The thundering hooves of Roman horses that had sounded like the drums of wrath now gradually slowed down into pitiful, cautious steps.
They did not slow down because of enemy barricades blocking the way. They slowed down because the ground beneath their feet was no longer visible. The road to the center of the camp was covered by layers of overlapping corpses, horse carcasses, and mud that had turned a deep red color.
In the front row, General Vitus raised his clenched fist. The cavalry stopped right in front of a structure that was once magnificent. It was Odoacer's royal tent. A palace of canvas and silk that now stood tilting, partially charred by fire, and surrounded by piles of elite Heruli guards who had died stabbing one another.
"Spread out," ordered Vitus with a hoarse voice. He did not shout anymore. The sight around him was too horrifying to be answered with a war cry. "Comb the area. Search for anyone still breathing. If they resist, kill. If they surrender, bind."
Vitus dismounted from his black horse. His boots landed on the muddy ground with a disgusting splat. Spurius dismounted beside him, followed by three senior officers whose swords were still clean without a stain of blood.
"Stay alert," whispered Vitus while gripping the hilt of his sword. "There might still be ambushers inside."
With one quick movement, Vitus pushed aside the torn tent flap and stepped inside.
Inside, the air felt heavy and suffocating. The smell of fresh blood mixed with the sharp scent of spilled wine and stale sweat.
The interior of the tent was destroyed. Teak wood tables were overturned, strategic maps were scattered on the floor and trampled, gold and silver goblets were thrown in all directions. It was as if a storm had just raged inside that narrow room. It was not just a robbery, it was deliberate chaos.
However, the eyes of Vitus and the officers were not fixed on the scattered luxury items. Their eyes were fixed on the center of the room.
There, on a large bed lined with thick bear skin and purple silk cloth, lay the figure they were looking for.
The Barbarian King was still there. His giant body was stark naked, stiff, and pale. The blood pooling around his neck had begun to dry and blacken, soaking deep into the mattress. His head was missing.
Vitus froze. He lowered his sword slowly, his eyes wide staring at the stump of the neck. Although he knew Odoacer's head had been brought to the palace, seeing this lifeless giant body directly gave a different impact.
"Good God..." hissed one of the officers behind Vitus.
Vitus stepped closer. His breath hitched.
"How is it possible, Spurius?" asked Vitus with a trembling voice. He was not asking who the culprit was, but rather how it was done. "How could Romulus... that boy who even struggles to breathe... do this?"
Vitus turned to look at Spurius with a gaze of disbelief.
"There are thirty thousand soldiers out there, Spurius. Thirty thousand! How could he infiltrate the heart of the camp, bypass thousands of guards, behead this giant monster alone, and leave without triggering an alarm? It makes no sense!"
Spurius did not answer immediately. The old face looked calm, as if he was seeing confirmation of something he had believed from the start. He did not look at Odoacer's corpse. His eyes instead swept across the room meticulously.
Spurius's gaze stopped at the back of the tent, in a slightly dark area behind the bed.
There, on the thick canvas wall, a ray of morning sunlight broke through. It was a vertical tear from bottom to top. A neat and precise knife cut.
Spurius walked closer and observed the slit. He did not touch it, only measured it with his eyes. The hole was narrow. Too narrow for the broad shoulders of an adult soldier like them.
The gap was only enough to be passed by a slender and small body. The body of a fifteen-year-old teenager.
Spurius broke the silence inside the tent that reeked of death. He pointed at the stiff headless body still lying on the purple silk.
"We must take the body, Vitus," said Spurius with a flat but firm tone. "His head is already at the palace, but the people need to see this body. They need to see that the giant they feared is merely flesh and bone that can die. We need this proof to shatter their fear forever."
Vitus nodded in agreement. He turned to his young officers who were still standing frozen.
"You heard that," ordered Vitus while pointing at Odoacer's corpse. "I want you to handle that. Wrap his body. Use that carpet or whatever. Drag him out and throw him onto a cart. Do not treat him like a king, treat him like a carcass."
"Yes, General!"
Vitus turned around and walked out of the tent, followed by Spurius who walked with a limp beside him.
Outside, the sunlight shone brighter illuminating the killing field. The Roman infantry troops had now spread throughout the camp. They moved effectively sweeping every tent and enemy logistics wagon.
