"When Centurion Decius whispered that The Eagle had awakened, the wounds in my legs ceased screaming. I ran cleaving through the marble corridor, ignoring the protests of my old brittle bones. Vitus was at my side, the thunder of his leather boots hunting with a hope as desperate as mine.
We threw the oak door open, hoping to find a frightened boy seeking a hug or crying for his mother. Instead, we found a stranger wearing the Emperor's face.
The eyes staring back at us were not the wet eyes of a child mourning his father. They were ancient. Silent. It was the eye of Rome itself staring back from the abyss, demanding unconditional devotion."
Excerpt from the Private Journal of Spurius Maecenas, Entry Dated September 4, 476 AD. (Imperial Archives - Private Collection).
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The sound of military leather boots or caligae striking the marble floor broke the silence of the imperial bedchamber.
Spurius and Vitus burst in, gasping for breath. Their chests rose and fell, but that fatigue evaporated instantly the moment they saw the figure sitting on the edge of the bed.
Romulus Augustus was awake.
He sat upright, his bare feet planted firmly on the cold floor. Morning sunlight hit half his face, accentuating a jawline that looked harder than before.
When the door opened, Romulus turned slowly. No surprise. No fear.
"You are late," Romulus said flatly.
Silence fell for a moment. Then, the corner of Romulus's lips lifted slightly, and a small laugh escaped his mouth. It was not a mad laugh, but a relieved laugh that sounded tired yet sincere.
Seeing his master laugh, the tension in Spurius's shoulders crumbled. The old man laughed too, a laugh born of overflowing gratitude that this nightmare had ended.
"Forgive us, Dominus," answered Spurius with a broad smile on his old face. "These old knees cannot run as fast as they used to."
However, that laugh did not last long.
Vitus, who had been standing stiffly beside Spurius, suddenly stepped forward. The General's face did not imply joy, but a heavy burden of sin. He cut through that warm atmosphere with his heavy steps.
Before Romulus, Vitus did not give a military salute. Instead, he dropped both knees to the floor with a loud thud.
With trembling hands, Vitus unbuckled his sword belt. He took his still-sheathed gladius, then placed it on the marble floor, right at Romulus's bare feet.
Vitus bowed his head deeply, until his forehead nearly touched the floor. The General's shoulders shook violently.
"Forgive your servant, Caesar," whispered Vitus. His voice was hoarse and broken. "I am not worthy to stand before you. I am a traitor who intended to hand Dominus over to those barbarian dogs to save my own skin."
Vitus looked up slightly, his eyes wet with tears of regret, staring into Romulus's eyes.
"Take this sword, Augustus. Punish your servant. Behead me. I deserve to die by your hand rather than live bearing this shame."
The room became deadly silent. Spurius fell silent, holding his breath. He knew Roman law. Treason against the Emperor meant absolute death.
Romulus stared at Vitus who humbled himself at his feet. He saw the General's exposed neck, resigned to accept the verdict. Romulus could have ordered the guards to drag him out. He could have hanged him at the gate as a warning.
However, Romulus slowly stood up. He stepped closer to Vitus.
His small hand reached down, grasping the hilt of Vitus's heavy sword. Romulus lifted the weapon. The metal glinted coldly.
Vitus closed his eyes, ready to accept his fate.
But the pain never came.
"Stand up, General," Romulus's voice sounded calm yet full of authority. "While I still live, Rome needs your sword."
Vitus opened his eyes, wide with disbelief. Before him, Romulus offered the sword hilt back to him.
With trembling hands, Vitus took back his weapon. He stood up slowly, but before his mouth could utter a single word of thanks, Romulus's voice was heard again, cold and sharp.
"Where is the head of Odoacer that I brought last night?"
They stepped out of the bedchamber into the Main Hall.
The air in that vast chamber still lingered with the acrid scent of burnt tapestries and the dust of battle that had not fully settled. In the center of that ruined grandeur, the object was still there.
Odoacer's head.
That lump of flesh still lay abandoned on the cold marble floor, exactly where Romulus had thrown it. Amidst the chaos of victory cheers and the medical panic when Romulus fainted earlier, no one dared, or cared, to pick it up. The Barbarian King's single remaining eye stared blankly at the hall ceiling, as if still surprised by his own death.
Romulus stood there, gazing at the remnants of his enemy. He now wore a fresh purple toga picta fetched by the servants, a clean silk cloth hiding his thin, scraped body. To his right stood Spurius, and to his left stood Vitus.
Suddenly, the side door burst open. Several centurions entered with tense faces and skewed helmets.
