Private Chapel of the Palace of Ravenna. September 20, 476 AD.
17 Days after the Death of Odoacer.
The silence inside the crypta or underground chamber of the Palace Chapel felt far heavier than the marble stones supporting its ceiling. The air here was cold, smelling of burnt beeswax and the stinging scent of incense that was deliberately lit in excess to mask other unwanted odors.
Romulus Augustus stood frozen before a simple stone sarcophagus. No gold carvings, no statues of victory. Only a granite slab inscribed: FLAVIUS ORESTES, MAGISTER MILITUM.
The body had only arrived two weeks ago. A day after the victory over Odoacer, Spurius sent a special task force to scour the muddy streets of Placentia where Orestes was reported dead from heart failure.
What they found was no sight for a boy. The father's body was a ruin, found by the roadside, half-buried in drying mud. It had been trampled by thousands of feet of Odoacer's barbarian troops marching toward Ravenna without realizing they were stepping on the corpse of the former ruler of the West. His face was barely recognizable, and his war armor had been stripped by looters. Yet, the signet ring on his swollen finger remained, the only identifier left.
Despite the wretched condition, Romulus was grateful his father could be brought home. At least, he was not rotting in the bellies of crows.
"He looked small," whispered Romulus, his voice bouncing softly off the stone walls. "In my memory, he always looked like a giant. But inside that stone box... he is just broken bone and flesh."
Behind him stood the imposing figure of Spurius Maecenas. The former soldier now wore silver musculata armor with a red cloak, the mark of his new rank as Praefectus Praetorio or Head of the Praetorian Guard. Beside him stood four of the best Scholae, holding spears in full alert.
"Death takes everything from us, Dominus," Spurius replied with a low, respectful voice. "Even from a giant."
Romulus touched the cold stone surface. No tears today. His tears had run dry in Odoacer's tent that night. Only emptiness remained, and the weight of the crown now feeling real, pressing against his temples.
Heavy footsteps were heard descending the stone stairs, breaking the silence. Two garrison soldiers appeared, panting. They were about to shout, but Spurius raised his hand, giving a sharp signal for silence.
Spurius stepped forward, blocking their view of the mourning Emperor.
"What is it?" whispered Spurius sharply. "Can you not see the Emperor is with his father?"
"Forgive us, Prefect," one soldier whispered nervously. "But General Vitus insists. The Council Meeting in the Strategy Hall has begun. The City Administrators are... emotional. They require the Emperor's presence."
Spurius glanced briefly at Romulus's small back which was still bowed. He knew the boy needed time. He knew the weight of losing a father at fifteen, only to be forced to lead a crumbling world a week later.
"Let them wait," said Spurius coldly. "The world will not end in five minutes. Let the Emperor have his moment."
The soldier nodded fearfully and retreated into the shadows. Spurius stood tall again, letting Romulus drown in the silence for a few more minutes. Only when Romulus took a deep breath and turned around did Spurius signal his troops.
"Ready, Caesar?" asked Spurius gently.
Romulus nodded weakly. His face looked pale and his eyes hollow from lack of sleep. "Let us go, Spurius. The living are calling."
They walked out of the chapel toward the main palace building. The September sunlight felt blinding after the darkness of the tomb. Ravenna had changed. Walls damaged by the siege were being repaired. The metallic smell of blood in the palace courtyard had been replaced by the scent of camphor and fresh paint.
But behind the physical renovations, a new tension choked the city's neck.
It had been five days since merchant ships stopped entering the port of Classis.
It had been five days since Julius Nepos announced a total blockade of the Adriatic Sea.
And it had been two days since the price of wheat in the market tripled.
The small group arrived before the double doors of the Strategy Hall. The guard opened the massive doors, revealing a spacious room recently cleared of the debris of previous battles. A large map of Italy was spread across the central table.
In there, General Vitus stood red-faced, arguing loudly with three men in civil robes, the Logistics Administrators and the Prefect of Annona or Food Official.
When Romulus stepped inside, he looked in stark contrast to the room filled with muscular men and cunning politicians. He was just a skinny boy with a purple cloak slightly too big for his shoulders. His steps were hesitant. His eyes moved wildly, scanning the room, confused about where to stand or what to do. He looked like a schoolboy who had walked into the wrong classroom.
"The Emperor enters the room!" cried the doorkeeper.
The argument stopped instantly. Vitus and the administrators turned in unison. Military discipline took over; they struck their fists against their chests and bowed.
"Ave, Augustus!" they shouted together.