Suddenly, a mid-ranking officer ran approaching Vitus with a face filled with emotion. In his hand, he held a long pole. At the end of the pole, although dull and stained with mud, was a bronze eagle statue plated in gold with wings spread majestically.
"General!" cried the officer breathlessly. "Look what we found in the pile of loot in the logistics tent."
Vitus stopped. His eyes locked onto the object. His hand reached out slowly to touch the cold wings of the eagle.
"This is..." whispered Vitus.
"This is the Aquila of Legio I Italica, General," reported the officer proudly. "The First Italian Legion. Odoacer looted it from the garrison in Milan last year when he betrayed Orestes. This standard has returned to us."
Vitus felt his throat tighten. The return of the sacred banner of Legio I Italica was a symbol stronger than any gold. It was a sign that the dignity of Italy which had been trampled upon was now being restored.
"Take it back to the city," ordered Vitus softly but with emphasis. "Clean the mud off. Let it shine again. Mount it at the very front when we return later."
Moments later, the activity in the camp shifted to gathering prisoners.
It turned out not all enemies died killing each other. There were hundreds of barbarian soldiers severely wounded, passed out from drunkenness, or hiding in fear under wagons. Roman soldiers dragged them out without mercy. Those who tried to resist were cut down on the spot, while those who surrendered were forced to kneel.
"Bind them!" shouted the centurions. "Bind their hands and line them up!"
The hundreds of prisoners were now herded like cattle. Faces that last night were full of arrogance when besieging the fortress were now bowed in lethargy and full of fear.
Vitus and Spurius mounted their horses again. Just as Vitus was about to give the order to move, his ears caught another sound.
It was not the sound of screams of pain or clashing iron. The sound came from the south, carried by the morning wind from the direction of the Ravenna city walls.
"Hear that?" asked Spurius.
Vitus turned toward the fortress.
From atop the distant stone walls, a different rumble was heard. It was the sound of cheering. Thousands of people of Ravenna, standing packed on the parapets, had seen the Roman banner fluttering in the middle of the destroyed enemy camp.
They cheered.
The cheering was faint at first, but grew louder until it sounded like ocean waves.
Commoners, merchants, mothers, and the elderly, all screamed hysterically. They did not know how Vitus's small army could destroy tens of thousands of enemies. They did not know about Romulus or the inter-tribal slaughter.
All they knew was that they were still alive.
They rejoiced over that impossible victory. On the walls, many fell to their knees weeping, hugging their children, and offering prayers of thanksgiving to the sky. They had survived the apocalypse that was supposed to swallow them today.
The sound of that cheering was the most beautiful music Vitus had ever heard in his life.
Atop the fortress wall, Centurion Decius Marius Cilo finally turned his face away from the view of victory in the marshes. His duty was not done. He had to go back. He had to be the first to deliver this news to those guarding the emperor's bedchamber.
Decius turned and descended the stone stairs in a hurry. He had to elbow his way through the crowd of citizens who were becoming increasingly hysterical. Faces previously filled with tears of fear were now wet with tears of joy. They hugged anyone near them, prostrated to kiss the ground, and shouted praises to God.
Arriving at the bottom, Decius jumped back onto his horse. The journey back to the palace was a struggle in itself. He had to spur his horse to cut through the sea of humans who were running in droves toward the wall to see the miracle.
"Make way! Give way!" shouted Decius, but his voice was drowned in the roar of the city's cheers.
When he finally arrived at the palace courtyard, the atmosphere changed drastically. Unlike the noisy city streets, the palace area was now silent. Decius jumped down from the horse and ran fast along the marble corridors toward the west wing.
His heart beat fast. He had imagined bursting through the door and shouting as loud as possible: "We won! Rome is saved!"
However, his footsteps stopped abruptly right in front of the imperial bedchamber door.
Two guard soldiers standing watch in front of the door saw the arrival of the breathless Decius. Before Decius could open his mouth to shout, one of the soldiers raised his hand quickly. He placed his index finger in front of his lips, then shook his head firmly.
Silence.
Decius frowned, confused. His breath was still ragged. What did it mean? Had the Emperor died in his sleep? Did this news of victory arrive too late?