"General Vitus! Dominus!" reported one officer, gasping for breath. "We cannot hold them much longer! The mob outside is getting wilder. They heard rumors that the Emperor killed the Monster, but they don't just believe it. They want to see their Emperor! And..."
The officer glanced hesitantly toward the gate. "They demand the blood of the prisoners. They want to punish those barbarians with their own hands."
Romulus did not turn to the officer. His eyes remained locked on the head on the floor.
"Spike it," Romulus said quietly.
Spurius frowned, leaning in slightly. "Forgive me, Dominus? I did not hear..."
"Fetch a spear," Romulus cut in, his voice now sharp and cold, slicing through the hall's air. "And spike that head. Make it my war banner."
Vitus understood immediately. Without wasting time, he signaled two guards standing near the wall.
"Do it!" ordered Vitus. "Take the best hasta spear. Mount that head on its tip."
A soldier grabbed a ceremonial spear with a sturdy ash shaft and a sharp iron tip. With a face suppressing disgust but obedient, the soldier picked up Odoacer's head by its stiff, dried-blood-matted hair.
The second soldier held the head against the floor.
CRUNCH.
The sound of iron piercing bone and flesh rang horribly in the silent room. The spear point was forced through the severed neck, piercing the esophagus, cracking the base of the skull, until the blood-smeared iron tip protruded through the top of the cranium.
Odoacer's face now sat high atop the pole, grinning frozen in eternal death.
Meanwhile, in the palace forecourt, hell was breaking loose.
Thousands of Ravenna's citizens had packed the plaza. They were a sea of angry, hungry people demanding vengeance. The line of Roman infantry with their scutum shields looked like a fragile dam barely holding back a flash flood.
"Move! Let us kill them!" shouted a butcher brandishing a large cleaver.
In the midst of that siege, five hundred barbarian prisoners knelt in a pitiful state. They were no longer gallant warriors. Their faces and armor were now covered in layers of horse manure, mud, and blood from the ceaseless stone-throwing of the populace. Some had fainted, others wept begging for mercy in a tongue no one understood.
"Emperor! We want the Emperor!"
The chant echoed, merging into one giant voice that shook the palace walls. The officers on the front line shouted hoarsely trying to order the ranks, but they were overwhelmed. A little more, and the mob would break through and tear the prisoners apart alive.
Suddenly, a heavy sound came from the giant rusted hinges.
CREAAAK...
The main palace doors, previously shut tight, now opened slowly.
The commotion in the front rows of the mob subsided slightly as they saw the dark gap in the door widening. All eyes turned there.
The first thing to emerge from the darkness of the hall was not a human figure.
It was a tall, looming object. A spear. And impaled on the tip of that spear was a gruesome round object, with long blond hair fluttering gently in the wind.
A guard soldier stepped out carrying that new "banner" high. The head of Odoacer, the King of the Heruli who had terrorized Italy, was now displayed clearly under the midday sun, staring blankly at the stunned crowd.
Then, behind the spear-bearer, three figures walked out.
Spurius on the right, Vitus on the left. And in the middle of them walked a small figure with a purple robe sweeping the floor.
Romulus walked with slow and smooth steps. No hesitation, no shaking. His face was calm, flat, expressionless, as if he were strolling in a flower garden and not stepping into the middle of thousands of rampaging people.
The effect was instant and absolute.
The screaming that had been deafening was cut off instantly, as if a giant hand had silenced thousands of mouths simultaneously. Stones ready to be thrown fell from gripping hands. Knives raised in the air slowly lowered.
Silence.
Thousands of pairs of eyes stared unblinking at the boy and the gruesome head above him. They held their breath, waiting for what the young Emperor, who had just risen from the dead, would do or say.
Upon seeing that head high atop the spear, the crowd began to waver. A wave of whispers and murmurs spread quickly from the front rows to the back like fire in dry grass.
"Who is that?"
"Is it really him?"
"Impossible..."
For the commoners watching from afar, that ruined and bloodied face might have been hard to recognize. But for the five hundred barbarian prisoners kneeling in the courtyard, the identity of that head was as clear as day.
Their reaction was instant and heartbreaking.
Some prisoners threw themselves down, their foreheads hitting the paving stones in total despair, howling in grief that their invincible king was now a carcass. Others, who were overcome by blind rage, tried to rise and rebel. They struggled against their bonds, roaring to attack whoever held that spear.
BOOM! BOOM!
The rebellion was quelled quickly and brutally. Roman infantrymen slammed the edges of their scutum shields into the faces and chests of the rampaging prisoners, forcing them back to their knees in the dirt.