Romulus jumped, startled by the loud sound. He nodded awkwardly, his hands crumpling the edge of his cloak. He stood frozen near the door, unsure where to move.
Spurius, walking behind him, leaned in and whispered very softly, barely visible, "The chair at the end, Dominus. At the head of the table."
With a face flushed with embarrassment, Romulus walked quickly across the room, guided by Spurius walking by his side like a shepherd guiding a lost sheep. Vitus and the administrators watched with a gaze hard to interpret, a mix of respect for the title of Emperor, and doubt for the boy behind the title.
Romulus sat on the large ebony wood chair. His feet barely touched the floor. He placed his hands on the table, then looked at them one by one with a "clueless" stare, big eyes, slightly frightened, and full of ignorance.
"P... please continue," squeaked Romulus softly.
That was all it took. As if Romulus were merely a symbolic statue required to validate the meeting, they immediately ignored him and returned to their heated debate.
"You are mad, Vitus!" exclaimed a fat man with an oily face. It was Manlius, the Head Food Warehouse Administrator. "We cannot fight a naval blockade! We have no ships!"
"So what is your plan, Manlius?" retorted Vitus with a booming voice, his hand slamming the map table right over the image of the Adriatic Sea. "Begging to Nepos? Letting him strangle us slowly?"
"The wheat stock in the main warehouse is enough for only twelve more days!" cut in Manlius, cold sweat dripping down his temples. "Twelve days, General! After that, the people will start eating rats, and the day after that, they will eat us! We must send envoys. We must negotiate."
Another administrator, a thin old man named Cassian, stepped forward. He placed his finger on the northern part of the map, past the Alps.
"What about Gundobad?" proposed Cassian hesitantly. "The Kingdom of Burgundy in the north. They are indeed barbarians, but they are Arian Christians, just like the late Ricimer. Maybe... maybe if we offer an alliance or the gold looted from Odoacer, they would be willing to send wheat via the Alpine land route?"
"Burgundy?" Vitus snorted roughly, as if the suggestion were a bad joke. "Gundobad is the uncle of Glycerius, the emperor deposed by Emperor Romulus's father. He hates us. If we send envoys there bearing gold, he will take the gold, behead our envoys, and send their heads back in empty grain sacks."
"Besides," Spurius added with a heavy voice from beside Romulus's chair. "Have you forgotten who controls the road to the north now?"
Spurius leaned forward, pointing to the northern Italian border area on the map.
"Thousands of Odoacer's troops who survived the massacre in the marsh did not all die," said Spurius grimly. "Most of their cavalry managed to flee north, returning to Noricum and Pannonia. Intelligence reports say they are regrouping there. They are licking their wounds, looting border villages for food."
Manlius's face grew paler hearing that.
"So you mean..." Manlius's voice choked. "We are not only starving, but the remnants of those monsters are still out there?"
"Precisely," answered Spurius coldly. "They are like wounded wolves. Right now, they fear the 'legend' of Emperor Romulus. But once they know we are weak from hunger, once they know no legions are chasing them to the border, they will realize that this roaring lion is actually toothless. They will gather their strength and return for round two."
A suffocating silence descended upon the room. Hope for help from the north vanished. The threat of a counterattack loomed instead.
"South," someone muttered from the corner. All eyes turned.
It was a young Senator named Valerius. "What about the Church? Rome? Pope Simplicius has charity granaries. The Church controls farmlands in Sicily that might have escaped Nepos's blockade."
"The Church?"
The voice came from the Archbishop of Ravenna, who had been standing silently by the window. The old man in white robes stepped forward, his face gaunt and eyes sunken.
"Do not involve the Holy Father in your stomach affairs, Senator," said the Bishop quietly but firmly. "You think the Vatican is feasting? The last letter I received from Rome stated that Pope Simplicius himself now eats only once a day. He fasts more often so his ration of bread can be distributed to the beggars on the Basilica steps."
The Bishop stared sharply at the Logistics Administrator.
"The Church has given everything. Golden chalices melted down, lands mortgaged. We have no secret food reserves. If you want a miracle, pray for manna to fall from the sky like in the days of Moses. Because from the earth, the Church is dry."
Doors of hope closed one by one.
North held by enemies.
East blockaded by sea.
South starving.
And the Church had run out of power.
Vitus massaged his throbbing temples. He stared at the map as if hoping the ink lines there could turn into bread.
The atmosphere in the Strategy Hall tightened. The map of Italy spread across the table seemed like a complex chessboard where every pawn moved only met a dead end.
