Salona, Dalmatia. September 7, 476 AD.
The sun rose over the Adriatic Sea, casting golden light upon the white limestone walls of the magnificent Diocletian's Palace.
Unlike Ravenna, which drowned in swamp mist and despair, Salona was a glittering jewel. The air smelled of salt and pine, not mud and death. Yet for the man sitting on the marble terrace facing the sea, this beauty was merely a well-disguised prison.
Julius Nepos, the legitimate Western Roman Emperor, at least according to the laws of Constantinople and his own ego, sipped his morning wine with a sour face.
He was a man in his forties with noble features that were beginning to be eroded by the bitterness of life in exile. His purple robe was perfectly pressed and his beard trimmed to perfection, yet his eyes radiated the restlessness of a man who knew the world was slowly forgetting him.
"Are you ready, Scriba?" Nepos asked without turning. His eyes remained fixed on the western horizon toward an Italy he could not see.
A young scribe nodded nervously and dipped his quill into the ink. "Ready, Dominus."
"Address it to our Beloved Brother, Zeno, Augustus of the East," Nepos began dictating with a haughty, official tone.
"We write this letter from Our exile in Dalmatia with a heavy heart yet full of hope. The situation in Italy is spiraling out of control. That Barbarian Dog Odoacer now holds full power. And that Traitor Orestes along with his illegitimate son the little usurper, 'Momyllus', are merely puppets bringing shame to the Roman name."
Nepos paused for a moment, letting the scribe scratch those venomous words onto the parchment.
"Continue," Nepos ordered. "Tell him that We urge the East to immediately send a fleet. The Dalmatian Legions under the command of Comes Ovida are ready to move, but we need gold and ships from Constantinople. Do not let the West fall into the hands of savages or a child. Only Our restoration to the throne of Ravenna can save civilization. Signed, Julius Nepos, Augustus."
Nepos let out a long sigh after finishing the sentence. How many letters had he sent to Zeno? Ten? Twenty? And the reply was always the same, have patience brother for the East is busy.
Suddenly the morning calm was shattered.
The sound of running footsteps echoed in the marble corridor. Not the measured steps of a guard, but panic-stricken, hurried steps. Nepos frowned because he hated interruptions.
A palace guard appeared at the terrace door with a flushed face and gasping breath. Behind him was a man who looked utterly exhausted, a courier with clothes covered in travel dust who was about to collapse.
"Insolence!" snapped Nepos, rising from his chair. "Who allowed you to disturb the Emperor's breakfast?"
"Forgive me, Dominus," the guard said trembling. "This man just landed from a fast ship at the harbor. He brings news from Ravenna. He says it is urgent."
Nepos's eyes narrowed. "Ravenna?"
His heart beat faster. A wild hope rose in his mind. Had Orestes finally surrendered?
Nepos stared at the kneeling courier. "Speak. What happened in that snake pit?"
The courier lifted his face. His eyes still radiated the remnants of the shock he carried from Italy.
"Orestes is dead, Augustus," the courier said with a hoarse voice. "News regarding the exact cause is still conflicting, but it is confirmed he is lifeless."
Nepos smiled thinly. "Good news. One traitor dead. And? Has Odoacer now crowned himself King of Italy?"
The courier shook his head slowly. He swallowed hard as if doubting his words would be believed.
"No, Dominus. Odoacer... Odoacer is also dead."
Nepos's smile vanished. He stared at the courier with a confused gaze.
"Dead? How can that be?" Nepos asked. His tone was full of disbelief.
"Romulus Augustus, My Lord," the courier answered. "The boy infiltrated the camp, crawled through the filth, and beheaded Odoacer with his own hands."
Hearing that, blood rushed to Nepos's head. His face turned bright red. He stepped forward quickly, roughly grabbing the courier's collar, and shoved him hard until the courier's back slammed against the marble pillar.
"How dare you..." hissed Nepos.
Nepos's face was so close to the courier's. He did not scream, but whispered in a tone filled with terrifying rage.
"How dare you come here and tell such cheap lies to your Emperor!"
Nepos's grip tightened. Spittle flew onto the terrified courier's face as he unleashed his fury.
"Do you think I am a fool? A spoiled brat killing a giant? Tell me who paid you to spread this fairy tale? Odoacer? Or Orestes?"
"It is the truth, Dominus! I swear by God!" the courier answered stammering, trembling under the Emperor's grip. "Everyone in Italy already knows the news. Even the people at the harbor were talking about it when my ship docked!"
