Ravenna Fortress Walls, Overlooking the Adriatic Sea October 10, 476 AD (Around 12:00 AM)
The autumn wind blew from the Adriatic Sea, carrying a chill that pierced to the bone marrow. The night sky was pitch black, moonless, as if the world was holding its breath waiting for a verdict to be passed.
On the stone parapet wet with dew, Romulus Augustus stood motionless. His thick purple cloak fluttered gently, but the body beneath it shivered, not from the cold, but from what he was witnessing.
Far out there, in the darkness of the endless horizon, the points of light from Vitus's merchant fleet began to dim, swallowed by the mist and distance. They sailed into the lion's mouth, carrying bellies full of liquid death.
Theron stood a step behind his Emperor. The man did not look at the sea with an anxious gaze, but with the cold calculation of an architect observing a building's foundation. Their breath puffed out thin white steam in the freezing night air, the only sign of life on the silent stone wall.
"Your Majesty Caesar," Theron's voice broke the silence, sounding hoarse and low. "You do not need to squeeze that stone so hard. The chemistry is perfect."
Romulus did not release his grip on the edge of the stone wall. His eyes remained fixed on the darkness.
Theron continued, "The fire will work. Ignis Dei will burn them. Whatever the cost."
Romulus fell silent for a moment. White steam came out of his mouth as he let out a long, trembling sigh.
"Whatever the cost..." repeated Romulus softly, more to himself than to Theron. He turned slightly, looking at the engineer with eyes that seemed too old for his childish face. "I do not know how big this cost you mean is, Theron. Is that price paid in gold? Or with the rest of my soul?"
Theron did not answer. His face was flat, dimly lit by a distant wall torch.
"I am afraid, Theron," whispered Romulus, looking back at the black sea. "When the bill for that price comes... will I be able to pay it?"
Theron adjusted his dirty work tunic. "History never asks if we can pay, Caesar. History just collects."
The dialogue hung in the cold air, dark and heavy.
Heavy footsteps were heard approaching. Spurius Maecenas emerged from the shadows of the watchtower. The old face looked worried seeing his young master standing in the open at this late hour.
"Caesar," Spurius scolded gently but firmly. He stepped closer, his large body blocking the sea wind. "It is past midnight. The air is too evil for your lungs. We must go inside."
Romulus was silent for a moment, letting his eyes search for the light of Vitus's ship for the last time. But the darkness had swallowed everything. The fleet was gone.
"You are right, Spurius," replied Romulus softly. His shoulders slumped, the burden of leadership pressing down on his physique again. "There is nothing more we can do here but pray."
Romulus turned around. Theron and several subordinate soldiers guarding nearby immediately straightened up and saluted. Romulus nodded weakly, then walked quickly escorted by Scholae guards toward the warm palace tower.
Spurius was about to follow, but his steps stopped when he saw Theron not moving from his position. The engineer turned back to the sea, his arms crossed.
"You are not coming in, Prefect?" asked Spurius.
Theron shook his head slowly without turning. His crystal glasses reflected the darkness of the night.
"I will keep watch," answered Theron briefly.
Spurius stared at the engineer's back for a moment. He understood that feeling. The feeling of a horrible artist waiting for his work to be exhibited. Spurius only gave a brief military salute, then turned around and walked quickly to catch up with Romulus into the warmth of the fortress.
Adriatic Sea, On the Deck of the Merchant Ship Fortuna
On the deck of the Fortuna, the atmosphere was chaotic and foul. If a Roman warship was usually silent with iron discipline, tonight this ship sounded like a floating brothel.
To perfect the disguise as panicked and undisciplined merchants, Vitus allowed his troops to loosen their collars. The soldiers of Legio Italica, raised their whole lives to march in neat rows, now seemed to enjoy their new roles as rough, amateur sailors.
"Shit," grumbled a stout legionary, scratching his back with the hilt of a sword hidden beneath his rough cloak. "This merchant tunic itches like hell. Is this an old grain sack or a nest of lice?"
His friend, sitting leaning against a hemp rope barrel, chuckled. He was busy chewing on a piece of tough jerky.
