revelry rose high into the night sky. They were so sure that nothing could touch them. They were so sure that the Roman Emperor was just a crybaby weeping behind the fortress walls.
They did not know that while they laughed, inside the dark and foul sewer beneath their feet, something was crawling closer.
They did not know that Romulus Momyllus, or the Little Disgrace, was walking toward their king's tent with a knife in his hand and madness in his eyes.
Tonight Rome was indeed dying. But before it died, it would bite for the last time.