We often hear street poets in the piazzas of Rome singing the Canto de Romulus with glistening eyes. In the verses sung by mothers to lull their children to sleep it is told that when Romulus emerged from the belly of the earth then the sky was split by golden light.
Legend says that the Archangel Michael the Commander of the Heavenly Hosts descended with wings of fire and a flaming sword. It is said that the Angel laid his holy hand upon the boy's head and granted him the strength of Samson and the courage of David to sever the head of the snake.
It is a beautiful fairy tale. It is comforting to hear near a warm hearth. But the reality was far darker and wetter and more wretched.
No angels came that night. The heavens were not split by divine light but were choked by black smoke and despair. And the boy crawling in the belly of the earth was not blessed by holy strength. Instead he was merely a child whose sanity had cracked like a glass goblet smashed against a stone floor.
Romulus Augustus's world had shrunk to a narrow stone tunnel that was pitch black and wet and foul.
There was no torchlight here. He crawled in total darkness and relied only on his sense of touch against walls slick with moss and slime. Every inch of movement was torture. His noble knees which were accustomed to kneeling on velvet cushions in the church were now grated by rough stone and sharp pottery shards at the bottom of the channel.
But the physical pain was nothing compared to the disgust that crushed his soul.
This was the main sewer of the palace. The place where all the filth and feces and waste from the luxurious life above were discarded. Romulus the Emperor of the West was now crawling through the excrement of his own subjects. Liquid waste soaked his elbows and drenched his tunic. Sometimes when he slipped the filth entered his mouth.
"Father..." he sobbed softly. His voice echoed strangely in the narrow passage.
His stomach churned violently. The stench of ammonia and decay was so thick it felt suffocating. Romulus stopped for a moment. His body convulsed and he vomited the remains of his dinner into the stream of waste. He wept in the darkness. His tears mixed with the filth on his face. He felt less than human but rather a wretched sewer rat.
He kept crawling. Forward was the only choice. Backward meant death.
In that darkness and panic he missed one fatal thing.
The leather satchel given by Elaphius snagged on an old iron brace jutting from the wall. The bag contained the priceless scroll of Greek Fire. Romulus who was driven by blind panic pushed forward. The old leather strap pulled tight then snapped with a small jerk that went unnoticed amidst the friction of his body against the rough walls.
The bag fell into the sludge with a soft plop. The object was left behind in the dark while its master continued to crawl away carrying nothing but his own life.
Time felt as if it stretched for eternity. Perhaps an hour or perhaps a lifetime.
Finally he felt a different breeze. It was not the stale stench of confinement but the smell of open rot. The smell of the marsh.
Romulus's hands found the rusted iron grate at the end of the tunnel. With the last of his strength driven by a desperate need to breathe fresh air he kicked the grate. The brittle old iron gave way.
The small body slid out and fell face down into the cold and sticky marsh mud.
Romulus coughed. He inhaled the night air greedily as if he had just drowned. He tried to stand but his legs wobbled. He reached for his chest to seek the comfort of Elaphius's legacy.
Empty.
His heart stopped for a moment. His dirty hands frantically patted his shoulders and waist. No bag. No scroll.
"No... no..." he whispered hysterically.
He turned to stare at the black hole of the sewer. The scroll must have been left inside. He had to go back. He had to retrieve it. It was the only weapon he had.
Romulus tried to crawl back toward the tunnel mouth but the foul stench wafting from it made him retch again. The terror of that narrow darkness paralyzed him. He could not go back in. He would rather die than enter that hellhole again.
He had lost everything. His father and his protector and his dignity. And now the only hope for his legacy was gone too.
Romulus stood up. He shivered violently not just from the cold but from severe mental shock. He turned his back on the dark fortress of Ravenna.
And that was when he saw it.
The sight that shattered the last of his sanity.
To the north or a few hundred yards in front of him the fields beyond the marsh were not dark. The fields were burning with thousands of points of light. Campfires.
It was not merely a camp. It was a sea of humanity. A city of tents stretching as far as the eye could see. Faint laughter and drunken songs and the clinking of iron carried on the night wind to his ears.
It was Odoacer's army. Thousands of monsters who had killed his father. Thousands of monsters who forced Spurius and eleven others to die in vain behind the gate.
"They are laughing..."
The words escaped Romulus's mouth but not in a tone of fear. The tone was empty. Hollow.
The boy's brain could no longer process this trauma. The grief of Orestes' death and the terror in the sewer and the disgust of the filth covering his body mixed with the sight of the enemy partying. Everything collided and exploded inside his head.