"Stop whining," the soldier replied with his mouth full. "You look pretty in that mud-brown. It suits your ugly face perfectly."
Several other soldiers nearby burst into laughter. Their laughter sounded hoarse and slightly manic. The kind of laughter men use to mask the fact that they might drown or burn to death in the next hour.
"At least you don't have to row," chipped in another soldier from the darkness. "Pity those bastards down below. They have to row at a lazy tempo to make this ship look slow. That's more torturous than running a marathon."
The stout soldier snorted and spat into the sea. "I'd rather fight with a sword in my hand than die foolishly pretending to be a fishmonger. By the way, this ship smells like Satan's armpit. It reeks."
"That's the smell of money, friend," his comrade quipped, mimicking the accent of a wealthy merchant with a mocking tone. "We are carrying treasure, remember?"
They laughed again. To drive away the cold and nerves, someone at the stern began plucking the strings of an old, out-of-tune lute. A dirty military barracks song began to be sung in a low, raspy voice.
"Oh, the whore from Gaul has hips so wide..." "Her tits are huge, with nowhere to hide..." "Give her some wine and a coin of gold..." "She'll drain you dry before the night grows old..."
The lyrics were greeted with lewd whistles and raucous applause. The stout soldier even began to dance with ridiculous movements, shaking his hips as if he were the woman in the song, making his friends roar with laughter.
On the darkened command deck, Vitus stood silent, watching his men's antics. His eyes kept sweeping the pitch-black horizon, searching for signs of life amidst the waves. His hands gripped the rotting ship's rail tightly until his knuckles turned white.
"They are too loud, General," whispered his aide, a young Centurion standing nervously beside him. "Won't the enemy be suspicious?"
"That is exactly the point," Vitus answered coldly without turning. "Panicked merchants don't stay quiet. They are loud, drunk, and careless. We are giving the enemy the show they want to see."
Vitus took a deep breath, inhaling the salty air mixed with the faint scent of Naphtha and Sulfur from the hold below.
"Enjoy that song while you can, Son," Vitus added softly. "Soon, the music will turn into screams."
Below on the deck, the soldiers' laughter was suddenly cut short.
"LIGHTS!"
The shout came from the mainmast. The lookout stationed there pointed straight at twelve o'clock.
"Lights ahead! Two miles! Many of them!"
Instantly, the ridiculous dance stopped dead. The soldier eating jerky threw his food to the floor. The lute player silenced his strings with his palm.
The deck of the Fortuna turned dead silent in seconds. The crude jokes and complaints about itchy tunics evaporated, replaced by a cold, murderous air. Hands that had been relaxed now groped for the hilts of swords beneath their robes.
Vitus narrowed his eyes. In the distance, between the black water and the sky, he saw them.
One dot. Two dots. Ten. Thirty.
Small yellow lights appeared on the horizon like the eyes of wolves just opening their lids in the darkness. They were the lanterns of warships.
The enemy was no longer hiding. They were coming.
"Report, General!" the lookout called again from the mast, his voice tense but clear. "They are changing course! They see us! Those ships... they are spreading out to encircle!"
Vitus smiled thinly in the darkness. The cold smile of a hunter watching his prey enter a trap.
"Back to positions!" Vitus ordered. His voice was calm but deadly. "Keep acting. Make this ship look even more panicked. Light the Danger signal lanterns. Let those bastards think we are scared to death."
Vitus stared at the growing points of light.
"Come here," he whispered to the night wind. "Come closer. Come and take your meat."
Vitus observed the enemy lights getting closer. Their distance was now less than a mile. This was the critical point. If the enemy decided to fire fire arrows or launch stones from a distance, Vitus's fleet would be reduced to floating firewood without a chance to fight back.
He had to ensure the enemy came close. He had to bait their greed.
"Now," Vitus said sharply to the signal Centurion beside him. "Light the torches. Signal Scatter. Order all ships to break formation. I want us to look like a pack of rats trampling each other to save themselves."
"At once, General."
The signal soldier immediately lit two oil-soaked torches. He stood on a high point at the stern, then waved the fire in a fast, rough crossing motion. It was not a neat standard military signal, but an emergency signal agreed upon to tell all ships to run and save their own skins.
