Spurius stepped back into the imperial bedchamber. The atmosphere inside felt in stark contrast to the chaos unraveling outside. Here, the air smelled of fragrant Nard oil and myrrh, calm and silent, as if the war were merely a distant nightmare.
The old veteran walked to the bedside. He stood for a moment beside Romulus, who lay stiff in a deep slumber. The boy's face now looked clean and peaceful, very different from the face of the blood-smeared monster who had stood in the hall earlier. His chest rose and fell with a very slow, barely visible rhythm.
Spurius let out a long sigh, then turned to face the tense soldiers and servants guarding the room.
"Prepare yourselves," said Spurius, his voice low but heavy. "The barbarians out there are awake. They have realized their king's head is missing. Their roar of rage will soon hit our stone walls."
He then looked sharply at his trusted officer, Centurion Decius Marius Cilo.
"Decius," called Spurius. "Come here."
Decius approached. Spurius suddenly gripped the younger soldier's shoulder firmly, pulling his head close until their foreheads nearly touched. Spurius's old eyes stared straight into Decius's, channeling a deadly urgency.
"Listen to me closely, Son," whispered Spurius sharply. "The defense on the wall will not hold forever. Vitus and I will buy as much time as possible with our blood. But if... and when... the main wall is breached, you must not join the fight."
Decius moved to protest, but Spurius gripped him harder.
"Your duty is not to die foolishly with a sword in hand!" asserted Spurius. "Your duty is to take this boy. Take him back into the secret passage behind that wall."
Spurius locked eyes with his subordinate.
"Get him out of this city, run east toward the Classis Coast. Find Marcus Valerius. You know where he lives. Take the Emperor to him. He will protect you."
Decius swallowed hard, his eyes tearing up as he realized the implication of the order.
"And you, Spurius?" asked Decius with a hoarse voice. "You will come with us, right?"
Spurius smiled. It was a sincere smile, the smile of a man who had made peace with his fate.
"I am old, Decius," replied Spurius softly. His gaze drifted for a moment, as if piercing the chamber walls to a faraway place. "My wife and two children have long waited in paradise. I have kept them waiting too long. Today, I am going home to see them."
He released his grip on Decius's shoulder, then turned to look at the unconscious Romulus.
"Guard him for me," said Spurius. Then he shook his head slowly. "No. Not for me. For Rome. As long as this boy breathes, the Empire is not dead."
Spurius straightened his body, becoming the war commander one last time.
"Prepare your supplies now! Check the secret door mechanism. Ensure the lock is open and the door can slide quickly when needed. And make sure the door is closed tight again after you exit so no trace is left behind."
Spurius looked at the faces of the soldiers before him one by one. He nodded in respect.
"It has been an honor to know you, loyal men," said Spurius with a trembling voice. "Your names will be sung in songs one day. One day, the children of Rome will hear the tale of you."
Spurius's step halted for a moment as he turned to leave. His eyes fell upon the marble table in the corner of the room.
"And one more thing," said Spurius, pointing to the tattered bag on the table. "Do not forget that leather satchel belonging to Romulus. Bring it along."
"Yes, Commander!" answered Decius firmly.
He struck his chest with his right fist, a stiff Roman salute. The young soldier's eyes stared at his master with unwavering loyalty.
"Semper Fidelis," said Decius loudly.
The other soldiers in the room instantly followed their leader's movement. The sound of fists hitting armor echoed in unison.
"Semper Fidelis!" they cried as one voice.
Spurius returned the salute. He straightened his weary back, looking at them with pride for the last time.
"Pro Roma et Imperatore," answered Spurius solemnly.
Without looking back, he turned and walked out of the warm room. He left the only hope for Rome's future behind his back, walking steadily toward the fortress wall to welcome his own death.
After leaving his master's chamber, Spurius did not walk. The distance between the Imperial Palace and the Northern Main Gate was quite far as it had to cut through the heart of Ravenna. Spurius immediately headed to the palace courtyard.
There, his warhorse, the same horse he had ridden when arriving with news from the ramparts earlier, was still tethered waiting for him. The beast looked restless, its ears twitching to catch the sound of screams in the distance.