In our current age of enlightenment medical experts at the University of Salerno name this condition Fractura Animi or sudden fracture of the soul. It is a fatal biological consequence when the human brain is forced to bear a burden of terror and grief beyond its capacity. When this point is reached then the natural instinct to survive or flee dies. Common sense is replaced by cold detachment and unnatural decision-making that is often self-destructive.
But for the people of the year 476 this was merely a nameless madness.
Something inside Romulus snapped.
He did not run.
A healthy normal human instinct would have told him to run to the woods and hide in the mud then disappear. But Romulus was no longer normal. He began to laugh. A small suppressed and mad laugh.
He was the Emperor. He was Augustus. And he stood here covered in shit while his father's murderers drank wine.
His right hand moved slowly to his waist. His fingers touched the only hard object remaining.
Cold. Sharp. Loyal.
The Pugio dagger.
Romulus drew the blade. The iron gleamed dimly under the light of the cloud-covered moon.
He stared at the giant camp. He stared at the thousands of enemies. And in his mind broken by Fractura Animi he did not see death. He saw the only way out of this pain.
If he ran then their laughter would haunt him forever. If he ran then he would live as a coward who smelled of filth.
No.
Romulus's eyes widened and his pupils constricted. His face smeared with mud and tears twisted into a terrifying grin.
The crying boy who wanted his mother had died in the tunnel. The figure who now began to walk unsteadily cutting through the marsh reeds toward the barbarian king's tent was something else.
Something broken and reckless and dangerous.
He walked toward the thousands of fires like a moth falling in love with hell.
The smell of burnt meat and sour wine became an invisible wall that had to be breached. The marsh mist behind him slowly thinned and was replaced by the heat and suffocating smoke of thousands of campfires.
Odoacer's camp was not a neat and silent line of Roman military tents. It was a makeshift city that was chaotic and noisy and wild. Thousands of animal-hide tents were erected haphazardly while supply wagons were parked across paths. Horses were left to roam among the soldiers who were drunk on victory.
The thin body covered in mud and feces moved across the boundary of shadow and light. No guards shouted. No trumpets sounded the alarm.
To the drunk Heruli troops the small figure walking unsteadily in tattered clothes was merely one of hundreds of beggars or slaves who usually trailed behind the army. The foul sludge from the sewer that covered his face and hair and silk tunic had become the perfect disguise. No one would recognize the Emperor of Rome beneath that layer of repulsive filth.
His dragging footsteps carried him deeper into the heart of the camp. He walked like a ghost who had lost its way. His eyes were empty but his feet kept moving forward.
Suddenly a hard impact occurred.
Romulus froze. His heart seemed to stop beating.
A giant blond soldier stumbling in a drunken stupor had just seen him. The man held a wine goblet in one hand and a chicken leg in the other. His red eyes stared at Romulus from top to bottom.
Romulus stood stiffly. His hand trembled beneath the folds of his dirty tunic and gripped the hilt of his dagger. Primal fear crept up his spine. Was this the end of his journey?
But the soldier only wrinkled his nose. The stench radiating from Romulus's body made him lose his appetite.
"Get away you swamp rat," grumbled the soldier in rough Latin.
He did not see an Emperor holding a knife. He only saw a starving and smelly beggar boy. With casual disgust the soldier threw a piece of hard bread from his pocket at Romulus's face.
The bread struck Romulus's cheek and fell into the muddy ground.
"Eat that and get out of my sight," barked the soldier.
Before Romulus could move a hard kick landed on his waist. Romulus was thrown to the ground. Pain exploded in his ribs but he did not scream. He did not make a single sound. He only crawled backward like a beaten dog and let the soldier pass while laughing with his friends.
Romulus stood up slowly. He did not pick up the bread. The pain in his waist only sharpened his mad focus. He was no longer a man. He was a shadow.
The journey continued. He moved from the darkness of one tent to the darkness of another. He slipped between stacks of hay and avoided the light of the fires.
The closer he got to the center the larger and more luxurious the tents became. Banners bearing images of bears and wolves began to appear fluttering in the wind.
Finally he saw it.
In the middle of the chaos stood a vast pavilion tent. The tent was different from the others. Its hide was painted blood red and it was twice the size of a normal tent.
In front of the tent a large bonfire burned. Tribal chiefs and elite guards were partying. Their laughter thundered.
Romulus narrowed his eyes. There leaning crookedly against a wooden pole was an object he knew well.
Aquila. The Eagle Standard of Rome made of pure gold.
The sacred object was now a toy. A barbarian soldier was using it as a cane to dance around mimicking the walk of an effeminate man while being greeted by the laughter of his comrades. The golden wings of the eagle were bent and dirty. It was an absolute insult. But Romulus stared at it without emotion. His soul was too frozen to feel offended.