Behind the Fortuna, twenty-nine other merchant ships saw the sign.
Instantly, the illusion of chaos began.
Ships that had been sailing in loose groups suddenly slammed their rudders. Some turned sharply to the left, others cut across to the right clumsily. Some ships even deliberately brushed hulls, creating the loud sound of crashing wood and fake screams from the crew on deck.
"Move, you idiot! Move!" shouted one of Vitus's soldiers acting on the port bow, his voice shrill over the water.
The ships' sails were set askew as if the rigging had snapped. The fat, heavy vessels lurched, cutting through the waves pitifully, moving away from each other as if every captain cared only for his own life and left his friends to be eaten by wolves.
Vitus nodded with satisfaction at the manufactured chaos.
"Perfect," he whispered. "Now let's see if they take the bait."
Across the dark sea, Captain of the Fleet Nepos stood on the bow of his sleek and fast Liburnian warship. The sea wind slapped his rough face, but his eyes gleamed at the sight before him.
He saw the merchant fleet breaking apart. Their lanterns moved wildly away from each other.
"Look at them," the Captain said with a mocking laugh. He pointed at the fat ships struggling to escape. "The moment they saw us, they pissed their pants. They didn't even try to form a defensive line. Cowards of Ravenna."
His deputy, a man with a scar on his cheek, grinned along. "Those are Oneraria grain ships, Captain. Their hulls sit very low in the water. They must be fully loaded. Gold? Silver? Or maybe the Senators' personal treasury?"
The words "gold" and "treasure" made the Captain's eyes shine brighter than his lanterns.
He knew the standard blockade procedure was to sink the enemy. But sinking fat ships like that was throwing fortune to the bottom of the sea. He and his men had not been paid properly by Nepos for months. This was their chance to get rich quick.
"Hold Ballista fire!" the Captain shouted suddenly, his voice booming across the deck.
The soldiers ready at the stone-throwing machines looked back in confusion.
"No one dares to hole those ships!" the Captain continued threateningly. "If you sink them, the treasure inside is gone! We will capture them whole!"
He drew his sword and pointed it at the Fortuna, which looked like the biggest and slowest ship in the middle.
"Chase them! Full rowing speed! Every ship pick their own prey! First come, first served!"
The command was met with wild cheers from the ship's crew. Greed had taken over common sense. Their battle formation discipline shattered instantly.
The enemy Liburnian and Trireme ships that had formed a blockade line now drove their oars madly. They raced against each other, breaking formation to be the first to sink their grappling hooks into the helpless merchant ships.
The sound of the enemy rowing drums changed to ramming speed tempo.
DUM-DUM-DUM-DUM!
They sped through the waves, their mouths watering at the thought of loot, unaware that they were running full speed towards their own graves.
Vitus did not move an inch.
Around him the world seemed to collapse into madness. His other merchant ships were being chased like sheep separated from the flock. Fake cries for help echoed across the water and mingled with the triumphant laughter of thousands of enemy soldiers who felt that tonight was their lucky night.
But Vitus's eyes were locked on only one thing.
A massive Liburnian, the flagship of the enemy fleet, was driving its oars straight toward the Fortuna.
The warship looked terrifying. Its prow was plated with bronze shaped like a snarling wolf's head slicing through the waves with ferocious white foam. On its deck dozens of enemy marines stood in rows weighing their axes and swords in their hands with their faces illuminated by the fiery red glow of torches.
The distance was closing.
One hundred paces.
Vitus could see the glint in the eyes of the enemy captain standing on the bridge.
Fifty paces.
Vitus could smell the stale sweat and lubricating oil from the opposing ship.
The sound of the enemy's rowing drums was deafening. DOOM! DOOM! DOOM! Every beat hit Vitus's chest like a sledgehammer. The vibrations from the speeding warship traveled through the water and made the deck of the Fortuna shudder violently.
"General..." whispered the Centurion beside him with a choked voice. His hand trembled over the hilt of his sword. "They are going to ram us!"
