A suffocating silence descended upon the Palace Hall, heavier than the stone dust still swirling in the air.
The head stopped rolling right at the tip of General Vitus's leather boot. The General recoiled, his eyes wide, staring at the stiff face of Odoacer at his feet as if seeing a ghost.
Spurius did not waste the moment. With a limping but certain step, the old veteran moved closer. He stooped, his rough hands snatching the stiff blond hair of Odoacer, clotted with dried blood.
With one decisive motion, Spurius hoisted the severed head high before the troops surrounding them.
"Sons of Rome!" shouted Spurius.
His voice thundered, hanging in the dust-filled air.
Imagine for a moment that you are a Roman soldier in that room. You are a veteran who has survived dozens of wars, whose skin has been thickened by scars and disappointment. If you heard this story in a tavern, that a thin boy sneaked alone into a lion's den and beheaded a giant king, you would surely laugh. You would say it is merely a myth. It is but an empty fairy tale to lull children to sleep.
But that night, they did not hear a fairy tale. They saw it with their own eyes. They saw the black blood dripping real from the severed neck. They saw the empty stare of the Barbarian King they had feared for so long.
I do not know for certain what raged in the minds of those soldiers at that moment. I cannot write it, for truly, there are no words in human language that can explain that night logically. In that second, reason died. And when logic dies, all that remains is submission.
CLANG.
A single sword hit the marble floor. A soldier dropped his weapon, his hands shaking violently with a feeling he could not explain. He fell to his knees facing Romulus, who still stood like a statue.
"Long live Augustus!" he cried.
Then others followed, swept by the same current.
CLANG. CLANG.
Two soldiers dropped their shields. Three. Four. And finally, all of them. Weapons clashed against the stone floor, replaced by the roar of men kneeling.
"Long live the Emperor!"
"Hail Augustus!"
"Hail Romulus!"
"Long live Augustus Romulus!"
The shouts echoed, bouncing off the stone walls. Vitus, still standing in the midst of that sea of kneeling men, looked around with a face of wonder and pale horror. He was like a stranger lost in his own world.
Spurius finally dropped Odoacer's head to the floor with a sickening wet thud, then immediately turned toward Romulus.
Up there, Romulus still stood, but the small body had finally reached its limit. The heavy things he had done tonight had drained his soul. The adrenaline no longer burned. His muscles suddenly went limp, and his vision began to blur, turning to darkness.
His body began to sway slowly, like a pillar losing its support.
"Caesar?" called Spurius, his tone turning to panic.
Romulus did not answer. He collapsed forward, falling unconscious from sheer exhaustion.
Spurius leaped forward, catching the body before it hit the floor. He cradled Romulus in his lap, protecting him like a father terrified of losing his son.
"Summon a physician!" shouted Spurius hoarsely.
He pointed to the soldiers who were still transfixed in their prostration.
"Get a stretcher! Quickly!" he ordered roughly, taking command. "You! And you! Help me carry him! Do not just stand there!"
The troops immediately stood, snapped from their holy reverie, and ran to do as commanded obediently.
Two Scholae soldiers carefully lifted Romulus's small body onto a makeshift stretcher made of long shields and wool cloaks. The Emperor's head lolled weakly, his pearl Diadem almost slipping off had it not been held by the hand of one of the soldiers.
"Take him to his chambers!" commanded Spurius sharply, not letting grief slow his movements. "Summon the palace physician there, now! Ensure he runs as if his own life were at stake!"
The soldiers nodded and immediately rushed to carry the stretcher out of the main hall.
Spurius turned to face the rest of his troops who were still standing in confusion amidst the corpses and the ruins of the door.
"Everyone out!" he shouted.
After ensuring his orders were carried out, Spurius turned to catch up with the stretcher party. But his steps halted for a moment. His eyes fell upon a figure in the center of the room.
General Vitus was still there. He had fallen to his knees before Odoacer's head which lay on the floor. The General stared at the severed head with a blank gaze, his eyes unblinking. He was like a man trying to piece together the fragments of reality inside his brain that had just been shattered. He was trying to accept the fact that all political calculations, all plans of betrayal, and all his fears had been broken by a boy with a kitchen knife.
Suddenly, the sound of noisy footsteps was heard from the side corridor.
"What is happening here?!"
Senator Cassius and several other city officials burst in with panicked faces, their robes fluttering. They had heard the shouts earlier and came seeking answers. Their eyes widened seeing the destruction in the hall, the remains of the fire burning, and the head on the floor.
