The sun had shifted to the west, sending long beams of orange light piercing through the high windows of the Strategy Hall. The remains of lunch, consisting of hard bread and dry cheese, still lay on the edge of the table, barely touched. The appetite of the men in the room had vanished, replaced by a gripping curiosity.
The council members, both civil and military, now sat in a different kind of silence. It was no longer the silence of despair like this morning, but the silence of anticipation. Their eyes were fixed on a new figure who had just been summoned.
He was Theron.
The man was neither a palace official nor a military officer. He was merely a middle-aged man of Greek descent paid by the city for dirty but vital jobs. Theron was the head of the workshop responsible for maintaining the ballista springs on the city walls and repairing the lead water system beneath the palace that often leaked.
However, his shabby outward appearance was deceiving. Few people knew that Theron was a gem cast in the mud. Behind his rough work tunic, he was a learned scholar. Decades ago, before the storm of war separated the fates of East and West, Theron had formally studied in Alexandria, Egypt. In that city of libraries, under the guidance of masters who guarded the remnants of ancient scientific glory, he studied fluid mechanics and chemia or alchemy. He was an intellectual forced to become a plumber to survive in the barbaric West.
For nearly an hour, Theron had been sitting at the end of the table, bowing his head to study the old leather scroll Romulus had thrown. His rough, oil-stained fingers traced every line of ancient Greek writing and the intricate diagrams on the vellum with the precision of an academic. Occasionally he muttered to himself, his eyes widening, then frowning, then shaking his head in disbelief.
Vitus began to look impatient. The General tapped his fingers on the hilt of his sword, but Spurius held him back with a signal from his eyes to remain calm.
Finally, Theron raised his head. He lowered the thick chunk of polished beryl crystal he had been holding close to his eye to magnify the text, revealing a pair of eyes red and watery from the strain. His hands trembled slightly as he placed the stone back on the table, treating the scroll as if it were made of thin glass that could explode at any moment.
He stared at Romulus with a gaze of mixed emotions, between fear, awe, and confusion.
"Your Majesty Caesar," Theron's voice was hoarse, but held the measured intonation of a scholar. "Where... where did you get this? This document... the writing style... this is unmistakable. It comes from the ancient schools of Alexandria. It must have been copied from the Great Library before the fires consumed it, a text that should only be known to the High Alchemists."
Romulus, still sitting calmly in his large chair, looked at the old man.
"The origin is not important, Master Theron," answered Romulus coldly. "I myself do not know the meaning of the complicated Greek writing inside it. But the man who entrusted this to me... Elaphius... called it 'God's Fire'. He told me my father hid it in the archives for years, fearing its power. The question is, what do you understand about what is inside it?"
Theron swallowed hard. He stood up slowly with a slightly hunched back, the respectful posture of a commoner before rulers. He turned the scroll so the diagrams faced toward Vitus and the administrators.
"This is not just a recipe, General. This is a nightmare written on paper," began Theron.
He pointed to a drawing of a long tube with fire spewing from its tip.
"We all know about Naphtha. Sticky black oil that seeps from the ground in the deserts of Persia and Mesopotamia. Roman legions have used it for centuries in clay pots to burn enemy fortifications. But ordinary Naphtha has a weakness. Naphtha fire can be extinguished with water, sand, or vinegar."
Theron took a deep breath before continuing his explanation.
"But what is written here... this is Naphtha that has been purified and mixed with ingredients that, honestly, during my studies in Alexandria, I thought were only myths of mad alchemists."
"What is the mixture?" asked Vitus curiously.
"Yellow sulfur to accelerate combustion, that is normal," explained Theron, his dirty finger pointing one by one to the ingredients in the recipe. "Then there is Bitumen or liquid asphalt to make it sticky like tree sap, so the fire sticks to skin, wood, and ship sails without being able to come off."
Theron stopped at one Greek word written boldly in ink stain.
"But the key is here. The third ingredient. Calx Viva."