A chill ran down Decius's spine. He looked at his two colleagues with a questioning gaze. However, the soldier did not answer with words. He only gave an eye signal toward the door, then slowly turned the door handle without making a sound.
The door opened slightly. Enough for Decius to look inside.
And what he saw made his knees go weak instantly.
Inside the room bathed in morning sunlight, Romulus Augustus was no longer lying stiff like a corpse.
The boy was awake.
He was sitting leaning against a pile of silk pillows. His face was still pale, but his eyes were open. Those eyes were clear, calm, and alive. An old maidservant was feeding him oat porridge with a wooden spoon, while the other soldiers stood surrounding the bed with perfect posture, as if they were guarding something far more precious than just a little child.
Decius stepped inside slowly, almost soundlessly. His feet felt heavy, as if he were entering holy ground where ordinary humans were not fit to tread.
Romulus paused his eating for a moment. He turned slowly toward the door and saw Decius standing frozen. The boy did not smile, but his gaze seemed to pierce the officer's soul.
Unconsciously, Decius fell to his knees. He bowed his head deeply, not just because of palace protocol, but because of the respect that suddenly overflowed in his chest.
I, as the writer of this history, honestly do not have words appropriate enough to describe what Decius felt at that moment. Did he feel like he was seeing a ghost rising from the grave? Or did he feel like he was seeing an angel who had just descended from the sky after completing a bloody holy task?
I cannot write it here because that emotion is too complicated and too private.
However, for those of you who truly want to dive into the Centurion's heart, you can read his own handwriting. Decius poured out all his feelings about this sacred moment in his personal diary which is now kept neatly in the Imperial Archives (Patreon). There, he wrote with ink mixed with tears about how Romulus's gaze that morning changed his life forever.
But in that room, in that second, no words were spoken. There was only a majestic silence. The Emperor had returned. And with him, Rome's hope had come home.
The sound of giant iron chains clashing against gears was heard again, but this time the sound was much louder and final than earlier this morning. The main gate of Ravenna, which had been tightly closed like the mouth of a tomb for months, now opened wide completely.
As the thick wood slid aside, Spurius, sitting on his horse, felt the weight of a new reality hit his shoulders. He stared at the widening gap of the gate with a sharp gaze.
He realized that opening this gate was not merely letting his troops back into their home. Opening this gate meant letting the truth out. The news of Odoacer's destruction would spread from this gap, traveling through Roman stone roads like fire spreading across dry grassland. This news would run faster than any horse toward Milan, toward Gaul, and most importantly, toward Rome.
The cavalry entered first, clearing a path through the crowd that flooded the main street. Behind them, Vitus and Spurius rode slowly, flanked by high-ranking officers.
Among the group of generals, a young officer held a high pole proudly. At its tip, the Aquila, the Golden Eagle of Legio I Italica, glittered reflecting the sunlight as if it had just been cleansed from the sins of past defeats.
The people of Ravenna lined the roadside, forming a dense human fence. They cheered, wept, and threw wild flowers at the feet of their liberators' horses.
However, the flow of humans at the gate was not one-way.
Between the ranks of entering soldiers, Spurius saw dozens of civilian riders and couriers spurring their mounts out of the city at full speed. They carried scrolls or simply mouths full of stories, racing to be the first to announce to neighboring cities that The Monster is dead.
Meanwhile, hundreds of poor citizens and reckless youths ran out of the gate, carrying empty sacks and carts. They ran toward the carcass of the enemy camp, eager to loot whatever remained: weapons, gold, or simply boots from enemy corpses.
But the atmosphere of the victory parade changed drastically when the ranks behind Vitus came into view.
There, guarded tightly by infantry, walked hundreds of prisoners of war. The barbarian soldiers who were once dashing and terrifying now walked with heads bowed, iron chains binding their hands and necks.
The cheers of the people vanished instantly, replaced by a terrifying growl. The vengeance that had been pent up for months of siege now exploded.
"Murderers!" shouted a woman.
"Pigs!"
At first, it was only spit. Saliva flew from all directions, wetting the faces and bodies of the helpless prisoners. However, spit soon turned into insults, and insults turned into physical violence.