"No," Vitus answered softly. His eyes were cold and as calm as the surface of a frozen lake. "They are greedy. They want to board."
And he was right.
At the very last second the enemy drums changed tempo. Their oars reversed to drastically brake the ship's momentum. The wooden monster did not strike to destroy but glided smoothly alongside the hull of the Fortuna.
CRAAAK!
The sound of wood grinding against wood was loud and ear-piercing as the hulls of the two ships grazed each other. The impact nearly threw the unprepared soldiers to the floor.
"THROW THE HOOKS!" shouted a rough voice from the enemy ship.
In an instant dozens of ropes flew through the air. Sharp iron hooks slammed into the rails and deck of the Fortuna with a deadly thud-thud-thud. The enemy marines pulled the ropes tight locking the two ships in a death embrace. They were so close now that Vitus could see the gaps in the teeth of the enemy soldiers grinning at him.
"Surrender or die, Fat Merchant!" the enemy Captain shouted from across the gap with his sword pointing straight at Vitus's face. "Hand over the gold and we might let you live!"
The enemy marines began to climb the rails ready to jump across to loot. They laughed and jeered and howled like wild beasts that had cornered their prey.
Vitus stared at the Captain. He did not raise his hands in surrender. He did not kneel.
Slowly Vitus pulled the corner of his lips into a very thin smile. It was a smile that made the enemy Captain suddenly stop laughing. A smile that said you have just made the last mistake of your life.
Vitus raised his right hand high into the air and then clenched his fist with a sharp snap.
Beneath his feet inside the dark belly of the ship secret hatches on the hull of the Fortuna were pushed open from the inside.
The enemy Captain's eyes widened as he saw the muzzles of strange copper pipes protruding from the merchant ship's wall right in front of the faces of his warship's rowers.
"Hold..." Vitus whispered as he savored the seconds where the enemy's confusion turned into horror.
His breath hitched but not from fear. It was pure adrenaline. He raised his hand once more ready to deliver the verdict of doomsday.
"NOW! BURN THEM!"
Vitus's scream shattered the freezing night.
Below deck the Legion engineers immediately twisted the pressure valves. A loud hissing sound erupted like the breath of a dragon waking from a long slumber. From the muzzles of the copper pipes protruding from the hull of the Fortuna a torrent of thick black liquid shot out and slammed onto the deck of the enemy ship.
The liquid was no ordinary oil. It was a mixture of Naphtha, pine resin, sulfur, and quicklime. It was a devil's recipe brewed by Theron in his underground laboratory. The fluid was thick and sticky like liquid asphalt. It sprayed violently soaking the face of the enemy Captain, the armor of the marines, and the portholes where the enemy rowers sat trapped.
A second later the chemical reaction took hold.
As the liquid came into contact with the humid air and the spray of seawater on the deck it did not merely ignite. It exploded.
WOOOOSH!
In the blink of an eye the Liburnian warship turned into a giant fireball.
This was not a warm orange fire. This was a blinding greenish-yellow chemical flame, a fire that screamed as it devoured the oxygen.
The true horror had just begun.
The enemy Captain who had been laughing moments ago was now screaming with a voice that was no longer human. The sticky Ignis Dei clung to his face and neck. He tried to pat it out with his hands but the fire only transferred to burn his palms clinging tight like a hungry parasite.
"HOT! IT BURNS! HELP ME!"
The skin of his face blistered instantly and then melted like wax placed near a furnace. He thrashed and fell to his knees while his iron armor heated rapidly roasting his own body inside the metal oven he wore.
Behind him the marines caught in the spray ran in panic like living torches. They jumped into the sea hoping the saltwater would save them.
But they were wrong.
When their bodies hit the water the fire did not extinguish. Thanks to the quicklime mixture the water only triggered a more ferocious reaction. The fire continued to burn on the surface of the sea and even burned underwater for a few seconds. The Adriatic Sea was no longer a refuge but a boiling cauldron.
"Back! Back now!" Vitus shouted to his crew his voice nearly drowned out by the roar of the fire.
The heat from the enemy ship was so intense that the eyebrows and hair of the soldiers on the Fortuna began to singe. The walls of their own ship started to smoke due to the close proximity.