"Lime?" asked Manlius confusedly, his tone slightly dismissive. "Building lime?"
Theron shook his head quickly, his face serious. He knew Manlius was a high official, so he chose his words carefully but firmly.
"Not the slaked lime found in the walls of your house, Master Manlius," corrected Theron. "This is Quicklime. Pure Calcium Oxide freshly burned from a high-temperature kiln. This substance... this substance has very dangerous properties."
Theron looked at everyone in the room to ensure they listened to this most important point.
"Quicklime is very thirsty for water. If it comes into contact with water, it does not extinguish. On the contrary, it 'drinks'. It reacts with water violently, releasing incredibly high heat in an instant, hot enough to boil water and ignite the Naphtha and Sulfur automatically."
The room went silent instantly. Vitus, as a military man, was the first to realize the terrifying implication of that explanation.
"Wait," said Vitus softly. "You mean..."
"Yes, General," interrupted Theron, his eyes shining with the terrifying enthusiasm of a scientist. "This weapon does not need fire to be ignited. The seawater itself will be the trigger."
Theron pointed again to the sprayer tool diagram on the scroll.
"If we spray this liquid onto enemy ships in the middle of the sea, their attempts to extinguish it by pouring buckets of seawater will actually make the fire explode even bigger. The wetter it gets, the hotter it burns. Nothing can extinguish it except dry sand or large amounts of ammonia urine, which is impossible for them to have in the middle of a naval battle."
Theron wiped the sweat from his forehead with his dirty sleeve.
"This is no ordinary fire, gentlemen. In alchemical terms, this is 'Living Fire'. Fire that devours its enemies and drinks the sea where they sail."
The technician finished explaining. He stepped back, his breath slightly ragged after describing the chemical horror. He looked at Romulus again, this time with a newfound respect, as if the boy before him was not holding a paper scroll, but holding God's Fire itself.
"God's Fire," the Archbishop murmured from the shadows, making the sign of the cross with a trembling hand. "Like the brimstone and fire that rained down upon Sodom and Gomorrah."
Romulus, Vitus, Spurius, and the administrators remained silent, exchanging glances with one another. In the dim light of the hall, the map of the Adriatic Sea seemed to already be burning.
Spurius, who always thought practically amidst horror, finally broke the silence. He stepped forward, staring intently into the old engineer's eyes.
"Master Theron," Spurius's voice was heavy and urgent. "We have no time for theological debates. The question is simple. Can you make it? Can you copy this recipe of the devil from paper into a real weapon in our harbor in less than twenty days?"
Theron fell silent. His eyes blinked rapidly behind his thick glasses, calculating chemical ratios in his head, calculating the risk of explosion, and calculating the availability of materials in the city's depleting warehouses. He looked hesitant, confused about what to answer because one miscalculation meant death for himself.
However, he saw the desperate faces around him. He saw Romulus, a boy trying to be a man.
"If..." Theron's voice trembled slightly, then he cleared his throat to stabilize it. "If the ingredients are available. We need a supply of pure Sulfur from the volcanic mines in the south, we need a supply of fresh quicklime that must be burned non-stop, and black Naphtha oil. If the logistics exist, and if I have bronze melting furnaces to make the sprayer tubes... then yes. Theoretically, I can make it happen."
Hearing that, Romulus gave a small hand signal. He called Vitus closer.
The Great General leaned in, bringing his ear close to the young Emperor's lips. Romulus whispered briefly, but his eyes gazed sharply at Theron.
Vitus straightened his body again. His face looked surprised for a moment hearing the boy's order, but then a thin smile spread across his lips. A smile of approval. Vitus turned to Spurius, asking for silent confirmation.
Spurius, understanding the gaze code, nodded firmly.
Vitus turned his body, his heavy footsteps echoing on the stone floor as he walked toward Theron. He stopped right in front of the hunched plumber. The shadow of Vitus's massive frame swallowed Theron's small body.