"By God..." hissed Cassius, his face paling as he saw the lump of flesh on the floor. "Who is that?"
Vitus slowly stood up. He did not answer, only staring at the politicians with the hollow face of a man who had lost everything.
Spurius snorted softly. He had no time for the political drama of these cowards. Without saying a single word, he turned and left them in their panicked conversation, walking quickly toward his master's chamber.
Inside the imperial bedchamber, the atmosphere was much quieter yet tense.
Romulus had been laid upon his soft silk-sheeted bed. But the sight was stark and pitiful. The clean white sheets were now stained by foul-smelling black mud and dried blood smearing the Emperor's body.
An old physician, who had come hurrying in his night robe, was busy checking the pulse at the boy's neck.
Spurius walked closer to the bedside. His heart sank seeing his master's condition. Romulus looked so small, dirty, and fragile. The stinging smell of the sewer filled the room, mixing with the metallic scent of blood, standing as a silent witness to the terrible journey the child had taken to save them all.
Spurius turned to the servants and soldiers waiting near the door.
"Fetch water," commanded Spurius with a low but firm voice. "Bring buckets, a bath, soap, and clean cloths. Bring plenty. We must clean all this filth from his body. Now."
The servants dispersed hurriedly. Spurius looked back at the physician who had just removed his hand from Romulus's neck.
"How is he?" asked Spurius, anxiety clearly audible in his voice.
The physician let out a long sigh, then looked at Spurius with a reassuring face.
"He is fine, Sir," replied the physician gently. "His breathing is normal, though somewhat weak. His heartbeat is clear and regular. There are no life-threatening physical injuries other than grazes on his knees and hands. He is just exhausted. Very exhausted."
"Just exhausted?" muttered Spurius, staring at Romulus's pale face.
To me, Aelius Tacitus, writing this five hundred years later, the physician's diagnosis was too simple. The word "exhausted" is not enough to describe what happened to Romulus's body that night.
To understand this, I have sought the opinion of my friend, Magister Lucan Valerius, a Grand Master of Anatomy at the Imperialis Archiater University in Constantinople. He is the same genius who dedicated his life to researching the physiological condition of Our Lord Jesus Christ's body as He bore the cross to Golgotha.
I gave him the historical records regarding Romulus's condition, and requested a similar analysis. The result was quite astounding.
According to Magister Lucan Valerius, what Romulus experienced was not mere ordinary exhaustion. In the ancient medical terms we study, this condition is called Defectio Vitalis Absoluta.
It is a rare state where the human physical body is forced beyond its biological limits by extreme mental pressure. When the human brain is flooded by terror, grief, and adrenaline in lethal doses simultaneously, as when Romulus crawled in the cesspit and beheaded his enemy, the body enters a final defense mode. The nervous system shuts down all conscious functions to prevent the heart from exploding.
Magister Lucan Valerius told me with a serious face that this condition is almost identical to the physical trauma experienced by Jesus Himself when He fell for the third time on the rocky road to Golgotha. It was the moment where the spirit still wished to fight, but the flesh had been scorched by suffering.
Romulus was not merely sleeping. He lay in a death-like slumber, while his soul tried to crawl back into the body he had forced to become a monster.
Inside the room illuminated by dim candlelight, the cleansing ritual began.
Three of the eldest handmaidens, who had served the imperial family since the days of Romulus's father, moved with silent alacrity. They brought silver basins filled with warm water sprinkled with rose petals and soft sea sponges.
With care, their skilled hands began to strip away the remnants of Romulus's clothing. The once majestic purple silk tunic had now become a tattered rag stiff with dried blood and sewer filth. They tore the fabric slowly to avoid hurting the Emperor's skin, letting it fall to the floor like the molted skin of a snake.
As the cloth fell away, the handmaidens discovered a foreign object still clinging tightly to the boy's chest. It was a worn old leather satchel. It was the bag given by Elaphius. One of the handmaidens unbuckled the strap carefully and placed it on a marble table in the corner, unaware that the object contained the most dangerous weapon in the forgotten world.
When the last cloth was removed, Romulus's body was fully exposed under the oil lamp light.
The sight was a stark contrast. The fifteen-year-old boy's body was so white, smooth, and pale like Carrara marble untouched by the sun. His ribs were clearly visible beneath his translucent skin, signaling how young he truly was. Yet upon that holy white canvas, a map of tonight's suffering was etched. His knees were severely grazed and bruised blue, his elbows scraped by sewer stones, and here and there were black patches of fecal mud stuck hard to his skin.
