As a historian my pen feels as heavy as lead as I reach this paragraph. There are things that are better left buried with the dead. But truth is a blind judge. It sees no difference between sweet wine and foul red blood. It demands both be recorded with the same ink. So with a trembling hand I must write of the madness that ensued within that tent.
The Red Tent of King Odoacer.
Romulus still stood there. His breath came in ragged gasps amidst the silence that smelled of death. His right hand still gripped the Pugio dagger with a violent tremor as if the iron were fused to his skin. He stared at the giant corpse beneath him.
Odoacer was stiff. The body no longer moved. The chest that had risen and fallen with arrogance was now still as stone. Blood pooled everywhere. It soaked the bearskin rug and climbed up to Romulus's ankles.
But to Romulus's fractured mind death alone was not enough. He had to bring proof. He had to bring the head of the snake.
Romulus knelt beside the King's severely torn neck.
Outside the tent the cheers of the barbarian soldiers exploded again. They chanted Odoacer's name and banged their wine cups.
Romulus used that sound.
He pressed the blade of his Pugio against the remaining intact flesh of the neck. He began to slice.
The sound was wet and disgusting. The sharp blade separated the tough skin and the layer of yellow fat beneath it. Romulus had to stop every time the cheering outside subsided or when the heavy footsteps of a patrol passed near the tent. He froze like a blood-soaked statue with eyes bulging toward the tent entrance waiting for the danger to pass.
When the cheers roared again he resumed his work. He cut through the thick trapezius muscles and separated the tough tendons. Thick black blood oozed out and coated his small fingers.
But then his blade hit something hard.
Clack.
The spine.
Romulus tried to press the Pugio harder. He sawed it back and forth. But the neck bone of a giant warrior was too hard for the small dagger. The iron only slipped and could not penetrate the marrow.
Romulus panicked. His breath hitched. He began to whimper softly. It was the sound of a child frustrated because a toy was broken but in this context the sound was horrifying.
He released the Pugio and snatched the Seax again. The heavy and rough Germanic meat knife.
This time he would not cut. He would chop.
He raised the cleaver high with both hands. He waited.
Outside a loud collective burst of laughter was heard.
One.
Romulus swung the knife with all his might.
CRACK!
The heavy blade struck the neck bone. A cracking sound was heard but the head was not severed. The bone was still solid.
Romulus felt crushed. Tears flowed again down his filth-covered face.
Two.
He swung again. The blade missed slightly and cut into the shoulder meat. No difference. The head was still attached.
Romulus began to cry hysterically without sound. He shook his head trying to banish this nightmare but this was no dream.
Three.
The third strike was true. The white bone began to chip and crack deeper. Pink marrow became visible.
Romulus retched slightly from disgust but he swallowed it back. He had to finish this.
Five.
He swung again with his eyes closed from trauma. The horror of what he was doing eroded his soul bit by bit. Every strike separated him from his humanity.
Six.
The bone snapped. Odoacer's head now hung only by a strip of skin at the back of the neck.
Seven.
With a suppressed scream full of emotion and madness Romulus swung the knife for the last time.
SHUNK!
The blade pierced through the remaining skin and flesh and hit the wooden floor beneath the carpet.
The head separated. The object rolled slightly away from the body.
Romulus dropped the knife. He sat limply beside the headless corpse. His body shook violently from exhaustion and unimaginable trauma. He stared at his red hands. He stared at the scattered pieces of flesh.
But time did not wait for him.
His eyes caught a rough burlap sack in the corner of the room which likely used to hold grain or apples.
Romulus crawled to get the sack. He returned to the corpse's side.
With trembling hands he grabbed Odoacer's long blond hair which was stiff with dried blood. He tried to lift it.
Heavy.
The head of a barbarian giant was far heavier than he had imagined. It was dead weight hanging from his hand. The muscles of Romulus's thin and frail arms screamed in pain. He almost dropped it back due to exhaustion.
But the adrenaline in his blood worked harder than his muscles. Madness gave him a false strength. With a suppressed growl he forced himself to lift the object.