"Stand tall, Theron," ordered Vitus, his voice booming to fill the hall.
Theron straightened his back as best he could, trembling in fear, thinking he would be punished for being considered mad.
"In the name of the Senate and the People of Rome, and by the direct order of Augustus Romulus..."
Vitus placed his heavy hand on Theron's shoulder, squeezing it firmly.
"Then hereby, you are no longer a sewer workshop head. Starting this second, you are appointed as Praefectus Fabrum of the Empire. Supreme Head of Military Engineers."
Theron's eyes widened, his breath hitched.
"You are given full authority," continued Vitus with a gallant and tense tone. "Take whatever you need. Tear down temple roofs if you need lead, melt down statues in the square if you need bronze. Anyone, from slaves to senators, who hinders your work must answer to my sword. Make that fire, Master Prefect. Burn the sea for us."
Theron, who had been ordered around and underestimated his whole life, felt a wave of emotion overflow. He looked at Romulus, then looked at Vitus. For the first time, he felt he had a purpose.
Theron clenched his fist over his chest, then bowed deeply toward Romulus.
"Hail Caesar!" cried Theron, his voice hoarse but full of determination.
"AVE CAESAR!" shouted Vitus, Spurius, and the entire council in unison, their voices bouncing off the stone walls, marking the beginning of Rome's final gamble.
Port of Classis & Artisan District, Ravenna September 21 - October 9, 476 AD
Thus began the sleepless days in Ravenna.
The next morning, September 21, an iron curtain was dropped over the city. By order of Praefectus Fabrum Theron and General Vitus, the Classis military port area was totally closed. Scholae guards were stationed at every gate, with orders to kill anyone trying to peek or leak activities inside the shipyard. This project was given the code name Vulcanus.
In the artisan district, black smoke began to billow high into the sky, not from house fires, but from lime kilns forced to burn twenty-four hours a day. The stinging smell of sulfur mixed with the fishy smell of the sea, creating a thick scent of death in the air.
Theron worked like a man possessed. He turned metal workshops into giant chemical laboratories.
Hundreds of clay Amphora jars were collected. Under Theron's strict supervision, workers mixed black Naphtha taken from old legion reserves with yellow sulfur powder and quicklime that was still hot. The mixture was extremely unstable. Two slaves died on the fifth day when a jar exploded during stirring, but that tragedy did not stop the work. Their bodies were buried secretly, and the work continued.
Meanwhile, in the shipyard, Vitus and Spurius oversaw the transformation of the "Cow and Wolf" fleet.
Thirty slow and fat grain transport ships were pulled into dry docks. Their hulls were reinforced from the inside, not to withstand waves, but to withstand the weight of new equipment. Their sails were deliberately torn slightly and dirtied to look shabby, disguised as desperate merchant ships.
However, the most terrifying modification was at the front.
Theron designed large bronze tubes, called siphons, shaped like gaping lion heads. These devices were installed hidden behind the wooden walls of the ship's bow. A simple air pump mechanism was installed behind them, ready to spray the liquid of death toward the enemy.
The people of Ravenna paid dearly for this project. To support the hard work of blacksmiths and shipyard laborers who needed extra energy, Romulus was forced to sign a brutal food rationing decree.
Starting September 25, the wheat ration for civilians was cut in half. People began queuing long just to get a bowl of watery porridge. Their faces grew gaunter, their cheekbones more prominent. However, under the threat of martial law and a faint hope that the Emperor was "planning something", no major riots occurred. They starved in silence, entrusting their lives to the black smoke that kept billowing from the port.
On October 9, eighteen days after the order was given, the work was finally finished.
Theron reported to Romulus with eyes surrounded by dark circles. The data was clear and terrifying.
Thirty merchant ships had been converted into flame-throwing vessels.
Two hundred large Amphorae, equivalent to over five thousand liters of the Ignis Dei or God's Fire mixture, had been loaded into the bellies of those ships, ready to be spewed out.
