Ravenna, Capital of the Western Roman Empire. Two days after the death of Orestes.
I often find myself standing before the great map of our empire asking whether destiny is truly as fragile as a spider's silk spun in the wind.
If the Lord had granted us the eyes of an eagle soaring above Ravenna on that fateful day we would not have beheld a capital worthy of the Caesars. Instead we would have seen a stone sarcophagus adrift on a sea of mud. The city was an island besieged by marshes that stretched like a pestilent ocean to the horizon. Thick fog crept amongst the reeds hiding the single causeway that served as the lifeline between the last bastion of civilization and the barbarian chaos beyond.
From the window of a damp palace tower Romulus Augustus gazed out at this bleak landscape.
The wind blowing from the Adriatic carried the scent of salt mingled with the stench of rotting moss and stagnant water. It was the perfume of death. It was the scent of an empire that had been dying for a century and had forgotten the dignity of a quiet end.
Romulus drew his purple silk paludamentum tighter around his frail shoulders. The fabric was a masterpiece woven from the finest silk of Serica and dyed with Tyrian Murex worth more than its weight in gold. Yet against the boy's skin the imperial robe felt heavy and suffocating. It clung to him like a wet shroud waiting for a corpse.
He was but fifteen years old.
It is a tragedy of history to imagine a child of such tender years forced to bear the crushing weight of a millennium on his small back. In our enlightened age a youth of fifteen would be studying rhetoric at the Athenaeum or learning the art of steam mechanics. But Romulus was denied such luxuries. His inheritance was fear.
In the polished bronze mirror standing in the corner he caught his own reflection. A boy with neatly shorn dark curls and skin pale from the shadows of the fortress. His large eyes held the look of a hunted animal. Upon his brow rested the Diadem the pearl-studded fillet that proclaimed the power of Augustus. The crown looked absurd on his small head. Too large. Too loose.
"Puppet," he whispered to the glass.
His voice cracked breaking the silence of the cold stone chamber.
He knew well the whispers of the servants in the scullery. He knew the jests of the soldiers in their cups. They did not hail him as Romulus Augustus. They mocked him as Romulus Momyllus the little disgrace.
And how could he be Emperor? He had never commanded a legion in battle. He had never addressed the Senate in the Curia. He was merely a child placed upon the curule chair by his father so that the general could rule from the shadows without the burden of the diadem.
"Father..."
Romulus turned from the mirror and looked once more to the window. Rain began to drum against the thick glass blurring the world outside.
A week had passed since his father marched the main army out of Ravenna's gates. Romulus clung to his father's parting words like a drowning man to driftwood. Orestes had sworn to return after chastising Odoacer and his German curs. Romulus wanted to believe. But he was no fool. He had seen the lines of worry etched deep in his father's face. He had watched the scribes burning state secrets in the courtyards before the standards were raised.
A shadow was falling over the world. As a historian writing from the safety of the future I can only sigh. If that boy had known his father was already cold meat in the mud of Placentia perhaps he would not have stood at the window with such desperate hope.
A timid knock on the door shattered his reverie. Romulus started his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"Enter," he commanded trying to summon a voice of authority.
The heavy oak door creaked open. It was not a centurion bearing news of victory but Elaphius. The old hunchbacked servant charged with the emperor's table shuffled in. He bore a silver platter with hard bread dried figs and a goblet of watered wine.
"Your midday meal Dominus," Elaphius murmured bowing low. His eyes remained fixed on the floor afraid to meet the Emperor's gaze.
"Is there word from Placentia?" Romulus demanded ignoring the food.
Elaphius shook his head slowly as he set the tray upon the table. His withered hands trembled. "None yet Dominus."
"You lie," Romulus stepped forward his voice rising. "I heard the clatter of hooves in the courtyard at dawn. I saw the guards at the gate whispering with faces pale as chalk. What did they say?"
The old servant's hand froze mid-pour spilling a drop of red wine onto the white marble table like a fresh wound.
"Idle gossip of the market My Lord," he stammered. "Talk of grain prices and the flooding of the Po. Nothing fit for the sacred ears of Your Majesty."
"Elaphius," Romulus said his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I am Caesar."
The old man finally raised his eyes. In them Romulus saw neither fear nor reverence. He saw something far more terrifying. Pity. The kind of pity one offers to a lamb before the knife falls.
"They say..." Elaphius swallowed hard. "They say the sky in the west is black My Lord. It is best that Caesar does not leave his chambers this day. The wind carries ill omens."
When Elaphius had fled the room Romulus left the food untouched. The pity in the servant's eyes had cut deeper than any blade. They all saw him as a child to be shielded from the brutal truth. They believed he would shatter like glass at the first touch of disaster.