Manlius, the Food Warehouse Administrator, shook his head in frustration. His oily face looked increasingly sweaty, not because of the room's heat but because of the heat of the pressure he felt looking at the blockade lines on the map.
Rome, oh Rome.
The city that was once mighty, whose milk from her breast once nursed lion cubs until they grew to conquer the world, was now just old bones wrapped in wrinkled skin.
To any historian looking back, it is truly pathetic how easily this giant fell into starvation just because its sea was closed. However, that was the curse of a luxury that lasted too long. For the last hundred years, Italy had stopped being a mother who planted her own food. The fertile lands in the Po Valley, in Campania, to Etruria, were no longer used to plant wheat for the common people. Those lands had turned into holiday villas for Senators, beautiful flower gardens, and vineyards for feasting.
They traded hoes for wine glasses and let the overseas colonial provinces, Africa and Sicily, fill their bellies. Italy had become a fat parasite that forgot how to hunt.
And when war came, the destruction became perfect.
For the last two years, the Po Valley in the north, the only remaining granary, had been turned into a mass grave. Odoacer's troops and the troops of Orestes had plowed that land not with iron plows, but with warhorse hooves. Villages were burned to ash, farmers kidnapped or killed, and irrigation destroyed. What was not destroyed by the fire of war was now dying by the cold breath of the Alps.
September had ended. Frost began to fall, killing the remains of crops, while the meager summer harvest had long been looted by Odoacer to feed his troops before he died.
Now, when Julius Nepos closed the tap from the sea, Italy woke up in the most brutal way. Without grain ships from Africa, the Conqueror of the World was just a beggar dying on his own golden throne.
Vitus, who understood this bitter reality better than anyone, finally slammed his sword scabbard against the edge of the table. The sound of clashing metal jolted everyone from their daydreams.
"Enough wailing!" cried Vitus.
The General stood tall, his eyes sweeping across the frightened faces of the civil administrators.
"If the land cannot feed us, and the sea is closed by the enemy, then we must dissect that sea with a sword."
Vitus stepped to the front of the map, placing wooden pieces representing troops.
"Listen carefully. We have four hundred elite Scholae cavalry. We have one thousand five hundred veteran infantry of Legio Italica. And do not forget, we have four hundred and thirty barbarian Auxilia troops, former subordinates of Odoacer who have been baptized and sworn allegiance."
"Two thousand three hundred men," calculated Vitus quickly. "That is our real combat power right now. The rest are just useless city militia."
"Then what is your plan with two thousand men?" asked Manlius skeptically. "Ordering them to drink the seawater until it is dry?"
"We will build ships," answered Vitus firmly. "The pine forest north of Ravenna is still dense. I will mobilize every soldier, every carpenter, every slave who can hold an axe. We will build an emergency fleet. Light galleys, war rafts, anything that can float and carry fire arrows."
"How long?" pressed Cassian.
"Twenty days," answered Vitus. "In twenty days, we will have enough of a mosquito fleet to storm the Nepos blockade at night."
"Twenty days?!" cried Manlius hysterically. "The people will die in twelve days! You ask us to wait three weeks while you play carpenter?"
The fat administrator hit the table. His face was red with anger and fear.
"No! I do not agree! We, the Civil Administration Council, reject this crazy plan! We will not allow city funds to be used for this suicide project!"
Vitus narrowed his eyes. "You refuse?"
"Yes, we refuse!" challenged Manlius, supported by the nods of other administrators. "And if you force it, we will take to the streets. We will tell the people that General Vitus wants to let them starve for his war ambitions. We will mobilize the masses to block the shipyard!"
The atmosphere turned terrifying in an instant. The threat of mobilizing the masses was a death card in Roman politics. It was a threat of civil riot.
"You dare threaten the Roman military with rebellion, Manlius?" Vitus's voice lowered, dangerous like a tiger's growl.
"I speak in the name of the people!" retorted Manlius, though his voice trembled slightly.
SHING!
Without warning, Vitus drew his gladius. The iron gleamed coldly under the oil lamp light.
That movement triggered a chain reaction. In every corner of the room, Vitus's subordinate officers and Scholae guards simultaneously drew their weapons. The sound of metal scraping against leather scabbards filled the room, creating a symphony of real threats.
The civil administrators backed away in fear, some crashing into chairs until they toppled over.
"Then starting this second," said Vitus, the tip of his sword pointing at Manlius's chest, "emergency law applies. The Civil Council is dissolved. The military takes full control over logistics, treasury, and law in Ravenna. Anyone hindering the war effort will be considered a traitor and executed on the spot."