Suddenly the curtain of the red tent's front entrance was thrown open.
Three women came out. They giggled while adjusting their disheveled clothes. They were camp followers with painted faces and scant clothing. They walked past the guards who whistled teasingly.
If the women had left it meant the King inside was done having his fun. Perhaps he was asleep. Or perhaps he was off guard.
This was the chance.
Romulus did not approach from the front. The night shadow behind the tent became a protective blanket. The small body moved in a circle. He crawled between the tent stakes and stacks of supply crates piled high at the back of the pavilion. This area was pitch black and hidden from the firelight and the view of the drunk guards at the front.
Romulus hid for a moment behind a stack of grain crates. He held his breath. He listened.
The sound of heavy snoring could be heard faintly from inside the tent.
He crawled closer to the tent wall. His thin hand felt the rough and cold leather fabric. He tried to slip his fingers under the bottom of the tent to find a gap.
Nothing.
The hide was staked too firmly to the ground. Iron pegs held it solid. It was impossible for him to lift it with his bare hands without making noise or shaking the tent structure.
Romulus paused for a moment. His eyes stared at the red fabric.
His right hand drew the Pugio.
He waited.
Outside the tent the singing of the soldiers grew louder. Someone had just dropped a pile of shields creating a loud CLANG followed by cheers.
Now.
Using the noise as cover Romulus pressed the tip of his dagger into the thick leather.
Shhhk.
The sharp blade forged by Rome's best smiths sliced through the tough buffalo hide. Romulus cut it slowly vertically from bottom to top. He stopped every time the sound outside subsided and continued when the noise broke out again.
One span. Two spans. Enough for the thin body of a child.
Romulus sheathed his knife. He took a deep breath. The smell of beeswax and cheap perfume wafted from the slit.
With a movement as slippery as a snake he slipped inside through the hole he had just made. Leaving the noisy outside world for the deadly silence inside the King's chamber.
He was inside the lion's den. The air inside felt heavy and hot and musty. It was a disgusting mix of sweat and beeswax and and the stale musk of lust. Romulus's wild eyes swept the surroundings. Empty. The servants were gone. The guards were drunk out front.
There was only one sound in the room. A soft snore amidst the cheers of thousands of men growing wilder outside.
Romulus crawled toward the sound. His grazed knees rubbed against the thick soft carpet. He moved low blending with the shadows driven by a predator's instinct newly born in his damaged brain.
Until finally he saw him.
Upon a low couch covered in black bearskin King Odoacer lay.
The barbarian king slept on his back without a single thread on him. His giant muscular body was fully exposed under the dim oil lamp light. He was like a mountain of unconscious flesh. Around his bed scattered gold goblets lay overturned spilling red wine onto the floor like blood preceding a wound.
It was the sleep of an arrogant drunkard. The sleep of a man convinced he was an untouchable god.
Romulus crawled closer until his face was level with the edge of the bed. He held his breath. He was mad. Truly mad. Fear had evaporated replaced by a singular drive to annihilate.
Slowly the thin body covered in filth rose to stand. His movements were slow and hypnotic just like a cobra raising its neck before striking.
He stood beside the giant head. He stared at Odoacer's face. The rough face full of war scars. The face that had ordered his father's death.
Romulus paused.
His trembling right hand raised the Pugio dagger high. He wanted to plunge it down. He wanted to end this suffering right now.
But his hand stopped in the air.
Doubt paralyzed him. He was just a child. He was educated to hold a quill and scrolls not killing steel. He knew how to cut roast meat on a silver plate at dinner but he did not know how to take a human life. Where should he stab? The heart? The neck? What if he missed? What if this giant woke up and strangled him?
Romulus lowered his hand again. His breath came in panic.
His wild eyes searched for answers around him. And his gaze fell on a small table beside the head of the bed.
There next to the cold remains of a roast pig leg swarmed by flies lay a greasy metal object.
A Seax. A large Germanic meat knife. Its blade was thick and heavy and rough. A butcher's tool.
Without thinking his left hand snatched the knife.
Now Romulus stood with two weapons. His right hand held the elegant Roman Pugio and his left hand held the brutal barbarian Seax. A fusion of dying civilization and rising savagery.
He raised both hands high above Odoacer's head.
He stared at his prey's face. And in that second the dam inside his soul broke completely.
Amidst the noise of the party outside growing louder memories of the past hit him like a storm. His father's smiling face teaching him to ride. His mother's gentle hands tidying his hair. The laughter of friends in the palace garden. Warm dinners. Safety. Dignity.