Romulus walked to the cedar chest at the foot of his bed. He opened it slowly. There buried beneath wooden toys and scrolls of Virgil lay an object that had no place in an emperor's nursery.
A legionary's Pugio. The iron was rough the hilt worn smooth by use.
He had stolen it from the armory a month prior. Not to harm others but as a final mercy for himself. His father had told him stories of the puppet emperors who came before. How they were mutilated humiliated or forced into the monastic life to rot in obscurity.
Romulus gripped the dagger. The cold bite of the metal offered a strange comfort in the gathering storm. If Odoacer breached the gates and if his father did not return he would not let them take him alive.
Suddenly the blast of a war horn tore through the air from the direction of the main gate.
It was not the melodious call of a ceremonial trumpet. It was a long harsh discordant bray. The signal of dire alarm that freezes the blood of brave men.
Romulus rushed back to the window. His heart raced.
Far below on the narrow causeway that sliced through the marsh he saw a lone rider. The man spurred his mount with the desperation of the damned. The horse was white with foam and the rider swayed in the saddle near death from exhaustion. There was no golden eagle standard behind him. There was no praetorian guard to flank him.
Only one man.
Romulus held his breath. He recognized the travel-stained red cloak.
It was Spurius. His father's right hand. And he was returning alone.
I often read these old records and wish I could turn back the hands of time. I want to scream at the boy in the tower to stay in his room and let the world crumble without him. But history is not built on hope. History is built on inevitable pain. And that pain was climbing the palace stairs to claim him.
Romulus did not recall how his feet carried him down the winding tower stairs. All imperial protocol was forgotten. The purple cloak that should have been majestic now trailed pitifully behind his back like a broken wing as his small body sprinted through the cold stone corridors. Servants and guards pressed themselves against the walls with shocked faces for never before had they seen their Caesar run like a child chased by a ghost.
His breath came in ragged gasps as his bare feet struck the slick stones of the central courtyard.
The sight before him stopped him dead. Spurius's mount stood trembling with white foam mixed with blood dripping from its mouth. The beast had been ridden beyond the limits of life. And beside it lay a figure barely recognizable beneath layers of thick mud and dried blood.
"Spurius!"
The scream was high-pitched and shattered by panic. Romulus threw himself onto the muddy ground without caring for his stained silk. His thin hands shook the shoulders of the old soldier before him roughly.
"Wake up! Where is he? Why are you alone?"
Spurius's eyelids fluttered open. His eyeballs were red and clouded as if his soul had been left behind on the streets of Placentia. His gaze struggled to focus on the boy's face. His cracked lips could only hiss weakly.
"Water..."
"Give him water! Quickly!" Romulus's command snapped a gawking guard out of his stupor.
A leather skin was pressed to the soldier's lips. Spurius drank greedily until he choked. Slowly consciousness began to creep back into his pale face. His old eyes fixed on Romulus and instantly dirty tears leaked out washing away the dust on his cheeks.
"Forgive your servant, Son..."
The whisper was hoarse and painful. No title of Emperor was spoken. On the brink of this destruction Spurius saw only a poor orphan child.
"Lord Orestes... he does not wake."
Silence.
The sound of the rain seemed to vanish. The world stopped turning and left only a long ringing that deafened the ears.
"What do you mean he does not wake?" A small hysterical laugh escaped Romulus's lips. His brain refused to accept the sentence. "Father is strong. He cannot lose. Did Odoacer wound him? We have palace physicians. We can..."
Spurius shook his head weakly. The movement seemed to snap his own neck.
"Not by the sword, My Lord. His heart. The burden was too heavy. He fell from his horse in the middle of the road and God called him right there in the mud."
The truth struck his solar plexus like a war hammer.
Romulus's mouth opened but no sound came out for several seconds. The air was stolen by force from his lungs.
"NO!"
A long and heart-wrenching wail exploded. Romulus collapsed onto Spurius's armored chest. His small hands beat the muddy ground with blind frustration. He screamed for his father over and over until his throat felt raw. Snot and tears mixed to wet his red face.
The Western Roman Emperor was gone. All that remained was a fifteen year old boy whose world had just ended.
Spurius tried to pat his master's back with a weak hand but the weeping only grew worse. It was a hysterical lament that made the surrounding guards bow their heads in shame or turn away unable to watch.
As a historian I must record this moment honestly. This was the lowest point of the Romulean Dynasty. Not when Romulus lost his kingdom but when he lost his soul. Yet it was at this zero point that the true nature of the humans around him began to show.
"Enough of this drama."
The voice was cold and sharp cutting through Romulus's cries.
The boy looked up with swollen eyes. Before him stood Petronius Maximus the head senator who had always smiled sweetly and bowed in reverence. But today there were no smiles. Behind Petronius stood General Vitus with arms crossed over his chest surrounded by dozens of garrison soldiers holding spears in alert stances.