Each ship was manned by fifty of the best soldiers of Legio Italica disguised in shabby merchant robes, but wearing full armor underneath.
In the silent port, the ghost fleet bobbed gently on the water, waiting for the order to sail. The Empire's secret weapon was ready. And Julius Nepos across the sea had not the slightest idea of the hell that was about to welcome him.
Basilica Ursiana, Main Cathedral of Ravenna. October 9, 476 AD
Pale morning light seeped through the gaps of the stained glass windows of the Basilica Ursiana, creating dancing patterns of light on the cold marble floor. Inside the giant cathedral, the silence felt so majestic yet oppressive.
There was no congregation this morning. The heavy doors were guarded strictly by fully armed Scholae soldiers. In the distance, at the end of the long nave, a boy was kneeling alone before the golden altar.
Romulus Augustus bowed his head deeply. Above him, the statue of the crucified Jesus looked down with a face full of suffering, illuminated by dozens of candles whose flames swayed gently, blown by the wind from the door cracks.
Romulus tried to pray. He tried to find calm before the storm of war began, but his mind was noisy. The sound of waves, the sound of iron being forged, and the sound of his people's fear buzzed in his ears.
Soft footsteps were heard approaching. Romulus turned slightly back.
An old man in white robes with gold embroidery stepped inside. It was Archbishop Johannes, the spiritual shepherd of Ravenna. It was the same figure who had stood silently in the shadows of the Strategy Hall some time ago, witnessing the birth of the God's Fire plan. His face was calm but held deep lines of worry.
"Your Majesty Caesar," greeted Bishop Johannes softly while bowing respectfully.
"Father Johannes," answered Romulus quietly, his voice sounding tired.
The old Bishop saw his emperor's small, trembling shoulders. He did not see a ruler of the world, he only saw a child carrying the weight of Atlas on his shoulders.
"Would you pray with me, Son? To end your session and ask for God's protection for our fleet?" offered Bishop Johannes with a fatherly smile.
Romulus nodded slowly. "Of course, Father."
Bishop Johannes stepped up to the altar and knelt right beside Romulus. The fragrant scent of incense wafted from his robes, but to Romulus, that scent instantly mixed with the metallic smell of blood that suddenly appeared in his memory.
The Bishop clasped his hands together, closed his eyes, and began to recite the great prayer taught by Christ. His voice echoed, calm and rhythmic.
"Pater noster, qui es in caelis... (Our Father, who art in heaven...)"
Romulus's eyes closed.
BOOM!
In the darkness of his eyelids, he did not see heaven. He saw cold, muddy ground. He saw the face of his father, Orestes, pale as death, calling him not from the throne of heaven, but from a dark grave. Romulus... why did you let me rot?
Romulus's breathing began to quicken.
"Sanctificetur nomen tuum... (Hallowed be Thy name...)" continued Bishop Johannes.
Whispering voices filled Romulus's head. Name? Your name is not Augustus. Your name is Momylus. The little dwarf. The bad luck bringer. He saw his mother standing in front of him, but her face was empty, eyeless. When Romulus tried to call out, she turned away, saying, I do not know you.
Romulus's hands gripped his own robe tightly. Cold sweat began to trickle down his temples.
"Adveniat regnum tuum... (Thy kingdom come...)"
Instantly, the church altar vanished. Romulus was back inside Odoacer's Red Tent. The tent fabrics were drenched in fresh blood dripping down. The kingdom that came was not God's kingdom, but a barbarian kingdom. He saw the giant shadow of Odoacer sitting on a pile of Roman soldier skulls.
"Fiat voluntas tua... (Thy will be done...)"
Before his eyes, Odoacer's headless body rose to stand. Blood spurred from the severed neck, forming words in the air. This is Thy will, boy. You wanted this death.
Romulus's heart beat fast, slamming against his ribs like a hammer. He wanted to scream, but his tongue was numb.
"Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie... (Give us this day our daily bread...)"