At that very moment, the terrace door burst open.
General Ovida, the military commander of Dalmatia, entered with hurried steps followed by several high-ranking officers. Ovida's face looked tense and he held a scroll in his hand.
Seeing his general arrive, Nepos released his grip. The poor courier slumped to the floor coughing.
Ovida stopped and gave a military salute. "Ave, Augustus."
Nepos did not return the salute. He massaged his throbbing temples, then walked back to his table. He grabbed a silver cup and filled it to the brim with wine, then drank it greedily.
"Punish this man, Ovida," Nepos said while pointing at the courier who was still gasping on the floor. "Hang him. He came and told me lies that Romulus has killed Odoacer."
Nepos slammed his cup down roughly. "Oh, Ovida... my head feels so heavy. What brings you here in such a rush?"
Ovida did not answer immediately. He glanced briefly at the courier on the floor, then looked at Nepos with a grave face.
"Dominus," said Ovida carefully. "We have just received an official message from our allied network in Rome."
Ovida stepped forward and extended the scroll in his hand.
"It seems what the courier said is true."
Nepos fell silent. His hand, about to pour more wine, stopped in mid-air. He looked at Ovida, searching for signs of a joke on his general's face, but he found only cold certainty.
With trembling hands, Nepos snatched the scroll from Ovida's hand. He tore it open and his eyes scanned line after line of the intelligence report.
Seconds passed. Nepos's breathing grew faster. His face turned from red to deathly pale, then back to red with unstoppable rage.
It was true. Romulus won. The boy had become a hero.
"ARGHHH!"
Nepos screamed in frustration. He grabbed his silver cup and hurled it with all his might against the wall.
CLANG!
The cup hit the stone wall, dented, and clattered onto the silent floor. Red wine splashed against the white wall like an ugly bloodstain.
Julius Nepos gasped for air. His chest heaved rapidly after the outburst of rage. He slumped back into his chair, covering his face with trembling hands.
General Ovida, still standing tall with an impassive face, slowly turned his head toward the guards and the scribe who stood frozen in fear in the corner of the room.
"Get out," Ovida ordered. His voice wasn't loud, but sharp. "Leave us. And take this trash out of my sight."
He pointed at the courier still lying on the floor. Two guards immediately dragged the poor man out, while the scribe frantically gathered his parchments and vanished behind the door.
The heavy double doors closed shut. Now, only the two most powerful men in Dalmatia remained on the spacious balcony, accompanied by the sound of waves and the smell of spilled wine.
Nepos lowered his hands. His face looked ten years older than it had just minutes ago.
"The army, Ovida..." Nepos's voice sounded hoarse, barely a whisper. "That dog Odoacer had tens of thousands of men. Heruli, Scirii, Torcilingi. They aren't farmers, they are killing machines. Where are they all? Did they flee north?"
Ovida shook his head slowly. He walked to his master's table, placing the intelligence scroll there.
"No one fled, Dominus."
"Then?"
"Neutralized," Ovida answered briefly. "Most were slaughtered in their sleep that night. Romulus gave no quarter. Their heads are now decorations along the gates of Ravenna."
Ovida paused, staring intently at his master.
"But the rest... the bad news is, the rest knelt."
Nepos looked up, his brow furrowed. "Knelt?"
"Romulus baptized them. Over four hundred barbarian veterans, the most savage ones, have now sworn allegiance under the Eagle's banner. They are no longer enemies, they are his Auxilia now. The boy didn't just kill the king, he stole the army."
Nepos laughed. A dry, bitter, hollow laugh. He leaned his head back against the chair, staring at the terrace ceiling painted with beautiful murals.
"He baptized dogs and turned them into pet wolves," Nepos muttered. "Clever. The little bastard is clever. Much cleverer than his stupid father."
Silence fell again. Nepos felt the walls of his magnificent palace closing in on him.
"So... what am I supposed to do now, Ovida?" asked Nepos. His tone dropped, sounding like a lost child. "Look at me. I'm trapped on this rock. Zeno? That bastard in the East won't send help. He can only send sweet letters, 'patience brother, patience'. Waiting for what? Waiting for me to rot?"
Nepos stared at his empty palms.
"The world is laughing at me, General. They see me as an emperor who can only sit, drink wine, while a fifteen-year-old boy does God's work in Italy."