Their faces were hard without sympathy. There was only the cold calculation of men counting the price of their own necks in the market of fate.
"Orestes is dead," Petronius said to General Vitus as if Romulus were not there. "The protector is gone. Odoacer will arrive tomorrow morning to burn this city if we do not give him what he wants."
"We need a bargaining chip," Vitus replied flatly. His eyes looked at Romulus like a butcher eyeing a fat lamb. "Something of value to buy the safety of our necks."
"Seize the boy," commanded Petronius pointing at Romulus who was still sobbing on the ground. "We will hand him over alive to Odoacer as a sign of total surrender."
Romulus's eyes widened. His breath hitched seeing the men who were supposed to be his protectors now stepping forward with threatening faces. His body tried to retreat crawling backward in the mud in panic like a cornered animal.
"Do not touch him!"
The scream came from a living corpse.
With the last of his strength that came from God knows where Spurius rose unsteadily. He drew his sword and slashed the arm of a soldier reaching for Romulus's robe.
Fresh blood sprayed onto Romulus's pale face.
"Traitors!" roared Spurius. He stood shakily in front of Romulus becoming the last living shield. His sword was pointed with a trembling hand at the crowd. "You dare sell the blood of Augustus to save your own skins?!"
"Finish the old man!" ordered Vitus without hesitation. "Take the child now!"
Chaos broke out instantly. Five Scholae guards who still possessed a shred of honor ran from the guard post to help Spurius. But they were outnumbered ten to one against the mutinous garrison soldiers. The sound of clashing iron and screams of pain filled the palace courtyard.
"Romulus run!" shouted Spurius while parrying two spears at once. His legs were giving out.
But Romulus froze. His legs felt like jelly. His eyes widened in horror watching the slaughter happening just inches from his nose. One of his loyal guards was stabbed through the neck and his blood sprayed wetting the stone floor.
"To the Inner Door! Quickly you fool!" Spurius kicked Romulus's leg forcing him out of his shock.
The fear of death finally moved the small body. Romulus got up with difficulty slipping in blood and mud then ran stumbling toward the great door of the inner palace. Behind him Spurius and the remaining guards retreated slowly fighting desperately to buy time.
They reached the threshold dragging Spurius who was now severely wounded in the thigh. With panic they pushed the giant teak door closed.
The door shut just as the tips of the rebel spears struck the wood. Romulus helped drop the heavy iron bar with trembling hands locking the door and isolating them from the outside world.
The sounds of pounding and Vitus's shouting threats could be heard from behind the door. But inside the dark and cold hall there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the stifled sobs of Romulus who curled up on the floor again. Hugging his knees in the darkness. Trapped inside his own palace.
Legends often simplify heroism into easy numbers. In the folk songs sung in Ravenna's taverns for centuries it is said that only five guards stood to defend the last Emperor. But historical truth is far grander and more painful than drunken ballads.
I have held the remnants of Spurius's diary myself pages turned to stone by blood and time. It was found by archaeologists in the Crypta Obscura a secret storage room beneath the ruins of the Palace Chapel three hundred years after this event. There in hasty handwriting Spurius recorded their names.
Not five. There were eleven soldiers who chose to die with him that night.
As a keeper of the past I cannot let their names be lost to the dust. They were Felix, Decius, Titus, Gaius, Publius, Marcus, Lucius, Severus, Valerius, Agrippa and Antonius. Together with Spurius they numbered twelve.
Twelve ordinary men standing against the gates of hell. Just like the twelve disciples of our Lord Jesus faithful until death knocked hard upon the door. That night they were no longer mercenaries fighting for gold. They were martyrs fighting for the principle that an oath of loyalty must not be broken simply because of fear.
Let us return to that hellish night.
The night grew deeper and the Inner Palace Hall had turned into a noisy inferno. The sound of the battering ram striking the main door rang out repeatedly like the heartbeat of an angry giant. Every impact brought down dust from the ceiling and made the room gloomier.
Spurius was no longer sitting. Though his leg was severely wounded and blood seeped through his makeshift bandages the old veteran led his eleven brothers with a holy madness. They piled tables benches and marble statues against the cracking double doors. Their shoulders braced the iron bar in turns. The soldiers' faces were tense with bulging neck veins as they shouted to encourage one another to deafen their ears to General Vitus's threats outside.
"Hold! Tighten the shields at the door! For God's sake do not let the dogs in!" Spurius's shout sounded hoarse cutting through the noise.
In the dark corner of the room behind a large pillar Romulus's presence was barely detectable.
The small body curled up hands covering his ears tight. A panic attack made his body tremble violently. Short breaths raced with his heartbeat while wild eyes scanned the surroundings looking for a hiding place that was impossible to find. Death felt like it was standing right in front of his eyes. The sight of twelve men preparing to die for him only made his stomach churn.