The scene changed again. Romulus saw thousands of skeletal, starving people of Ravenna, their faces like living skulls, crawling toward him, begging for bread. Their thin hands pulled at his purple robe, tearing it apart, eating him alive out of hunger.
"Et dimitte nobis debita nostra... (And forgive us our trespasses...)"
Odoacer's severed head on a silver platter suddenly opened its eyes. The white eyeballs stared at Romulus. The dead lips moved. There is no forgiveness for murderers. You killed me. My blood is on your hands forever.
Romulus began to tremble violently. His breath came in short, gasping bursts. He felt suffocated.
"Sed libera nos a malo... (But deliver us from evil...)"
The visualization reached its peak. Romulus saw himself. His body stiff, pale, lying inside a narrow wooden coffin. He saw Spurius and Vitus crying over him. Then, the coffin lid was slammed shut. Darkness. Suffocation. He was buried alive. He screamed in that eternal darkness.
"Amen."
Bishop Johannes ended his prayer with the sign of the cross.
Silence returned to the church. But beside him, Romulus still stood frozen. His eyes were shut tight, his jaw clenched hard, and his body trembled like a leaf blown by a storm wind. Sweat flooded his neck. He was still trapped inside the coffin in his head.
Bishop Johannes frowned. He realized something was wrong. The young Emperor did not move, did not open his eyes.
"Son?" called the Bishop gently.
No response. Romulus was still battling demons in his mind.
"My Caesar?" called the Bishop again, his tone starting to worry.
Still silence. Romulus looked like a person having a seizure in silence.
Slowly, Bishop Johannes touched Romulus's shoulder. The touch of the warm old hand seemed to pull Romulus's soul back from hell.
"Caesar!" he called a little louder.
Romulus gasped in shock. His eyes flew open wide, pupils dilated from terror. He turned quickly to the Bishop, breathing hard, as if he had just surfaced to the water after nearly drowning.
"Yes... Yes, Father?" answered Romulus stuttering, his voice trembling violently.
Bishop Johannes looked at him with a gaze full of scrutiny and affection. He saw the remnants of horror in the boy's eyes.
"Are you alright, Son? Your face is very pale. What did you see?"
Romulus swallowed hard, trying to calm his heartbeat. He wiped the cold sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. He must not look weak. He was the Emperor.
"I... I am fine, Father," lied Romulus while forcing a pathetic thin smile. "Just... just a little dizzy from fasting. Thank you for praying for me. That prayer... was strengthening."
Bishop Johannes knew the boy was lying, but he did not press him. He just nodded slowly.
They both stood up. Romulus straightened his crumpled robe. They bowed respectfully to each other.
"May God be with your steps, Caesar," whispered the Bishop.
"Amen," replied Romulus formally.
Romulus turned and walked quickly leaving the altar, his footsteps echoing away, as if he was running from the shadow of the cross itself. Meanwhile behind him, Bishop Johannes knelt again, continuing his prayer, this time begging specifically for God to keep the boy's soul sane.
When Romulus stepped out of the massive doors of the Basilica, the bright morning sunlight struck his face, forcing him to squint. The contrast between the darkness of the church filled with terror and the bright outside world made him feel slightly dizzy for a moment.
The Scholae guards standing watch on the front steps immediately straightened their spears, offering a silent salute as the little Emperor passed.
From the distance, the sound of hoofbeats thundered against the stone pavement. Dust billowed as a group of cavalry approached at high speed.
Spurius Maecenas led at the front. The former veteran looked gallant atop his black warhorse, his red cloak fluttering wildly behind his back. He pulled the reins expertly right in front of the church steps, making his horse whinny and stop instantly.
Spurius jumped down with agile movements, then bowed respectfully before Romulus.
"Caesar," greeted Spurius with a firm voice, his breath slightly ragged but his eyes sharp. "Your war council has gathered in the Strategy Hall. Everything is ready. It is time for final planning."