Seeing that moment, General Vitus stepped forward. He stood at the edge of the marble stairs, raising his hand to demand attention. His voice, which was used to shouting orders in the middle of battle storms, now echoed through the square.
"Citizens of Ravenna! People of Rome!" shouted Vitus.
He pointed firmly at the spear beside him.
"Behold this spear! Behold the head at its tip! This is the head of Odoacer! That poisonous snake is dead!"
The people who heard that confirmation gasped. Some covered their mouths in shock, some looked at each other in disbelief, and others began to cheer reservedly. Yet the biggest question still hung in the air: How?
Vitus continued, his voice trembling with a mix of respect and emotion.
"God has delivered his soul and death has become his portion! Not by armies, not by war tactics..."
Vitus turned half around, extending his hand toward the small figure in purple standing silently behind him.
"But when Romulus Augustus..." Vitus paused, allowing the name to sink in. "...went and crawled alone into the snake's nest last night! With his own hands he severed Odoacer in his bed and brought this head before you!"
The silence following that announcement was so heavy it felt painful.
The people were transfixed. Their brains refused to accept that narrative. A fifteen-year-old boy? Infiltrating alone? Beheading a giant? It sounded like a fairy tale of the gods, impossible for a mere mortal.
One second passed. Two seconds.
Then, from the middle of the dense crowd, a man's voice broke the silence.
"LONG LIVE THE EMPEROR!"
That shout was like a spark in a gunpowder warehouse.
"LONG LIVE AUGUSTUS!" answered another voice from the left.
"ROMULUS THE LIBERATOR OF ROME!" replied another from the right.
And then the dam broke.
"LONG LIVE ROMULUS! LONG LIVE THE EMPEROR! LONG LIVE ROME!"
That cheer exploded into a physical wave of sound shaking the city of Ravenna to its foundations. It was no longer just a shout; it was the release of fear that had shackled them for months. They cheered because they won. They cheered because they were safe. They cheered to their little god standing on the palace steps.
Spurius turned to the side. He saw Romulus who was still standing slightly behind, half-hidden in the shadow of a pillar.
In Spurius's eyes, Romulus was still the shy child who used to hide behind his mother's robe when meeting strangers. The boy who preferred reading papyrus scrolls to facing crowds.
"My Caesar," whispered Spurius softly.
The old man pointed his hand forward, gesturing for Romulus to take his place on the stage of history. "They are calling you. Go."
Romulus stared at Spurius for a moment, then stepped forward.
His purple silk rustled softly as he walked past Vitus and the spear bearer until he stood at the very front edge of the palace stairs. His figure was now fully visible to thousands of pairs of eyes down there.
The wave of sound grew even wilder.
Romulus froze. He had never felt this. All his life he only heard whispers of pity or insults of "Momyllus". But now? This sound was pure worship. Its energy hit his body like waves hitting a reef.
And inside his small heart that had cracked, something began to grow.
Fear and nervousness slowly faded, replaced by an intoxicating warm sensation. Power. Recognition.
Romulus began to enjoy it.
He raised his right hand. At first low and hesitant, as if he were touching the surface of water. But as the cheers grew louder answering his movement, his hand rose higher.
Until finally, the small hand that held a meat cleaver last night was now thrust high into the sky, wide open, accepting the worship of his subjects with the posture of a true conqueror.
As a historian living five hundred years after the event, I often wonder what was in Spurius Maecenas's mind as he stood beneath the shadow of the pillar that day.
In his journal, where the ink has now faded, Spurius did not write of pride. He did not write of victory cheers. He wrote of loss.
As he watched Romulus's small hand raised high accepting the worship of the people of Ravenna, Spurius realized that he was not witnessing the birth of a hero. He was witnessing the death of childhood. The boy who used to cry over a scraped knee while playing was gone, replaced by an icon, a living statue forged by trauma and blood. Spurius felt as if the ghost of Orestes was standing there, smiling sadly at him, entrusting a burden of the world that was too heavy for one life to bear.
And that burden began to spread.
The news of what happened in Ravenna on September 3, 476 AD did not walk; it flew.
The tidings spread like wildfire burning through dry brush in the dry season. Couriers spurred the fastest horses, changing mounts at every post without rest, carrying parchment scrolls whose contents would alter the map of the world.
Three days later, in the City of Rome, the heart of the dying world.
A messenger spurred his horse through the Flaminian Gate. The horse was foaming, its eyes wild with exhaustion, and finally collapsed right in front of the steps of the Curia Iulia in the Roman Forum.