The handmaidens worked with an almost religious tenderness. Even Mother Mary would have wept to see this child's suffering. They washed the body inch by inch. The clear warm water in the basins slowly turned murky and red as they wiped away the traces of sin and death from the Emperor's skin. Soft sponges wiped the neck, chest, and small legs that had walked beyond the limits of human capability.
Once clean, they did not stop. According to Roman tradition for high nobility, they brought out small alabaster jars. Expensive Nard oil and fragrant myrrh were poured into their palms.
With gentle and rhythmic massaging motions, they anointed Romulus's body. The fragrant oil soaked into the pores, replacing the foul stench of death with the scent of paradise. Romulus's skin now glistened under the light, looking exotic and sacred, as if they were preparing the body of a young saint to rest in the peace of God.
Spurius watched the procession from the corner of the room with sharp eyes that missed no detail. He ensured no rough movement disturbed his master's rest.
Suddenly, the chamber door opened softly.
Centurion Decius Marius Cilo, one of the twelve faithful soldiers who had held the door earlier, stepped inside. His face was still covered in the dust of battle.
"Commander," whispered Decius. "General Vitus summons you. He is atop the main gate on the outer wall."
Spurius nodded slowly. He turned to the rest of his troops guarding the room.
"Guard this door," commanded Spurius with a low, deadly voice. "Let no one enter but me or the physician. Guard him with your lives."
"Yes, Commander," they answered in unison.
Spurius stepped out, accompanied by Decius and one other soldier, walking quickly down the cold corridor toward the fortress wall.
The night had reached its darkest hours, perhaps the final watch before dawn. The eastern sky showed no signs of the sun yet. The world was still asleep in the silence before morning broke.
When Spurius reached the top of the defensive wall, the cold night wind immediately slapped his face. There, the entire Roman garrison was on high alert. Hundreds of soldiers stood in formation along the parapet, their hands gripping spears and shields tightly. Torches mounted on the walls flickered in the wind, casting long shadows that danced wildly.
Vitus stood there, staring out into the darkness where thousands of enemy tents lay spread out. He did not turn when Spurius stood beside him.
The two of them were silent for a moment, listening to the sound of thousands of barbarians snoring in the distance, unaware that their king was gone.
"The boy is mad, Spurius," muttered Vitus suddenly, breaking the silence. "Gone mad."
His voice sounded incredulous, as if he was still trying to digest the image of a small boy throwing a human head before him.
Spurius stared straight ahead, a thin smile etched on his rough lips.
"That madness will be sung in songs for five hundred years, Vitus," replied Spurius calmly.
Vitus let out a long sigh, white steam escaping his mouth.
"What will you do now?" asked Spurius, demanding a decision.
Vitus shook his head slowly. "I do not know. With Odoacer's head in our possession, the option of surrender is impossible. Clementia has been burned to ash."
The General gripped the stone of the battlement.
"Either they will attack and destroy us the moment the sun rises, or we flee and leave this city right now while there is still time and the enemy is drunk."
"Then what will you choose?" pressed Spurius.
Vitus turned slowly to look at Spurius. His sunken eyes looked tired, but there was a new glint there. A glint of dignity that had been lost.
"I have seen crazy things tonight," said Vitus hoarsely. "And I will make a crazy decision to die here as a free man rather than live as a slave to that barbarian."
Vitus looked away, then walked to the edge of the wall facing the inner courtyard, where hundreds of reserve soldiers had gathered waiting for orders.
He took a deep breath, then shouted.
"Soldiers of Rome!"
His voice echoed in the stone courtyard. All heads looked up.
"I give you a choice!" cried Vitus. "Leave this city now to live as fugitives, or stay and defend this city! Defend your Emperor!"
Silence.
There were no cheers. Only the sound of wind and torch fire. The soldiers looked at one another. They were afraid. They knew they were vastly outnumbered. They knew death was waiting at the gate.
Until finally, from the middle of the ranks, someone unsheathed his sword to the sky. Iron clashed with air.
"FOR ROME!" shouted the soldier.
Vitus looked down, then raised his hand.
"FOR ROME!" replied Vitus.
Then, an old soldier in the front row, with tears streaming down his cheeks knowing he would never see his wife and child again, drew his gladius. He raised it high with a trembling but steady hand.