Romulus nodded. He took a deep breath, chasing away the remaining shadows of Odoacer's ghost from his head. He had to be the Emperor now.
A guard led a white horse that was not too tall before Romulus. It was a young horse chosen specifically for him. Romulus, who had just been learning the basics of horse riding intensively in the last few weeks amidst palace busyness, approached the animal.
With a bit of awkwardness, he placed his foot in the stirrup. He pulled himself up. His movements were still rough, not flowing as smoothly as Spurius. He almost lost his balance while sitting in the saddle, but he quickly corrected his posture, gripping the reins a little too tightly. Spurius watched him with a protective gaze but made no comment. He knew the boy was trying hard.
"Let us go," ordered Romulus, trying to sound authoritative.
They spurred their horses back toward the palace. Along the way, Romulus felt hard jolts in his back because he was not yet agile enough to follow the rhythm of the horse's run. But he endured the pain with a flat face. Behind them, a dozen mounted Scholae guards followed in close formation, their eyes vigilantly watching every window and alleyway.
Upon arriving at the palace, Romulus dismounted with slightly trembling legs, then walked quickly toward the Strategy Hall.
The double doors were thrown open wide.
The atmosphere inside the room was dense and serious. General Vitus stood at the end of the map table, surrounded by high-ranking legion officers. On the other side, city administrators like Manlius sat with tense faces. And at the corner of the table, Theron, the new Praefectus Fabrum, stood with a stack of papyrus scrolls in his hands.
When Romulus stepped inside, the sound of conversation stopped instantly.
"Ave, Augustus!" they cried in unison.
This time, Romulus did not hesitate. He was no longer confused about where to stand like a lost schoolboy. He walked straight past the generals who were twice his size, his eyes focused on the ebony chair at the head of the table. He sat down, placed his hands on the table, and looked at the faces waiting for him.
Vitus gave a brief nod to Romulus, then turned to Theron, giving a silent code.
Theron understood. The old engineer stepped forward. He looked much thinner than their last meeting three weeks ago, his eyes hollow from lack of sleep, and his hands covered in small burns and permanent black stains. However, there was an aura of pride radiating from him.
Theron opened his report scroll, cleared his throat which was dry from furnace smoke, and began to read in a loud voice.
"Readiness Report of Project Vulcanus, as of October 9," he began.
"First, regarding the Fleet. Thirty merchant ships of the Navis Oneraria type have been fully modified. The ship hulls have been reinforced with additional oak beams from the inside to withstand the vibration of the launchers. The sails have been disguised to look worn out and harmless to distant observers."
Theron pointed to the ship diagram on the table.
"Second, regarding Weaponry. Thirty units of bronze Siphons shaped like lion heads have been installed at the bow of every ship, hidden behind false walls that can be opened with a lever. The double air pump mechanism has been tested and functions perfectly, capable of spraying liquid as far as fifty paces."
He took a breath for a moment, then continued to the deadliest part.
"Third, regarding the Ammunition of Ignis Dei or God's Fire. We have successfully produced and loaded two hundred large Amphorae into the ship holds. The total volume reaches five thousand four hundred liters of the mixture of Naphtha, Sulfur, and active Quicklime. Each ship carries enough reserve to burn at least three enemy ships to ash."
Theron closed his report scroll and looked at Romulus.
"And finally, regarding Personnel. One thousand five hundred of the best Legio Italica soldiers have been stationed. Fifty men per ship. They have been trained on how to operate the Siphons and how to handle the chemicals without killing themselves. The Ghost Fleet is ready to sail at your command, Caesar."
After Theron finished reading the astounding technical data, it was the turn of the "Sword of the Empire" to speak.
General Vitus stepped forward, taking Theron's place at the head of the map table. If Theron carried the aura of a mad scientist, Vitus carried the aura of cold, measured death. He brought no scrolls. The plan was in his head, printed in blood and decades of experience.
Vitus picked up a wooden pointing stick, then placed its tip right on the coastline of Ravenna, where the Classis harbor was located.