Senators who were debating the best way to surrender to Odoacer scrambled out. They saw the courier crawling up the street, dust covering his face yet his eyes burning bright.
"Odoacer..." cried the courier with a hoarse voice echoing among the ancient pillars. "Odoacer is dead! Beheaded! Ravenna stands! The Caesar has risen!"
Silence swept the Forum. The senators, especially those who had most loudly advocated surrender, stood frozen in disbelief, one of them dropping his wine goblet until it shattered against the stone floor.
However, the quietest yet most profound reaction occurred miles away in the old St. Peter's Basilica.
Pope Simplicius, the Bishop of Rome, was kneeling in solemn prayer when the news reached him. For months the Holy Father had lived in fear that Odoacer, who followed the Arian heresy, would defile God's churches.
Hearing the news that the "Little God" had toppled the giant, Pope Simplicius did not cheer. He simply closed his old eyes, tears trickling down his white vestments.
"Digitus Dei est hic," he whispered trembling. This is the finger of God.
To the Pope, Romulus was not merely a general. He was a sword sent by Heaven to cleanse the land of Italy from heresy. And that day the Basilica bells rang not to toll for the dead, but to celebrate a miracle.
On the other side of the world in Dalmatia, Julius Nepos, the deposed emperor living in exile, received the news with a pale face. He slammed his silver cup against the wall in a mix of envy and disbelief. How could a boy he called a "little usurper" do what his legions could not?
While in Constantinople, Emperor Zeno of the East sat silent for a long time on his golden throne. He twisted his beard, his eyes narrowing as he gazed West. He realized the geopolitical chessboard had just been overturned by a player he had never accounted for.
Back in Ravenna, the euphoria of victory slowly shifted into cold post-war administration.
Romulus kept his promise to deliver justice, but Romulus's version of justice was not the blind slaughter he had ordered in his initial rage. On Spurius's advice and Vitus's cold calculation, Romulus altered his decision.
"Blood does not build walls," Romulus told his officers that afternoon. "We need muscle to rebuild what is broken."
In the palace courtyard, before five hundred trembling prisoners, Romulus offered a choice.
The choice was simple yet absolute: Baptism and Oath of Allegiance, or the Sword.
Those willing to renounce their Arianism, accept Catholic baptism according to the Nicene Creed, and swear allegiance under the Eagle banner would be pardoned. They would not be slaves but Auxilia, auxiliary troops serving directly under the Emperor's command to atone for their sins.
Of the five hundred remaining barbarian warriors, the fear of the "Child God" who had beheaded their giant king was so great that the logic of their tribal honor crumbled.
Four hundred and thirty men chose to kneel, bowing their heads to be sprinkled with holy water by the Bishop of Ravenna who had been summoned in haste. They kissed Romulus's ring, swearing by the Trinity to die for him.
Seventy others, the fanatical Odoacer loyalists and stubborn Arians, chose to spit on the ground.
That very night, seventy heads rolled into the fortress's outer moat. No ceremony. No graves. Romulus watched the execution from atop the wall without blinking.
The night grew late. Ravenna finally slept in peaceful silence for the first time in months.
However, there was no peace for the victor.
Inside his luxurious bedchamber, Romulus Augustus slept restlessly. Cold sweat soaked his forehead.
In his sleep, he was not in the palace. He was back in that red tent. The metallic smell of blood filled his nose so thick it made him want to retch.
He felt the weight of the meat cleaver in his hand. He heard that sound again.
CRACK.
The sound of Odoacer's neck bone snapping.
But in his dream, the head he severed was not Odoacer's. When he lifted the head from the burlap sack, the face staring at him with empty eyes was the face of his father, Orestes.
Then the face changed again. It became his own face. Old, wrinkled, and dead.
"You will die like us..." whispered the head. "This throne is a grave. You will not rule long. Winter is coming and the wolves will eat you."
"NO!"
Romulus jolted awake. The scream tore through the silence of the night, shrill and filled with pure terror.
It was not the shout of a war commander. It was the scream of a little child who had just seen a ghost beneath his bed.
His chest heaved, his eyes wide and wild, staring at the darkness of the empty room. Fear paralyzed him. To him, this dream was far more horrifying than when he beheaded Odoacer in the red tent. When he killed the barbarian king, his mind had been numb, detached from his body. But in this dream... he was fully aware. He felt the terror crawling on his skin, real and sharp.
BANG!
The chamber door was kicked open.
Spurius, hearing the scream from the hallway, burst in with his sword drawn, followed by two guards.
"Caesar?!" Spurius called out in panic.
There was no answer. Romulus was not standing proudly on the balcony.