"You... you are mad!" screamed Manlius, his face pale but still trying to fight back.
He pointed a trembling finger toward the end of the table where Romulus sat quietly.
"You dare declare a military coup in front of the Emperor?! It is the Emperor's prerogative to declare martial law! Not you, Vitus! You are not the Emperor! You are just a guard dog!"
"The Emperor is still a child!" snapped Vitus, his patience gone. "Someone has to make difficult decisions so that this child still has a kingdom to lead tomorrow morning!"
"Traitor!" shouted Cassian.
"Coward!" retorted an officer.
"Tyrant!"
"Corrupt bureaucrats!"
The room exploded into chaos. Administrators and officers screamed at each other, cursed, and spat. Swords were raised while civilians threw rolls of paper and stationery as weapons. Vitus looked ready to order a massacre in the meeting room. A coup and a small civil war seemed about to break out in mere seconds before the throne.
"SILENCE!"
The voice exploded like thunder, not from Vitus, not from Romulus.
Spurius Maecenas stepped into the middle of the room, separating Vitus and Manlius with his old body. The veteran's face was red with anger at seeing the shameful behavior of Rome's leaders.
"SILENCE EVERYONE!" shouted Spurius again, his usually calm voice now booming with authority.
"Calm down, men of Rome!" Spurius stared at Vitus, then turned to stare at Manlius with a sharp, piercing gaze.
"You call yourselves Romans? Look at you! You act like a bunch of drunk barbarians in a tavern! Drawing swords at each other, threatening each other, while the enemy laughs watching us from the sea!"
Spurius pointed toward Romulus who sat frozen at the end of the table.
"Behave like Romans before your Emperor! Where is your honor? Where is your discipline? Is the blood of Odoacer that was spilled not enough that you want to spill the blood of your own brothers on this floor?"
Spurius's words hit them like a physical slap. Vitus slowly lowered his sword, realizing he had almost crossed the line. Manlius looked down, regulating his ragged breathing. The other officers slowly sheathed their weapons, though their hands remained alert on their sword hilts.
Silence returned to rule the room. Without needing to be ordered, that anger slowly receded, replaced by deep shame.
One by one, with stiff movements, the grown men returned to their chairs of their own accord. Vitus sheathed his sword roughly and then threw his body into the chair. Manlius fixed his messy robe and sat while wiping cold sweat from his neck.
Spurius took a long breath, then turned to the servants and guards who stood trembling in the corner of the room.
"Wine," ordered Spurius flatly but firmly. "Bring more wine here. Fill their glasses to the brim. Hot heads need cooling before we speak again."
The servants rushed to pour the red liquid into silver goblets. After a few sips, the atmosphere became slightly calmer.
Now, all eyes turned to the end of the table. Staring at Romulus Augustus, the fifteen-year-old boy who had only watched the moral collapse of his officials in silence. They waited to see if the boy would cry in fear or finally say something.
The wine had been poured, yet the bitter taste lingered on their tongues.
Romulus Augustus, who had been a silent spectator in his oversized chair all this time, slowly stood up. His legs trembled, not from fear, but from the weight of the decision that had just crashed onto his small shoulders. He gazed at the weary faces before him, the faces of men ready to die, and the faces of men afraid of death.
"So..." Romulus's voice sounded hoarse, breaking the silence following Vitus's outburst. "So is that the only way? So that the people do not starve, I must surrender my throne to Julius Nepos?"
The boy looked at Spurius, then turned to Vitus.
"If I surrender this crown, Nepos will lift the blockade, will he not? The people will eat. And perhaps... perhaps he will spare your lives as a condition of my surrender."
Hearing that, Vitus stood up immediately, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor.
"No, Caesar!" refused Vitus harshly. His eyes were wild, filled with the fire of nearly fanatical loyalty. "I almost made that mistake before. I almost surrendered to despair when Odoacer came, but never again. We swore allegiance to the blood of Orestes. We will die for our Caesar, not watch our Caesar kneel to a ruler across the sea!"
Romulus looked at Vitus with teary eyes, touched by that loyalty. But then he turned to the other side of the table.
He looked at Manlius, Cassian, and the civil administrators.
They did not speak. They did not shout "Long live Caesar" like Vitus. Instead, they looked down, avoiding the boy's gaze, and slowly shook their heads. A sign of rejection. For them, war was madness, but surrendering to Nepos was also uncertainty. They were trapped in total despair.
Romulus took a deep breath, wiping the doubt from his face. He looked back at his general.