Ovida didn't answer immediately. He walked calmly to the balcony railing, staring at the expanse of blue sea below. He was a pragmatic soldier. He didn't care about pride or the world's laughter. He only cared about winning.
"We can't attack by land," Ovida said suddenly, breaking the silence. "Through the Alps is too risky. Their morale is at an all-time high. If we send legions there now, our troops might just defect to that 'Giant Slayer'."
"So I am finished then," Nepos cut in bitterly.
"Not yet," Ovida countered. He turned, facing Nepos. "Look out there, Augustus. What do you see?"
Nepos turned lazily toward the sea. "Water. The sea. What about it?"
"The Adriatic Sea," Ovida corrected. "Who controls this sea?"
Nepos paused for a moment. "We do. The Dalmatian Fleet."
"Exactly," Ovida said. A thin, cold smile formed on his lips. "Ravenna is a strong fortress, true. The swamps protect it from the land. But swamps don't grow wheat."
Nepos blinked. He began to catch the drift of his general's conversation.
"Italy is ruined, Dominus. The fields in the north were burned by war. Their granaries are empty. The people of Ravenna may cheer today, but tomorrow? Tomorrow they will be hungry. They survive on grain sent from Sicily and Africa through this very sea."
Ovida stepped closer, his voice lowering, coaxing like a devil.
"Romulus has a sword, but he has no ships. We have sixty war triremes in the harbor of Salona. We can blockade the Adriatic."
Nepos straightened his back slowly. The light in his eyes that had been extinguished now ignited again. Not with hope, but with cruelty.
"You mean..."
"We strangle them," Ovida cut in coldly. "Don't let a single grain ship enter the port of Ravenna or Rome. We lock that 'Wolf' in his own cage. Let's see how long the people will worship their little god when their children's bellies start to swell from hunger."
Ovida looked Nepos straight in the eye.
"Swords win battles, Dominus. But hunger? Hunger ends wars."
Nepos was silent for a long time. He imagined the faces of the Italian people who once adored him, now turning into gaunt faces begging him for mercy. He imagined Romulus, that arrogant boy, panicking as he watched his people die slowly.
It was the perfect revenge.
Nepos's smile returned. This time, a terrifying smile.
"You are right, Ovida," whispered Nepos. "If they love that Wolf so much... let them see if the Wolf can feed them."
Nepos stood up, brushing wine stains off his robe with a graceful motion that was confident once again.
"Prepare the fleet," Nepos commanded. "Blockade this sea. Sink anything that floats towards Italy. I want Ravenna crawling and begging at my feet before winter ends."
The order from Salona was executed with cold, lethal efficiency.
Within days, the Adriatic Sea, usually the lifeline for Italy, transformed into a mass grave. The Dalmatian Fleet did not move in one massive, easily spotted formation. Instead, General Ovida broke his naval force into small groups. They were packs of sea wolves, fast and vicious, hiding behind the thousands of islets and rocky coves along the Illyrian coast.
Their strategy was simple yet devastating: Ambush at the Strait of Otranto.
Every grain ship sailing from Sicily or North Africa, its wooden hull heavy with precious cargo of grain to feed the hungry mouths of Rome and Ravenna, had to pass through the narrow gap between the heel of Italy's boot and the Greek mainland.
That was where Ovida waited.
For the merchants, the horror arrived not with the sound of war trumpets, but with silence. Dalmatian triremes would emerge from the dawn mist, their oars slicing the water with a terrifying rhythm. Before the sluggish merchant ships could turn their bows, iron grappling hooks were thrown, and fires were lit.
Ovida did not loot the grain. Looting took time. Nepos's orders were clear: Sink it.
Tons of golden wheat, which was worth more than pure gold in wartime, were spilled senselessly into the sea. It was left rotting at the bottom of the Adriatic while the crews were left floating as corpses of warning.
The impact on Italy was felt almost instantly.
At the Port of Classis, the maritime gateway of Ravenna that was usually bustling with noise, silence began to creep in like a disease. The docks, usually crowded with stevedores hauling burlap sacks, were now empty. Giant wooden cranes stood still like the skeletons of starved monsters.
News spread faster than plague. "No ships came in this week," whispered merchants in the market. "The price of bread has doubled since this morning."
The euphoria of the victory over Odoacer, barely a week old, began to evaporate. It was replaced by a primal anxiety: Hunger.