On the massive bed, Spurius saw a small lump trembling violently under the thick silk covers. The Emperor of Rome was hiding.
Spurius signaled for the other guards to stay at the door, then he walked slowly toward the bed. He sheathed his sword so as not to frighten the boy further.
"Caesar?" he called softly. "Son?"
Slowly, the blanket was pulled back slightly. A pair of wet, red eyes peeked out. Romulus's face was deathly pale, messy with tears and snot.
Upon seeing Spurius's familiar old face, Romulus's defenses crumbled completely.
He threw off the covers and lunged at Spurius. His thin hands desperately clutched Spurius's tunic, burying his face into the old man's stomach, seeking protection from the monsters in his head.
"Spurius..." he sobbed, his voice broken and pitiful. "I saw Father... I saw myself on Odoacer's neck... He came... Odoacer came for me..."
The boy's body was racked by hysterical sobbing. He was no longer the Wolf of Ravenna. He was just a terrified orphan.
Spurius's old heart broke at the sight. He looked at Romulus clinging to him tightly, and then he cast aside all imperial protocol.
"Forgive me, Dominus," whispered Spurius.
He did not stand stiffly. Spurius sat on the edge of the bed, then pulled Romulus's head to his chest, holding him close just as a father would comfort his son after a nightmare. The old soldier's calloused hand stroked Romulus's hair, which was soaked in cold sweat.
"Sssshhh... it's alright," Spurius whispered repeatedly. "It was just shadows. I am here. We are here. Nothing can touch you."
Romulus continued to weep uncontrollably, his breath hitching, his knuckles turning white as he gripped Spurius's arm.
Spurius turned to the door, fixing one of the guards with a sharp, urgent gaze.
"Call a Bishop," Spurius ordered in a low voice. "Or a priest. Or any holy man who is still awake. Now."
The soldier nodded and ran out.
Minutes passed in that heartbreaking sobbing until an old priest in rough robes entered hurriedly. He carried a thick Bible in his hands.
The priest was stunned for a moment at the scene before him: The Emperor, conqueror of Odoacer, was curled up like a baby in the arms of his old protector.
Spurius looked at the priest, his eyes pleading for help. The guard at the door whispered something to the priest, explaining the night terror assaulting their master.
The priest nodded in understanding. He asked no questions. He walked slowly to the bedside, opened his book, and with a low, soothing baritone voice, he began to chant the Psalms in ancient Latin.
The priest did not merely read it; he sang it in a deep monotone, sounding like an ancient spell of protection to ward off evil spirits.
"Dominus regit me, et nihil mihi deerit..." (The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want...)
The voice flowed gently, filling the dark corners of the room with an invisible light.
"In loco pascuae ibi me collocavit. Super aquam refectionis educavit me..." (He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters...)
Spurius continued to stroke Romulus's back, following the rhythm of the chant.
Hearing that chant, Spurius, a hardened old veteran who had seen thousands of deaths, felt a sudden shiver run down his spine. He trembled. Under the sound of the holy verses sung like a mantra, Spurius felt the weight of all the madness they had just lived through crashing down on his shoulders at once. Death, blood, betrayal, and miracles... it all felt so heavy in this dim room.
"Nam, et si ambulavero in medio umbrae mortis, non timebo mala, quoniam tu mecum es..." (Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me...)
The priest raised his voice slightly, full of soul-stirring emphasis.
"Virga tua, et baculus tuus: ipsa me consolata sunt." (Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.)
Slowly, Romulus's sobs began to subside. His grip loosened. His ragged breathing began to steady. Romulus's heavy eyes finally closed. Physical and mental exhaustion, lulled by the holy chant, finally dragged him back to the realm of sleep, this time a dreamless one.
Spurius felt the boy's body grow heavy in his arms. He laid Romulus back onto the pillows with great care, then tucked the blanket up to his chin.
The priest closed his book and bowed respectfully, then retreated into the shadows, continuing to pray in silence.
Spurius remained sitting there, keeping watch by the bedside. He looked at his master's now peaceful face, then looked out the balcony window, toward the dark, vast world.
Inside this room, the demons in Romulus's head might have been quieted for tonight. But out there, real wolves were waiting.
Spurius let out a long sigh. He knew now.
The real battle had just begun.
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Author's Note:
Like Romulus, I've had my own battle to fight recently. I apologize for the lack of updates. I had to undergo surgery for a tumor. It was a tough fight, but I've recovered and I am ready to pick up the pen again.
To my loyal readers who waited: you have my deepest gratitude. Thank you for not abandoning the legion. Now, on to the next chapter!