Spurius patted the loyal animal's neck then mounted the saddle. His wounded leg throbbed with pain when stepping on the stirrup but he ignored it. He spurred his horse to gallop fast out of the palace gate to welcome the war. But this time the city around him had turned into a hell of panic.
The usually orderly stone streets of Ravenna had now become a chaotic sea of humanity.
Garrison soldiers ran with pale faces toward their defensive posts. They crashed into civilians blocking the way. Meanwhile the commoners ranging from merchants to the elderly poured out of their homes like ants whose nest had been scalded with boiling water. Rumors about Odoacer's death and the wrath of the barbarian army had spread faster than the wind. They knew one thing that if the wall breached then no one would survive.
Mass panic centered toward the Southern and Western Gates which were the sides of the city facing away from Odoacer's main camp. Thousands of hysterical citizens packed the plazas in front of those back gates. They screamed and cried while beating on the giant wooden doors that had been barred with iron.
"Open the gates! Let us out!" screamed a woman lifting her child high.
"We will die here! Open it!" roared the crowd.
The officers guarding the gates tried to shout over the noise to warn that enemy cavalry had already surrounded the exits and they would be slaughtered if they went out. But fear had deafened the people's ears. Logic no longer applied. The panicked mob began to push forward. Those in front were crushed against the gate doors and their ribs were crushed by the pressure of thousands of people behind them pushing continuously.
Shoving turned into riots. Some reckless youths tried to climb the gates or seize soldier's spears to forcibly open the door bars. To maintain the city's defense, Roman soldiers were forced to unsheathe their swords against the people they swore to protect. Civil blood spilled on the stone streets of Ravenna by the swords of their own protectors.
Meanwhile, a different chaos occurred around the palace.
The Senators who had seen Romulus appear in the hall covered in mud finally realized where the little Emperor had come from. They knew Romulus must have entered through the ancient sewer connected to the marshes. That knowledge spread quickly among the elite. Carrying families and meager possessions, the officials tried to sneak into the palace area to access the secret path to save themselves.
But the secret did not last long. Servants heard their masters' conversations, guards leaked it to their relatives, and finally the news exploded on the streets.
"There is a secret passage in the palace!" shouted someone in the crowd. "The Emperor has a way out through the water channel!"
The direction of the mob changed instantly. Like a flood turning course, thousands of desperate people now flocked back toward the Palace district, heading to the Imperial Palace. Not only nobles, commoners also pushed in. They no longer cared about the city gates because they wanted the escape hole inside the palace.
The palace courtyard that was previously heavily guarded was now overwhelmed. The mob broke in and filled the marble corridors with bodies packed together. They screamed hysterically looking for the entrance to the channel.
Inside the imperial bedchamber, Centurion Decius Marius Cilo felt the floor vibrate beneath his feet.
The roar of humans sounded closer from behind the tightly locked door. Decius pressed his ear against the wood. Out there, in the corridor Spurius had passed earlier, there were now screams, cries, and the footsteps of hundreds of people crowding to find a way to safety. They banged on every door they passed, hoping to find the secret passage.
Decius's face paled. He turned to his men standing guard near the secret door behind the tapestry.
"We are trapped," he whispered tensely.
They could not get out. The corridor in front was packed with panicked people. If Decius opened this room door or tried to take Romulus out, the hysterical mob would storm in. They would trample the Emperor to scramble into the tunnel hole behind the wall. The escape route prepared by Spurius was now threatened with failure not because of the enemy, but because the people themselves blocked the way.
Decius stepped back and his hand gripped the hilt of his sword. His eyes stared at the main room door warily, praying the thick wood was strong enough to withstand the pressure of the mob outside.
Amidst that storm of chaos, on the silk mattress that was now clean, Romulus Augustus was still sleeping soundly. His breathing was regular and peaceful as if he were the only calm point in the center of a crumbling world.
From the hell of panic in the city streets, Spurius entered a completely different world when he arrived at the foot of the main fortress wall.
Here, in the military zone, there was no hysteria. There were no screaming mothers or citizens trampling one another. There was only a heavy and suffocating silence. Hundreds of reserve soldiers stood in tight formation in the inner courtyard, waiting their turn to ascend the wall. Their feet were planted firmly on the ground, their hands gripping shields and spears.