"FOR CAESAR!" he screamed brokenly.
Vitus stared at him. He drew his own sword, thrusting it into the black night sky.
"FOR CAESAR!"
And the dam broke.
"FOR CAESAR! FOR ROME!"
The entire army cheered. Hundreds of swords were thrust into the air. They began beating their shields with the hilts of their swords.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The sound was not a celebration of victory. It was the sound of men celebrating their final days. It was the sound of men who had made peace with death.
Spurius smiled at the sight. Hope that had nearly been extinguished was now burning again.
Vitus sheathed his sword, then signaled Spurius and the other high officers to approach a makeshift map table set up on a wooden barrel.
"Come closer," ordered Vitus, returning to be the competent General. "We must discuss the defense plan. Odoacer's troops are still drunk and asleep, but when they wake and realize their king is missing, they will attack like wild beasts."
"The main gate is the weakest point," pointed out one legatus. "The wood is old."
"Pile wagons and stones behind it," cut in Spurius quickly. "Do not let them use a battering ram. Force them to use ladders. If they climb the walls, we have the height advantage."
"What about arrow supplies?" asked Vitus.
"Enough for three days of intensive combat," answered the logistics officer. "But our burning oil is running low."
"Use anything," said Vitus coldly. "Cooking oil, pig fat, anything that burns. When they come tomorrow morning, ensure they pay for every inch of this wall with blood."
They continued to discuss, plotting strategies of death under the shadow of dawn that would soon break.
The strategic discussion atop the wooden barrel had long since ended. All defensive preparations were complete; wagons had been piled behind the gates, oil cauldrons heated, and every soldier knew their position. There was nothing left to discuss. They now only stood in full alert upon the walls, awaiting the fate that would come with the sunrise.
The silence of dawn was broken when an observer soldier in the eastern watchtower suddenly leaned his body far out over the wall.
"Movement!" shouted the soldier, his voice shrill piercing the morning breeze. "I see movement! At the center of the camp!"
Vitus, Spurius, and the other officers immediately moved to the ramparts. They gripped the parapet stones, cold and wet with dew, their eyes squinting through the marsh mist.
On the eastern horizon, the edge of the morning sunlight began to reveal its light. A thin orange line split the purple-gray sky, shedding the first illumination upon a world that had changed overnight.
At first, the view down there seemed dim. There were only small movements and faint sounds from the center of the enemy camp, right around Odoacer's red tent. But in a matter of seconds, the movement spread with terrifying speed.
Like fire spreading through dry grass in summer, the commotion spread from the camp center in all directions. News of their king's disappearance had triggered panic. Tent after tent opened. Thousands of sleeping enemy soldiers now awoke, pouring out like ants whose nest had been stepped on.
The sound of snoring was replaced by roars of rage and barbarian command shouts. Torches were lit, creating a wild moving sea of fire. That enemy army was like a giant dragon just woken with breath of fire, writhing in anger and beginning to prepare ranks to attack.
Vitus reacted instantly.
"They are awake!" shouted Vitus, his voice thundering to alert his troops along the wall. "Archers! Nock your arrows! Spearmen, lock shields! Do not let fear control you! Hold position!"
The atmosphere atop the wall turned into a deadly and orderly bustle.
Amidst that frenzy, Spurius did not move immediately. He still stood frozen at the wall's edge, his eyes fixed on the sea of enemies beginning to move forward. He saw thousands of weapons glistening under the dawn light.
His old hand gripped the stone edge. His lips began to move softly, reciting the holy prayer in the ancient tongue of the empire amidst the rumble of war preparations.
"Pater noster, qui es in caelis..." whispered Spurius, his eyes staring grimly at the threat before him.
"Sanctificetur nomen tuum..."
"Adveniat regnum tuum..."
"Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra..."
Right at that sentence, Thy will be done, his mind drifted to Romulus. That boy was the only hope that must survive if the "will of the earth" today ended in slaughter.
Without a second thought, Spurius turned. He did not run out of fear, but out of duty. He had to ensure the defense in Romulus's chamber was truly ready before the first arrow was loosed.
He spurred his steps down the stone stairs toward the palace corridor. He would tighten the guard at his master's chamber, give final instructions to the guards there to barricade the door if the walls were breached, and prepare an escape plan through the secret door for them. Only after he was sure Romulus was safe in his final stronghold would Spurius return to this wall to fight and die beside Vitus.