A cold touch on his ankle nearly triggered a scream but the voice was choked in his throat.
Elaphius. The old servant lay on the floor half his body swallowed by shadows. A pool of dark blood appeared to be spreading beneath his stomach a result of a stray slash during the riot in the courtyard that had just claimed his remaining strength.
"Elaphius?" The whisper came out with tears welling up again.
A pale index finger pressed against the servant's lips. His eyes glanced warily at Spurius and the eleven soldiers who were busy shouting commands at the door.
"Do not let them know," whispered Elaphius with gasping breath. "Spurius will die here. That stubborn soldier will fight to the last man. But Your Majesty must live."
The trembling hand reached into his tunic pulling out a rusty old iron key and shoving it into Romulus's cold palm.
"Behind that tapestry there is a keyhole in the gap of the third stone from the floor. An ancient drainage channel that leads to the northern marsh."
"I cannot. It is too scary alone." A stifled sob escaped Romulus's lips.
"Go," urged Elaphius squeezing his master's hand weakly. "They will not look in the marsh tonight. Vitus has promised Odoacer to hand over Your Majesty tomorrow morning. The enemy is off guard having a victory feast."
The light in the old eyes began to dim. "Run Son. Run far away. Do not look back."
The hand's grip loosened. Elaphius's head lolled to the side moving no more.
The sound of cracking door wood forced Romulus to jump up. The barricade of tables and chairs began to shift pushed by the force of the ram from outside. Spurius's shout ordering his men to hold harder sounded desperate. The door would not last long.
Survival instinct took control of the body. Not courage but pure fear like a rat seeing a crack when the ship sinks. There was no goodbye to Spurius. If the veteran knew there would surely be a prohibition or it would break the concentration of the crucial door defense.
Breath held. Romulus crawled quickly behind the large tapestry. Trembling fingers felt the cold stone searching for the intended keyhole. A soft click was heard followed by the shifting of a section of the wall. The gap was enough for his thin body. The foul smell of the sewer immediately stung his nose.
Without looking back at Spurius and the twelve lives being sacrificed the body slipped into the black hole. The stone wall was pulled shut again.
The tunnel was narrow slippery and pitch black. Romulus crawled over mud and filth. Knees grazed expensive purple robes snagged on rough stones until torn. Silent weeping accompanied the whole way tears mixing with the waste dripping from the ceiling.
Coward. The word kept repeating in his head. Leaving Spurius to die. Leaving his father's corpse. Running to save his own skin.
Time seemed to run forever until fresh air greeted his face. The rusty iron grate at the end of the tunnel was pushed open and the body fell out landing in the cold marsh mud.
The outside world welcomed him. The night wind hit his wet face. The rain had stopped leaving only thick fog.
Romulus rose shivering. His gaze swept the surroundings in panic. To the south the walls of Ravenna fortress loomed high and dark. But when he turned north his body froze instantly.
Several hundred meters ahead the field beyond the marsh was filled with thousands of points of bonfire light. Odoacer's camp.
Faint laughter carried on the wind. The smell of roasted meat was wafting. The barbarian troops were not on alert at all busy partying and drunk on looted wine. They were celebrating the easy victory promised by the traitors for tomorrow morning.
Feet moved backward reflexively. Run. The mind screamed to run to the forest hide until the world ended.
The movement stopped when his eyes caught the reflection of his face in a puddle of murky water.
A face streaked with dirt swollen and pathetic.
Instantly terrifying memories from a few hours ago hit his mind without mercy. The stiff face of his father in the mud. The bloody face of Spurius standing holding the door with his eleven brothers. The face of General Vitus laughing while selling his emperor's life.
They all died because of one weak child.
The pain in his chest was so intense that his stomach felt nauseous. Head clutched and hair yanked roughly. Breath panting irregularly. Sanity began to crack. Excessive fear guilt and deep grief mixed into a poison in the teenager's brain.
Laughter from the enemy camp was heard again. Mocking.
They laughed after killing. They ate and drank while waiting for morning to drag the Emperor like a dog.
Hand groped behind the remains of the robe. Fingers touched the cold iron of the Pugio dagger still tucked there.
Rational thought had vanished. Common sense would surely choose to run to save life. But a soul that has been shattered does not care about safety.
If I run that laughter will be heard forever.
Blank eyes stared at the largest tent in the center of the camp which was guarded most loosely. Feet began to step forward breaking through the tall grass. The walk was unsteady staggering like a drunkard or a madman who had lost his way.
If I must die he thought with an unnatural crooked smile at least I die holding a knife.
The crying boy was gone inside the tunnel earlier. The figure now walking through the fog toward the Barbarian King's tent was something else. Something broken desperate and dangerous.