However, that calm was fragile. Spurius could see knees trembling behind their iron greaves. He could hear the sound of held breath. They all knew that the wooden gate before them was the only divider between life and a horrible death. Yet, not a single battering ram strike had been heard. The gate remained tightly closed, silent, and intact.
Spurius dismounted and handed the reins to an aide. With a limping but quick step, he climbed the stone stairs to the parapet.
Upon reaching the top, the morning wind struck his face. Along the wall, rows of archers and infantry stood motionless like gargoyles, their eyes fixed to the east. No one made a sound. The tension in the air was so thick it felt like it could be sliced with a knife.
Vitus stood on the command platform, surrounded by his high officers. They were watching the enemy camp intently.
Spurius walked closer and stood right next to Vitus. The General did not turn, his eyes kept staring straight ahead, but his shoulders slumped as if carrying the weight of the world.
"Spurius..." Vitus's voice trembled slightly.
The General turned to look at his old friend. His eyes were red, not from lack of sleep, but from the regret that had finally hit him now.
"What have I done?" whispered Vitus hoarsely. "I tried to break down that palace door. I almost killed you and eleven of our brothers just to hand over a child to a butcher."
Vitus lowered his head, staring at the cold wall stone.
"I was wrong, Spurius. I was terribly wrong because of my fear. Will you grant me a soldier's forgiveness?"
Spurius looked at the tired face of his commander. He saw no traitor, but a man broken by the weight of responsibility for fifty thousand lives.
"What you did was for the people and this city, Vitus," answered Spurius wisely. "You tried to save what could be saved."
Spurius extended his right hand.
"Besides, we will likely die here soon. While I am still alive, I forgive you. I do not want a grudge holding me back at the gates of heaven later."
Vitus raised his face, a glimmer of relief shining there. He accepted the hand. They gripped each other's forearms tightly, a handshake of solid Roman brotherhood.
"Hail Rome," said Vitus.
"Hail Rome," replied Spurius.
They released their grip. The bond of trust between them was fully restored, ready to face death together. Vitus took a deep breath, trying to compose himself again, then looked back ahead.
"How is Caesar?" asked Vitus softly, his voice almost lost in the wind.
"He is safe," answered Spurius briefly. "I have prepared an escape route for him and a few guards. If this wall falls, he will slip away."
Vitus nodded slightly, a weight lifted from his shoulders. But his eyes narrowed sharply again toward the distant marshes.
"Look at that, Spurius," said Vitus, pointing toward the sea of tents down there.
Spurius tried to follow the direction of Vitus's finger. He squinted, trying to focus his gaze. But age had taken the sharpness of his eyes. At that distance, Spurius only saw gray mist and vaguely moving shadows.
"My eyes are not what they used to be, Vitus," complained Spurius. "What is it? Are they forming a testudo? Cavalry?"
Spurius could only hear the sound. A strange sound. It was not the sound of orderly trumpets. It was a chaotic rumble, like the sound of thousands of angry bees, growing louder by the second.
Suddenly, a young officer to their left shouted.
"Fire! There is fire!" he yelled while pointing to the eastern sector of the enemy camp.
And now Spurius could see it too. A bright orange flame spewed into the sky, devouring a large tent. Black smoke billowed high.
"Another one in the west!" cried another officer.
One by one, spots of fire began to appear in various corners of Odoacer's camp. These were not bonfires for cooking. They were fires of destruction. Tents were being burned randomly.
Spurius leaned forward, his ears catching the sound that was now becoming clearer carried by the wind.
CLANG! CLANG! AARGH!
The sound of iron clashing against iron. The sound of screams in pain. The sound of curses in rough Germanic tongues.
It was not the roar of an army marching in order to attack a fortress. It was the sound of a battle taking place right there, inside their own cage.
Spurius gaped. He turned to Vitus, seeking an answer.
"Vitus?" called Spurius hesitantly.
Vitus lowered his pointing hand. His tense face slowly changed into an expression of pure disbelief.
"They are killing each other..." whispered Vitus softly, as if afraid his voice would break the miracle.
"What did you say?" asked Spurius, leaning his ear closer.
Vitus turned to look at Spurius, then looked at his troops. A small laugh, a laugh that bordered on hysterical, escaped his mouth.
"THEY ARE KILLING EACH OTHER!" shouted Vitus loudly, full of spirit. "LOOK! THEY ARE KILLING ONE ANOTHER!"