All gone. All stolen by this naked pile of meat beneath him.
Romulus's face changed. His lips trembled and tears flowed heavily down his muddy cheeks but his eyes radiated pure demonic rage. He cried in silence a mute lament for the childhood that died tonight.
He waited.
Outside the sound of the horn trumpet and the cheers of thousands of soldiers exploded together reaching a crescendo.
HRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUM!
NOW!
Romulus did not perform a single precise stab like an assassin. He delivered a death sentence with the brutality of a rampaging child.
Both his hands slammed down with full force.
CRUNCH!
The meat knife in his left hand smashed into Odoacer's face splitting the nose and crushing the left eye socket.
SHUNK!
The dagger in his right hand plunged deep into the neck tearing the throat.
Odoacer awoke in hell. His remaining eye opened wide and his mouth gaped to scream but his vocal cords were severed. Only a terrible wet gurgling sound came out as blood flooded his airway.
But Romulus did not stop. He did not pause for a second.
Like a broken sewing machine his hands moved up and down with mad speed.
Stab. Lift. Stab.
The Seax hit the forehead cracking the skull. The Pugio tore the chest.
Stab. Lift. Stab.
Blood sprayed onto Romulus's face warm and salty washing the mud from his skin with red. He sobbed uncontrollably while continuing to butcher.
To the eye. To the neck again. To the shoulder. To the face again.
One stab. Five stabs. Ten. Twenty.
Odoacer's giant body convulsed violently. His hands tried to reach the air clawing the sheets but the attack was too relentless. He drowned in his own blood without ever understanding what happened.
Romulus kept stabbing even after the body stopped moving. He destroyed the face until it was shapeless. He vented all his fear all his grief and all his madness on the flesh that was now silent.
Only when the cheers outside began to subside did Romulus's hands stop.
He stood panting over the corpse. His chest heaved rapidly. Both his hands were covered in thick blood up to the elbows.
Odoacer the Conqueror of Italy lay dead naked and shredded. Dozens of holes gaped in his body and head.
In the silent tent only the sound of blood dripping from the knife tip to the carpet floor could be heard. Drip... drip... drip...
Romulus stared at his handiwork with empty eyes. He was no longer a child. Tonight in this bloody tent a new monster had been born.
I am Aelius Tacitus. The Grand Head of the Athenaeum Imperialis. I am the eye that gazes into the past and the finger that writes to enlighten the future.
Throughout my life I have read thousands of parchment scrolls. I have studied Hannibal's strategy at Cannae and Sulla's cruelty at the gates of Rome. I have read of rivers of blood and brotherly betrayal and the fall of great dynasties. My mind has become immune to the horrors of war.
But as my quill dried after writing the lines about the events inside that red tent I was stunned for a moment. My hands trembled above my comfortable writing desk.
Yesterday I stood in the Hall of the Sun in the Imperial Palace of Rome. There loomed a three-meter statue of Romulus Augustus carved from the whitest Carrara marble.
The statue was exquisite. The Great Sculptor depicted young Romulus with a gallant face and a chin lifted defiantly against the sky. His lips curved in a soft smile of victory a smile of pride of a son of Rome who feared nothing. His right hand grasped the Pugio dagger gracefully as if the weapon were a command baton not a tool for slaughter.
Thousands of people kneel before that statue every day. They scatter flowers and burn incense. Nuns call him "The Sword of God" and pray to him as the patron saint of the Roman people. They all revere "The Barbarian Conqueror."
But when I saw that smiling marble face I did not pray.
I wept.
My tears fell wetting the cold mosaic floor. Other visitors stared at me in confusion. They thought I was crying from the emotion of seeing the glory of the First Emperor.
They were wrong.
I wept because I knew the truth that marble could not carve.
I did not see a smile of victory on the statue's face. I saw the mad grin of a boy whose soul had been shattered. I did not see the gallant posture of a hero. I saw a thin body covered in feces and blood trembling in fear in the middle of a cold night.
The statue was a magnificent lie.
The world honors the monster who walked out of that tent as a hero. But as a historian who has just traced his bloody footsteps I mourn.
That night in Odoacer's camp Rome was indeed saved. This Empire was saved by a knife in the hand of a child.
But the price paid was too high.
Because when Romulus Augustus walked out of that tent he left something far more precious than a crown behind him.
He left his heart. He left his humanity.
And the boy named Romulus who loved feeding chickens in Ravenna was never seen again since that night. All that remained was the Emperor.
An Emperor who would one day crush the devil's neck under his heel and make hell itself tremble at his name.
And God knows how fearsome that Emperor would become.