He raised it level with his face.
For a moment Romulus stared at the dead face. Odoacer's one eye was crushed and the other bulged emptily as if accusing him. The mouth gaped stiffly. They were face to face. The dead Barbarian King and the mad Boy Emperor.
Romulus did not blink. He shoved the heavy head into the sack.
Now he had to escape. He tied the mouth of the sack and prepared to head for the slit at the back of the tent.
But his steps stopped.
On a small table in the corner of the room something glinted under the oil lamp light.
The Pearl Diadem.
The imperial crown lay carelessly there next to leftover pig bones as if it were worthless junk. It was a tangible insult.
Romulus snatched the Diadem and stuffed it into the sack along with Odoacer's head.
Then his eyes looked down. To the floor near the table.
There lay a thick purple cloth. The fabric was dirty and torn and stained with mud from boots and spilled wine. It was placed there as a doormat.
Romulus recognized it. It was a large piece of the imperial purple robe that belonged to him. The robe that had been worn by the servant boy the robe handed over by Vitus and the robe Odoacer had thrown to the floor to be trampled by his troops.
Romulus picked up the vile cloth. He squeezed the dirty silk with bloody hands. He would not leave anything belonging to Rome in this cursed place. He stuffed it into the sack to wrap the head inside so the blood would not drip too much.
With the heavy sack on his back Romulus turned. His legs wobbled under the burden of the giant head but he kept moving. He crawled toward the torn hole in the tent wall ready to return to the dark outside world.
The night grew deeper. The victory feast outside had not fully died but had turned into a slow and disgusting chaos. Most of the soldiers had collapsed unconscious from wine lying in the mud like corpses. Yet in some corners small groups still sang with discordant voices while others stumbled aimlessly looking for leftover drink.
Romulus crawled out of the hole behind the red tent. The wet and heavy burlap sack weighed down his shoulder. Its contents shifted with a soft wet thud every time he moved. It was the burden of sin he had to carry alone.
He did not run. He knew sudden movements would only attract the attention of dogs or guards who might still be awake. Instead he moved like a fox. He slipped from the darkness of one tent's shadow to another. He stepped over the bodies of soldiers snoring roughly.
And whether it was God himself smoothing his path or because Odoacer's troops were too blinded by wine he reached the edge of the camp without hindrance. No eye saw his shadow. No ear heard his footsteps dragging the burden of death.
Romulus reached the edge of the marsh. Before him gaped the mouth of the dark sewer.
He paused for a moment. His eyes stared at the foul black hole. Hours ago he had exited from there crying and vomiting in disgust. But the Romulus standing now was different from the Romulus who had left earlier.
The boy looked at the darkness before him without fear. The stench of human filth was nothing compared to the metallic smell of blood and sin that now coated his hands in the camp.
He entered.
This time he did not crawl carefully. He crawled with rage.
His knees rubbed against sharp stones and liquid waste again. But Romulus did not care. He screamed in the darkness. He roared like a wounded animal to distract the nausea in his stomach and the pain in his soul. His screams echoed off the narrow stone walls. A war song of a one-man army.
Suddenly his hand touched something familiar on the wall.
The leather satchel.
The bag given by Elaphius that was left behind earlier. Romulus snatched it roughly. He did not check its contents. He just slung it back around his neck with a quick motion. The fire weapon might be useful later. But now he had a more terrifying weapon in his sack.
He kept moving forward. Faint torchlight began to appear from the stone cracks at the end of the tunnel. The sound of hard blows was heard rhythmically shaking dust from the tunnel ceiling.
BOOM... BOOM... CRACK!
Romulus quickened his pace. He pushed the secret stone mechanism from the inside.
The wall slid open slightly. Romulus peeked from the crack of darkness.
The scene before him was the final seconds of a tragedy.
The sturdy main palace door was already half destroyed. The thick teak wood had shattered. Its upper hinge had come loose and the door leaf hung crookedly pitifully. The tips of spears and axes of Vitus's troops had begun to enter through large gaps tearing at the remaining wooden defenses.