The soldiers who had been standing stiffly at their posts now forgot discipline. They ran closer to the wall's edge, crowding to see the impossible sight.
Down there, in Odoacer's camp, hell was breaking loose.
Heruli troops fought against Scirii troops. Rugii troops slashed at anyone who passed.
The logic of the barbarian mind worked in a simple but fatal way. When they found Odoacer's headless corpse inside his heavily guarded tent, their brains rejected one possibility. It is impossible for a Roman to have done this.
To them, Romans were cowards hiding behind walls. It was impossible for a Roman to infiltrate the heart of the camp, bypass thousands of guards, kill their Giant King, and leave unseen. That was inconceivable.
Thus, the conclusion was only one. Traitors from within.
"The Scirii did it! They were jealous of our King!" shouted one faction.
"No! It must be the Rugii trying to steal the gold!" retorted another faction.
Accusations turned into shoving. Shoving turned into punching. And when one sword was drawn in anger, thousands of other swords were drawn too. The inter-tribal grudges that had been suppressed by Odoacer's leadership now exploded freely.
Unknowingly, Romulus had not only beheaded his king. He had severed the knot that bound the fragile alliance of the barbarians.
From atop the fortress walls of Ravenna, thousands of Roman soldiers watched their enemies tear themselves apart with brutal ferocity, while the morning sun shone down illuminating the blood spilled in vain.
The vast expanse of marsh in front of Ravenna had transformed into a horrifying killing field.
It was not a noble war with orderly formations or brilliant general strategies. It was pure chaos. Tens of thousands of warriors from various tribes, Heruli, Scirii, Rugii, and Turcilingi, lunged at each other like wolves struck by a plague of madness.
Without Odoacer's head to unite them, greed and old grudges took over. Heruli cavalry crashed into Scirii infantry tents, trampling their own comrades with heavy horses. Arrows flew aimlessly and pierced the backs of friends. Blood spilled profusely and turned the muddy marsh ground into disgusting red mush. Screams of death and rage rose to the sky, creating a symphony of destruction that was deafening.
From atop the fortress walls, Vitus, Spurius, and thousands of Roman soldiers could only watch with gaping mouths. They did not need to loose a single arrow. Their enemies were exterminating themselves with brutal efficiency.
As my golden pen scratches this part of history onto paper, my mind drifts far into the past. Beyond the history of the Empire, toward the ancient land of Judea thousands of years ago.
I am reminded of the holy tale written in the Scriptures, in 2 Kings 19 and 2 Chronicles 32. The tale of King Sennacherib of Assyria who besieged Jerusalem with the same arrogance as Odoacer besieged Ravenna. A King who insulted God and felt invincible with his army covering the horizon.
The Bible records that King Hezekiah did not need to lift a sword. For on that night, the Angel of the LORD went out to the Assyrian camp. In one night, one hundred and eighty-five thousand lives were taken. That military giant collapsed not by human strength, but by the breath of heaven.
Seeing what happened in the marshes of Ravenna that morning, I wonder. Was the same miracle of God happening again before us?
Indeed, their numbers were not as many as the Assyrian army. However, nearly thirty thousand combined barbarian warriors, the entire military force that destroyed Rome, were now crumbling before our eyes. The power that was supposed to conquer Italy was being erased from the face of the earth.
Was Romulus Augustus merely a small instrument in the hands of the Creator? When the boy beheaded Odoacer, did Saint Michael the Commander of Heaven's Armies himself descend upon that camp? Did the Archangel swing his invisible sword of fire, spreading madness and chaos into the hearts of those heathens until they killed one another?
Or were they merely blinded by last night's wine and the foolishness of a barbarian?
I do not know. No historian knows.
No bishop knows, nor does any scholar of scripture understand. Whether it be the Pope in Rome, the Patriarch in Constantinople, or the holders of the Holy Sees in Jerusalem, Antioch, and Alexandria. None of the five pillars of Christendom know.
We saw no angel wings or divine light. We only saw blood and fire. Yet, for anyone who stood atop the fortress wall that day and saw how that invincible army crumbled into dust in a matter of hours without being touched by Roman hands, it was hard not to feel the presence of something far greater than mere luck.
Human logic ends there. Only heaven can explain that terrifying miracle.