Inside the Palace of Ravenna, the reality of administration hit Romulus Augustus harder than any physical blow.
Romulus had won his military war. He had secured the loyalty of the legions and purged his enemies on land. But Romulus had forgotten one bitter truth about the geography of his empire: Ravenna was a swamp city.
The land surrounding Ravenna was salty mud, unfit for farming. The city was a perfect defensive fortress because it was hard to attack by land, but as a city, it was a giant parasite completely dependent on supplies from the outside. Without the "Annona" or state grain dole coming from the sea, Ravenna was merely a beautiful marble tomb.
In the map room, Spurius and the remaining civil officials stared at the inventory lists with pale faces. The numbers on the parchment did not lie. Grain stocks in the city granaries were only enough for three weeks, perhaps a month if rationed strictly.
They had gold looted from Odoacer. They had swords. They had loyal soldiers. But none of those things could be eaten.
Romulus, the Young Wolf, now realized the fatal flaw in his power. He was a king on land, a master of soil and blood. But at sea? At sea, he had nothing. The Italian fleet had long since rotted away, its wood eaten by worms, its sailors long gone.
Julius Nepos, from his distant throne across the sea, had found the only way to kill a wolf without ever touching it:
He closed the path to the water, and left the wolf to die of thirst in its own den.
The effects of the stranglehold applied by Nepos were not felt only in Ravenna. To the south, inside the giant carcass named Rome, panic began to spread faster than fire.
Although Rome was no longer the administrative capital, the city was still home to hundreds of thousands of hungry mouths. For centuries, the people of Rome had been taught one simple law that whoever sat on the imperial throne, whether tyrant or saint, had a sacred duty to feed them.
When grain ships from Africa and Sicily failed to arrive at the port of Ostia for fear of being intercepted by the Dalmatian fleet, the price of bread in Rome's markets skyrocketed overnight.
The old Senators, wealthy men who still wore white togas amidst the ruins of past glory, began to grow restless. They did not care who held the sword, whether it was Odoacer the Barbarian or Romulus the Boy. They only cared about order. And order in Rome was bought with grain.
So letters began to flow to Ravenna.
These were not letters of praise for Romulus's victory, but letters of demand filled with tones of subtle diplomatic threats.
"To His Majesty Augustus in Ravenna," read one of the letters from the Praefectus Urbi, the City Prefect of Rome. "The people are growing restless. The warehouses in Ostia are empty. If grain does not arrive within three days, we cannot guarantee the city's safety. Mobs have started gathering in the Forum, and they are not shouting your name with praise, but with demands."
This political pressure hit Romulus from one side, while social reality hit him from the other.
In the streets of Ravenna itself, the new order built by Romulus began to crack.
Hunger made people desperate. Patriotism could not fill the stomach of a crying child. In the slums of the harbor district, a bakery was stormed by an angry mob in broad daylight. They no longer feared soldier patrols.
"We need food!" screamed an old woman while throwing a stone at the palace guards trying to disperse the crowd.
Glass shattered. Doors were kicked in. Flour scattered on the muddy streets like dirty snow and was fought over by skinny hands clawing at each other.
Seeing the chaos, Spurius did not just stand by. He ordered troops to intervene. This time it was not just the barbarian Auxilia deployed, but units of native Roman Legions. These veteran soldiers of Latin blood, with gleaming lorica armor and high discipline, marched in tight formation cutting through the crowd.
The presence of these native Roman soldiers had a different psychological impact. The people might hate barbarian mercenaries, but they still held fear and respect for the Roman Legions which were symbols of the state.
With locking shields, the legionaries pushed back the mob without needing to draw swords, while Auxilia units guarded the flanks of the street. Order was restored for a moment, but the smell, the metallic scent of blood and the sweat of fear, still lingered in the air.
Romulus stood on his palace balcony. He watched thin black smoke rising from the lower districts. In his hand, he crushed the letter from the Roman Senate until it was crumpled.
He just realized that his enemy this time had no neck to sever.
Odoacer was a real monster because he could be killed with a knife. But hunger? Hunger was a ghost. Hunger was an invisible enemy that infiltrated every home and incited his people to turn against their own king.
Romulus realized he was walking on a thin rope. If he did not do something, and do it quickly, he would not die killed by Nepos's army. He would die torn apart by his own starving people, exactly as planned by that old emperor across the sea.
He needed a solution. And he knew that a sword alone would not be enough to cleave the sea that surrounded him.