Spurius and his eleven soldiers no longer held the door with their shoulders. It was a futile effort now.
They had retreated to the center of the room.
They formed a defensive semi-circle. Their shields were tight. Their spears pointed at the destroyed door. They stood silent and calm amidst the flying dust waiting for the wave of enemies that would flood the room in seconds.
They were ready to die.
Behind the darkness of the secret wall gap Romulus moved.
He did not immediately step into the center of the room. He stood on the threshold of shadow and watched the backs of his twelve protectors ready to welcome death. His dirty small hands moved to put on his symbols of power again.
He draped the remains of the torn purple robe stained with Odoacer's blood onto his shoulders. The once majestic silk was now nothing more than a dirty rag but on this boy's shoulders the cloth felt heavier than iron armor.
Then he lifted the pearl Diadem. The crown was sticky with the dried blood of the Barbarian King. With an expressionless face Romulus placed it on his head. He was no longer the boy running in fear. He was a ghost returning from hell to collect a debt.
CRACK!
The sound of breaking wood thundered filling the room.
The main palace door finally gave way. The iron retaining bar bent and fell clattering to the marble floor. The teak door leaf collapsed inward and sent thick dust flying into the air.
Spurius and his eleven soldiers did not flinch. They locked their shields and lowered their spears.
From behind the dust emerged the garrison troops. They did not immediately charge with wild shouts. They entered with cold discipline and orderly steps. Dozens of fully armored soldiers flooded the hall and moved spreading to the sides to surround the twelve men in the center.
The atmosphere became silent and tense. Only the sound of feet shuffling on the floor and the heavy breathing of soldiers could be heard.
Then the garrison line parted.
General Vitus stepped inside.
The commander's face was pale and his eyes sunken. Cold sweat dampened his forehead. He looked at Spurius standing at the center of that small formation.
"Enough Spurius," said Vitus. His voice echoed in the quiet hall. "Look around you. You are outnumbered fifty to one. Do not add more corpses tonight. You will kill everyone in this city if we do not hand him over now."
Spurius looked at his former comrade with a pitying gaze.
"You are too late brother," answered Spurius calmly. "The bird has flown. The Emperor is not here."
Vitus's face twitched.
"Do not lie to me!" barked Vitus. "I killed Elaphius at the gate because he tried to deceive me. Do not force me to kill you too."
"Kill me then," challenged Spurius. He smiled thinly. "It will not change the facts. Romulus is already outside the city. Perhaps right now he is on his way to the east coast or perhaps he has sailed far to a place unknown to your map of treason."
"Foolish Spurius!" roared Vitus. He pointed toward the dark window. "Look at the thousands of souls behind these walls! Are you mad? Odoacer will slaughter them all if our hands are empty at dawn! Tell me where the boy is or we will drag you and hang you at that damn gate!"
Spurius shook his head slowly. He tightened his grip on his sword.
"You may hang my corpse Vitus. But you will never get my Emperor."
Vitus stared into those old eyes. He looked for doubt but he found only rock. Bitter realization hit him. Spurius would not speak. And time kept ticking.
"Spurius," hissed Vitus with a voice full of hate and regret. "You stubborn old bastard."
"And you finally know," replied Spurius.
Vitus turned his face away. He raised his hand signaling his troops.
"Attack," he ordered coldly. "Finish them all."
"FORWARD!"
The garrison troops roared and surged forward from all directions.
"HOLD POSITION!" shouted Spurius.
The two waves of men collided.
CLANG!
The sound of iron meeting iron deafened the ears. The square shields of Spurius's men held the first impact solidly. Their spears thrust from the gaps in the shields seeking flesh behind the opponent's armor. Blood sprayed onto the white marble floor. The final battle of Ravenna had begun.
Amidst the chaos of iron and blood Romulus moved.
He did not scream. A child's voice would not be heard in this hell. He needed fire.