"Thank you, Prefect Theron," Vitus's voice was heavy, echoing through the room. "Weapons are mere iron and oil if not driven by strategy. And our strategy tonight is based on one simple principle taught by our Emperor. The enemy's greed is our best ally."
Vitus slid small wooden pieces representing the fat Roman ships into the middle of the sea.
"This is Operation Lupus et Vacca. The Cow and the Wolf."
All eyes were fixed on Vitus's hand movements.
"Tonight, when the moon is clouded over, we will release our thirty 'Cows' out of the harbor. We will not sail in a neat line of battle formation. No. We will sail randomly, scattered, and in panic."
Vitus looked at his officers one by one.
"We will make this fleet look pathetic. Sails set at half-mast, lanterns hung low indicating heavy cargo, and ships moving sluggishly as if overloaded. To the eyes of enemy scouts, this is not a war fleet. This is an escape convoy. They will think these are the ships of wealthy senators and cowardly merchants trying to flee Ravenna carrying the last of the city's gold and grain before it falls."
Vitus then picked up a black piece representing Julius Nepos's fleet.
"Nepos's fleet consists of fast Liburnians and heavy Triremes. Their captains are bored of waiting months at sea. They are hungry for loot. When they see these fat ships coming out, what will they do?"
"They will chase," answered Spurius from his seat. "And they will not sink them."
"Exactly," snapped Vitus with a predatory smile. "A pirate does not burn a treasure chest before opening it. They will be lusting to capture our ships intact. They want to loot the gold they think is inside, and enslave the crew."
Vitus moved the black piece until it stuck closely to the white piece.
"They will spur their ships closer. They will ignore safe ballista range. They will throw grappling hooks and ladders, trying to board or storm at close range. They will dock hull to hull, like wolves biting the neck of a cow."
The atmosphere in the room tightened. Romulus imagined the scene in his head. Enemy ships swarming his slow ships like ants on sugar.
"And that is the moment our Lion bursts forth from the cow's skin," Vitus's voice lowered into a dangerous growl.
"When their distance is less than fifty paces. When they can see the fake fear on our soldiers' faces. When their ships are crowded so tight there is no room to maneuver..."
Vitus struck the table with his stick. CLACK!
"The trumpet signal is sounded. The false walls at the bow are opened."
He swept his gaze across the room with fiery eyes.
"Thirty lion-headed Siphons will roar in unison. We will not target their sails. We will target the main deck where their assault troops gather. We will bathe them in five thousand liters of God's Fire."
Vitus pointed back toward Theron.
"As Theron said, seawater will not extinguish it. Panic will ensue. Burning ships will crash into their friends' ships in the chaos, spreading the fire like a contagious plague. Their formation will shatter in minutes."
Vitus straightened his body, ending his strategy presentation with a final, irrefutable tone.
"Tonight, we do not fight to win territory. Tonight, we fight for total annihilation. We will turn the Adriatic Sea into a giant furnace. And tomorrow morning, when the sun rises, the waves will not bring white foam to the shores of Ravenna, but black charcoal from the arrogant fleet of Julius Nepos."
The General put down his stick.
"That is the plan, Caesar. Simple. Brutal. And deadly. And it now awaits your command, Your Majesty."
The silence in the room was absolute.
Romulus remained seated, his gaze fixed on the wooden ships on the map. He did not blink. Slowly, he placed both hands on the table, his fingers curling into tight fists until his knuckles turned white.
The fear was gone. Only cold resolve remained.
He looked up, piercing Vitus with a sharp stare.
"Tonight, we turn the sea into a lake of fire," Romulus said coldly.
He stood up.
"For Rome."
"FOR ROME!" roared the council in unison, shaking the palace walls.
The plan was approved. The die was cast. Tonight, the fate of the Empire would not be decided on land, nor by the edge of a sword. Tonight, Rome would wage war upon the waves, armed with the terrifying wrath of God's Fire.