"Cut the ropes! Hurry or we die with them!"
Vitus's soldiers with pale faces seeing the horror before them immediately swung their axes.
THWACK! THWACK!
The ropes of the grappling hooks connecting the two ships snapped one by one. Vitus kicked the enemy ship's rail with his foot pushing the Fortuna away.
"Back oars! Row with all your might!"
The merchant ship slowly retreated creating a safe distance from the hell they had just created.
Vitus stood at the stern his breath ragged his eyes unblinking as he witnessed the scene before him.
The enemy warship was now nothing but a howling wooden skeleton. The sound of cracking and breaking wood mingled with the screams of hundreds of rowers trapped on the lower deck. They could not get out. They were chained to their rowing benches.
Vitus could hear the desperate banging from the ship's hull. The banging of human beings being roasted alive inside a giant wooden coffin.
The smell of charred human flesh began to drift on the wind a sickly sweet scent that turned the stomach. It was a smell far worse than any rotting corpse Vitus had ever smelled on a battlefield.
One by one the screams began to fade replaced by the crackling sound of fire devouring bone.
The proud enemy ship with its bronze wolf head now melting into glowing liquid metal began to list. Its hull was breached, eaten by the fire. With one last long groan from its shattered wooden structure the ship capsized and was dragged to the bottom of the sea.
The seawater hissed angrily as it swallowed the carcass creating a vortex of hot steam and massive bubbles.
In a matter of minutes the ship was gone.
All that remained were patches of fire still burning floating on the water and a terrifying silence.
Vitus wiped the cold sweat from his forehead which was stained with soot. His hands trembled not from fear but from the realization of what he had just unleashed upon the world.
Around him in the distance twenty-nine other "Cow" ships began to do the same. The night sky of the Adriatic was no longer dark. It glowed red filled with dozens of small suns burning the fleet of Julius Nepos.
"God forgive them," Vitus whispered hoarsely his eyes reflecting the sea of fire.
One by one the darkness of the Adriatic Sea was torn apart.
Vitus stood transfixed in the center of the Fortuna's deck witnessing a sight that would never be erased from his memory as long as he drew breath.
In the distance to his left and right giant balls of fire began to appear in sequence. Like massive candles lit by the devil's hand the other twenty-nine Cow merchant ships had unleashed their deadly cargo.
The horizon which had been pitch black was now bright with blinding colors of yellow orange and green.
Vitus walked unsteadily. His feet felt heavy as if dragged by the ghosts of those who died tonight. He walked slowly around the ship's railing. Everywhere he turned he saw only one thing.
Fire.
Julius Nepos's entire besieging fleet was burning.
The autumn sea wind that froze bones an hour ago was now gone without a trace. The night air turned hot and dry stinging the skin of the face like a sandstorm in the African desert. The sea around them was no longer water but a liquid mirror reflecting the hell above it.
Romulus was right. Tonight the sea became a Lake of Fire.
But the most terrifying thing was not the sight. The most terrifying thing was the sound.
The screams.
Thousands of screams floated in the night air answering each other to form a heartbreaking chorus of suffering. Those were not war cries. Those were not shouts of anger. It was the pure howling of unimaginable pain.
Vitus looked at his own soldiers. The rough men of Legio Italica who had sung lewd songs and laughed earlier now stood frozen at the edge of the ship. Their faces were pale illuminated by the firelight from the dying ships.
No one cheered. No one raised a sword to celebrate victory.
They gripped the ship's rail with trembling hands their eyes wide with horror. They saw those enemies jump into the water but continue to burn. They saw human skin melt. They saw fellow Romans people who spoke the same Latin as them die like sacrificial animals on an altar of fire.
Some young soldiers turned around and vomited their guts onto the deck floor unable to withstand the smell of charred flesh that blanketed the air.
Time seemed to slow down. Minute after minute passed in that spectacle of horror.
Then slowly the sound began to subside.
Not because the fire went out but because there were no throats left intact to scream.