Romulus snatched a torch mounted on the stone wall. Without hesitation he threw the fire onto the large tapestry covering the secret wall where he had come from. The dry old fabric caught fire greedily.
WOOOOSH!
In seconds tongues of fire raced up to the hall ceiling. The sudden searing heat forced the soldiers fighting near that wall to jump back in shock.
"FIRE!" shouted one soldier.
The battle stopped instantly.
The clashing of swords vanished replaced by the roar of burning fabric. Black smoke billowed. All eyes turned to the blinding source of light.
There in front of the raging wall of fire stood a small silhouette.
The shadow looked pitch black and terrifying against the glowing orange background. He wore a crown that glinted in the firelight. In his left hand he dragged a heavy wet sack.
Spurius who was already wounded in the arm narrowed his eyes. His heart felt squeezed by an invisible hand.
"Foolish boy..." whispered Spurius softly his voice full of pain. "What have you done..."
Romulus stepped forward out of the shadow of the fire.
The hall's torchlight now illuminated his face. That face was dirty with fecal mud and dried blood yet his eyes stared sharply as sharp as the dagger tucked at his waist. He wore the remains of the torn purple robe and the Pearl Diadem on his head.
The garrison soldiers took a step back. They were confused. They knew it was the Emperor but the boy's appearance was more like a swamp demon than a noble.
Vitus gaped. His brain tried to process what he saw. He had thrown that robe and crown to Odoacer's messenger earlier. How could those things be here again? And why did Romulus look like he had just risen from the grave?
Romulus kept walking closer. He did not bow his head. He did not tremble.
"Augustus!" shouted Spurius loudly his voice breaking with despair. "Why did you return?!"
The old veteran was too heartbroken seeing his little master return to this slaughterhouse. He did not realize the oddity of the diadem and the robe. He only saw the failure of his plan.
Romulus stopped in the center of the room between two camps pointing weapons at each other. He looked at Spurius then turned to look at Vitus.
This time he spoke. His voice was not the voice of a snot-nosed brat whining to go home. It was a cold and flat voice. The voice of something that had died and come back to life as a monster.
"Spurius. Vitus. And you soldiers of Rome," said Romulus. His voice cut through the silence. "I am Romulus Augustus. And I bring you the head of your enemy."
He lifted the burlap sack slightly. Fresh blood dripped from the corner of the sack making red spots on the white marble floor.
Vitus snapped out of his shock. His face hardened. He gripped his sword and walked closer.
"What nonsense is this?" growled Vitus. "Hand him over to me!"
Spurius saw Vitus move. He forced his pained legs to step forward to protect his master. Only the two commanders moved closer while the other soldiers stood frozen with open mouths wondering what was in that bloody sack.
As Vitus shoved aside the soldiers blocking him and was a few steps away Romulus moved.
His small hand reached into the sack.
He grabbed the stiff hair inside.
With slow and deliberate movements he pulled the object out and raised it high above his head.
The firelight from the burning tapestry illuminated the object clearly.
All breath in the room was held. Their eyes widened. The face was severely damaged. The nose was gone. One eye was crushed into pulp. At first many soldiers did not recognize the lump of flesh.
But among the garrison troops were veteran scouts who had seen the Barbarian King up close on the battlefield. They recognized the old scar on the right cheek untouched by Romulus's knife. They recognized that distinctive blond beard.
"That is Odoacer!" screamed one scout with a high-pitched voice of terror. "By the Mother of Jesus that is Odoacer!"
"The King of the Heruli is dead!" cried another backing away in fear.
Romulus swung his hand forward.
He threw the head.
The heavy object flew through the air and landed with a sickening wet thud. The head rolled on the floor leaving a red trail and stopped right at the tip of General Vitus's leather boot.
Vitus looked down. He saw the face staring blankly at him. The face he was supposed to fear tomorrow morning. It was truly him.
"That is the head of Odoacer," said Romulus coldly. His eyes stared at Vitus without fear. "The Barbarian King you feared. I have separated him from his body."