A stone flew from the crowd, hitting one of the prisoners' heads until it bled. That was the trigger.
Suddenly, the mob became anarchic. They were no longer grateful citizens. They were a bloodthirsty mob. Rotten vegetables, horse manure, and even roof tiles were thrown at the lines of prisoners. Some men even recklessly broke through the guard lines, trying to punch or stab the prisoners with kitchen knives and sharp wood.
"Back! Get back!" shouted the centurions.
The situation became chaotic. The Roman infantry troops marching beside the prisoners were forced to protect the enemies they had just defeated from the rage of their own people.
"Shields! Raise shields!" ordered the infantry commander.
The soldiers raised their scutum shields, not to deflect enemy arrows, but to deflect the rain of stones and filth from the citizens of Ravenna. They had to push back their own people roughly so the prisoners would not be torn apart alive in the streets.
The procession finally managed to break through the wave of hatred and entered the spacious palace courtyard.
The palace gates were immediately guarded tightly, separating the raging mob from the sterile area. In the inner courtyard, the prisoners were forced to kneel on the hard paving stones. They trembled, not from cold, but from the sound of thousands of people outside the fence continuously shouting one sentence over and over again:
"KILL THEM! KILL THEM! KILL THEM!"
Vitus and Spurius stopped their horses in front of the main palace stairs. They dismounted from their saddles with heavy but relieved movements.
Vitus turned to the duty officer.
"Tighten the guard at the palace gate," ordered Vitus firmly, his voice trying to overcome the noise of the mob outside. "Do not let the people in. Let them scream all they want outside, but ensure no stones enter this courtyard. Stay on full alert."
"Yes, General!"
After ensuring the security of the prisoners and the palace, Vitus looked at Spurius. The two of them exchanged a glance for a moment. It was a wordless communication between two old soldiers who had just passed through hell and returned.
Without saying anything else, they both turned around and climbed the marble stairs, stepping into the coolness of the palace to meet their true master.
Inside the high and echoing palace corridors, the noise from the outer courtyard sounded like the buzzing of angry bees.
Centurion Decius Marius Cilo, who had just ensured the security around the Emperor's bedchamber, rushed back to the palace front hall. He was accompanied by several personal guard soldiers on full alert. They stood tall at the main entrance threshold, awaiting the arrival of the conquerors who had just returned home.
The large double doors opened. The midday sunlight broke through, illuminating the floating dust motes.
Vitus and Spurius stepped inside. Their appearance was far from neat. Vitus's red cloak was dull with street dust, and Spurius's armor was still stained with dried marsh mud. However, the aura they brought into the room was so strong it made the air feel like it was vibrating.
Seeing the arrival of the General, Decius and his soldiers simultaneously struck their left chests and bowed in respect.
"General Vitus. Master Spurius," greeted Decius with a loud voice.
Vitus nodded wearily while removing his helmet and handing it to an adjutant. His face was hard and tense. The remnants of battle adrenaline and the tension of facing the mob outside still lingered in his eyes.
Decius took a deep breath. His eyes sparkled looking at his two old superiors.
"General, there is important news you must hear," said Decius with an urgent tone. "The Caesar..."
Vitus instantly stopped walking. His body tensed. The word "Caesar" spoken with such urgency triggered his worst fears.
Vitus gripped Decius's shoulder roughly, his eyes wide with panic.
"What happened to him?" cut Vitus sharply.
Decius did not waver under his general's grip. Instead, a faint smile full of relief blossomed on his face.
"The Caesar is awake, General," answered Decius with a voice trembling with emotion. "The Eagle has taken flight again on his own wings."
Silence blanketed the hall for a few seconds. Vitus released his grip, his mouth slightly open but no sound came out.
He turned slowly toward Spurius.
Spurius, who was usually always calm and calculating, now looked just as shocked. The old eyes were glassy. The prophecies and hopes that had only been whispered prayers in their hearts were now becoming reality before their eyes.
Without saying a single word, Vitus and Spurius looked back toward the west wing corridor.
The fatigue in their legs suddenly vanished. Vitus and Spurius began to walk fast, then that pace turned into a half-run. Their iron boots thundered loudly on the marble floor, racing toward the imperial bedchamber to see for themselves the miracle that awaited them.