"Vitus," called Romulus, his voice now more stable. "Answer me honestly as a soldier, not as a loyalist. If you manage to build your small ships in twenty days, are fire arrows alone enough to destroy the enemy ships?"
Vitus fell silent. His jaw hardened. He knew the reality of naval combat. Nepos's Trireme and Liburnian ships were covered in wet hides to resist fire, and their hulls were thick.
The General was reluctant to answer, not wanting to break the spirit he had just built. But before his young emperor's sharp gaze, he could not lie.
"It is... difficult, Caesar," admitted Vitus with a heavy voice. "Very difficult. But the possibility exists. And however small, it is worth trying rather than dying slowly."
Romulus nodded slowly, as if he had expected that answer.
"How many food transport ships or civilian ships are left in the city port right now?" asked Romulus suddenly.
Manlius, slightly surprised to be asked, immediately opened his notes nervously. "Uh, there are about thirty floating granaries, Your Majesty. And maybe a dozen small merchant ships trapped unable to leave. But they are all empty."
"Then we will use those," said Romulus flatly.
Vitus and Spurius looked at each other, confused.
"Forgive me, Caesar," interrupted Vitus, his tone trying to be patient like explaining to a small child. "Civilian and transport ships are slow. They are fat and cannot maneuver. Even if those ships can carry many troops, it is useless. Nepos's warships will chase them down easily and sink them before we can get close to loose arrows."
"True, Dominus," confirmed Spurius, stepping forward slightly. "At sea, speed is life. Using merchant ships to fight warships is the same as ordering a cow to fight a wolf."
Romulus was silent for a moment. But instead of being disappointed, his lips actually curled into a thin smile. A strange smile, one that felt out of place in this dire situation.
"That is good," muttered Romulus. "A cow against a wolf. Exactly like that game."
"Game?" asked Spurius, confused.
"Do you remember the villa gardens, Spurius? Not so long ago," said Romulus, his eyes wandering as if seeing a distant past. "Mother used to take me to play in the garden. We played a story about 'The Unfortunate Merchant'. Mother would pretend to be a rich merchant lost in the forest, walking with a limp and slow, luring bandits to come out of hiding. When the bandits got close out of greed, only then did Mother pull a wooden dagger from under her cloak."
Romulus looked back at the map on the table, his finger pointing at Nepos's armada.
"Sometimes we do not need to chase them, General. Sometimes, we just need to make them come to us."
Romulus leaned his body forward, his eyes twinkling slyly.
"We fill those slow ships with your best troops. We rig ragged merchant sails. We let those ships look panicked, look like ships trying to escape carrying the last treasures of Ravenna. We lure the enemy ships to come close because of their greed."
Vitus was stunned for a moment hearing the idea. A brilliant idea, but it had a fatal flaw.
"But Your Majesty," argued Vitus, shaking his head. "Even if we succeed in luring them close, we still cannot ambush them with just swords and ordinary fire arrows. When they realize it is a trap, their Triremes will immediately turn and ram our hulls with their bronze rostrums. Their ship prows are indeed designed to puncture and split wooden ships. We will sink along with them."
"We will not use arrows, General," said Romulus calmly.
"Then what?" asked Vitus in frustration. "Throwing stones?"
"We will use God's Fire," answered Romulus.
Silence.
In the corner of the room, the Archbishop who had just been silently watching, suddenly raised his head. His eyes widened, as if pieces of an ancient puzzle were coming together in his head.
"God's Fire, Your Majesty?" asked the Bishop with a trembling voice. "Do you... do you mean that..."
"Fire that burns on water," cut in Romulus.
Without explaining further, Romulus turned toward the entrance. He did not call Spurius. He instead signaled a common guard soldier standing in the shadow of a pillar. The soldier carried a sling leather bag that looked old and dull.
Spurius frowned. He recognized that bag. It was the bag saved from the sewer. But he did not know that Romulus had ordered another guard to bring it to this room. Even he, the Head of the Guard, had been deceived by this boy.
The soldier stepped forward and handed the bag to Romulus.
With his small hands, Romulus undid the fragile leather ties. He reached inside, and pulled out a thick vellum scroll whose surface was covered in dry mud stains and spots of dried sewer water.
Romulus did not open it. He only held it up for a moment, then threw it onto the middle of the map table.
The scroll flew through the air.
Time seemed to slow down for everyone in the room.
The old leather scroll spun through the air, heavy with destiny, before landing with a dull thud right on the image of the Adriatic Sea.
In the silence of the room, that soft thud sounded like a thunderclap.
And now, all eyes gazed at the scroll, waiting for what secrets slept within.