One by one the balls of fire in the distance began to shrink. The destroyed enemy ships lost their buoyancy. Those charred wooden skeletons snapped capsized and were forcibly dragged into the cold embrace of the deep sea.
The water hissed as it swallowed the last remains of the fire. Thick black smoke rose high covering the stars.
And then... silence.
The silence that followed was far heavier than the noise of battle.
There were no more screams. No more rowing drums. Only the sound of small waves lapping against the hull of the Fortuna and the sound of charred wood cracking softly.
The fleet of Julius Nepos the blockade that had strangled Ravenna for months was gone. Buried forever at the bottom of the Adriatic.
On the deck of the Fortuna the crew remained silent in their positions. This victory tasted like ash on their tongues. They realized that they had just opened the door to a new kind of war. A war where honor no longer applied. A war where knights did not clash swords but were burned alive like pests.
Vitus walked to the stern of the ship. He stared at the spot where the last enemy ship had just sunk leaving only dirty foam on the water's surface.
He took off his war helmet and placed it on the wooden rail. The night wind began to feel cold again but he knew his soul would never feel warm again.
Vitus bowed his head pondering in long silence amidst the mass grave he had just created.
He took a deep breath filling his lungs with air that still smelled of sulfur and then turned to face his shaken troops.
"Enough!" his voice broke the silence heavy yet authoritative. "The show is over. Return to your stations."
The soldiers snapped out of their horror-filled trance. Military discipline slowly took over their stiff bodies again.
"Signal the entire fleet," Vitus ordered the torchbearer. "Reform column formation. We are returning to Ravenna."
As the ships began to turn their bows their wooden hulls bumped into the floating debris of enemy vessels. Vitus walked to the edge of the deck his eyes scanning the black and oily surface of the water.
His conscience as a Roman soldier, the remnants of old honor that had not completely died, drove him to do one last thing.
"Light all lanterns!" Vitus ordered loudly. "Shine the light on the water! Search for survivors! If you see a head bobbing or a hand waving pull them up! We will not leave them to freeze or drown!"
The order was met with swift movement from the crew. Dozens of lanterns were hung low over the ship's sides. The soldiers' eyes swept every inch of the sea surface searching for signs of life among charred wooden beams torn sails and broken barrels.
The merchant ships moved slowly gliding like ghosts through a watery graveyard silent and searching.
One minute passed.
Five minutes.
Vitus waited for a report. He waited for a shout of "Man overboard!" or "Help me!". He waited for a chance to show a shred of mercy a shred of humanity in this savage night.
But the sea was mute.
There were no hands waving for help. No heads bobbing struggling for breath. No sounds of moaning.
The Ignis Dei weapon and its chemical reaction had done too perfect a job. Those who were not burned to ash had been dragged to the depths by their own iron armor or suffocated by toxic fumes before even touching the water.
The destruction was total. Absolute.
After twenty minutes of futile searching Vitus's adjutant Centurion approached with a grim face. He shook his head slowly.
"Nothing, General," he reported in a low voice. "Not a single one. They are all... gone."
Vitus gripped the ship's rail tightly then let out a rough sigh. A chill crept up his spine again and this time it was not from the sea wind.
"Very well," Vitus said his voice sounding tired and old. "If God wants them all let Him take them."
He looked straight ahead toward the dim lights of the Ravenna towers visible in the distance.
"Take us home," he ordered.
The Cow fleet sailed away leaving the killing field behind. They moved in total silence leaving a sea that was empty and calm as if thousands of lives had never existed there before.
That night Romulus Augustus did not just win a battle. He had baptized his new throne with ash and human flesh.
As I recopy these records under the electric glow of the Imperial Library I pause for a long time. The ink on my pen dries in the air.
I ask myself by what name shall I title the events of that night?
Court poets often call it "The Battle of the Lake of Fire." It sounds heroic. It sounds grand. But no. My conscience refuses to write it as such.
In a battle both sides have a chance to fight. In a battle there is a clash of swords and a contest of strategy. But that night there was no resistance. There were only screams and the smell of roasting flesh.
So I will correct this history. I will not call it "The Battle of the Lake of Fire."
I will write it by its true name, "The Massacre of the Lake of Fire."