Ravenna, April 483 AD
Vitus arrived in Ravenna as the afternoon sun touched the western walls of the city, exactly as the courier had reported.
He came with twenty exhausted cavalrymen and the road dust of the Via Flaminia clinging to every fold of his cloak. Six days on horseback from Rome to Ravenna, tracing a road he had memorized like the lines on his own palm. Behind him, spare horses carried documents and reports from the growing Rome garrison under his command.
Romulus met him in the Strategy Hall not more than an hour after his arrival. There was no small talk. No welcoming banquet. Romulus sat in his chair and placed two parchments on the table: Felix's letter and the draft of the Consortium Imperii offer for Nepos.
Vitus read both in silence. His face did not change as he read. No frown. No nod. Flat like the surface of heated iron that had not yet shown its red color.
When he finished, he placed both parchments back on the table. Looked at Romulus.
"The Consortium Imperii offer is clever," said Vitus. His voice was too measured. "Separating Nepos from Theodore. I see the logic. But sending Spurius to Milan as the head of the delegation is too dangerous. He is too valuable to be risked at the enemy's negotiation table."
"Spurius volunteered himself," answered Romulus.
"Spurius always volunteers for things he should not do. It has been his bad habit since thirty years ago. But a bad habit is not a reason to let him walk into a lion's mouth."
"I have considered the risks," said Romulus. "And I accept them. What I need from you right now is not your opinion on whether this is good or bad. What I need is for you to calculate and prepare the proper escort for this delegation."
Vitus looked at Romulus. The young man who was once a little boy swinging his legs under the table now stared back without blinking, and in those golden brown eyes there was no room for negotiation. This was an order. Not a request.
"And about Pope Felix's letter?" asked Vitus, his voice dropping a tone. "You are ignoring the Pope's call?"
"I'm not ignoring it. I'm refusing. There is a difference between the two. My letter of refusal was sent to Rome yesterday."
The muscle in Vitus's jaw twitched. Once and twice. Then he nodded.
"As you command, Caesar. I will prepare the escort."
He bowed and walked out. His steps were controlled and his back was straight. There was nothing to indicate the storm beneath his skin except for one small thing that might only be noticed by someone who had observed him for a very long time.
His right hand clenched and unclenched, clenched and unclenched, the unconscious rhythm of a man restraining himself from doing something he very, very much wanted to do.
Vitus's room in the Ravenna palace had never truly been a living quarter. It resembled an extension of the Strategy Hall; a large table covered in maps, wooden shelves filled with scrolls of military reports, and a small bed in the corner that looked like it was only used a few times a year.
Vitus took off his travel cloak and threw it onto the bed. Poured water from a pitcher into a basin and washed his face. The cold water touched the skin that was hot from the journey and from the anger he had not yet released.
A knock on the door. Marcellinus entered without waiting for an answer, closing the door behind him.
"Magister," said Marcellinus. "I saw your face when you left the Strategy Hall. You are not pleased."
"Pleased?" Vitus snorted, wiping his face with a rough cloth. "Pleased, you say. I spent six years building the garrison, training the army. Six years. And now our young emperor, who the last time I saw him was still glancing at Spurius before opening his mouth, refuses the Pope's call and sends a peace delegation to Milan."
Vitus dropped the cloth onto the table with a harder motion than necessary.
"A peace delegation to Milan. To a city crowned by a traitorous bishop and guarded by fifteen thousand soldiers that multiply every day. And he sends Spurius there with a parchment bearing a Consortium Imperii offer as if Nepos would accept half of Italy when he already claims all of it."
"It is an order, Magister," said Marcellinus. "And orders must be executed."
"Yes. Orders must be executed." Vitus looked at Marcellinus. "But this order will yield nothing. Nepos will not accept that offer. Theodore will not let him accept. This delegation will return empty-handed, or worse, will not return at all. And meanwhile, we are wasting time that could be used to attack while our position is still advantageous."
Marcellinus stood in silence, listening. Then he said something simple. Something that was not meant as anything other than a statement of fact. But which, in Vitus's ears, sounded like a key opening a door.
"The problem is, Magister, war cannot come if no one starts it. And the emperor has decided that he will not be the one to start."
Vitus stopped moving.
The sentence hung in the stuffy air of the room. Simple. Plain. But inside Vitus's head, that sentence spun and transformed and birthed something dark and measured and very, very dangerous.
If we don't go to war, Vitus thought, then I will make war come to us.
He looked at Marcellinus. His eyes changed. No longer the eyes of a frustrated general. The eyes of a general who had found his path.
"Come with me," said Vitus.
"Where?"
"Down below. To the dungeons."
The Ravenna holding cells were no longer as quiet as they used to be. Since Gisela was freed and the barbarians were moved to the settlement, those cells were filled by new occupants; common criminals. Thieves, robbers, murderers, deserters caught at the border. The city's trash gathered and stored underground like dirt swept under the bed.
Vitus walked down the underground corridor with a torch in his left hand, Marcellinus following behind with a frown that deepened with every step.
The two guards on duty stood straight upon seeing the Magister Militum descend, their eyes widening because a visit from an official this high at an hour like this was not a good sign.
"Give me the prisoner roll," ordered Vitus. "The most dangerous ones. The ones least afraid of death. Ten men."
The guard handed over a scroll of parchment with trembling hands. Vitus read it under the torchlight, his finger tracing the names and the crimes recorded. Murder. Armed robbery. A deserter who killed his superior when caught. A horse thief who stabbed three horse owners in one night.
Ten names were chosen. Ten cells were opened.
Ten men stood in the underground corridor, blinking under the torchlight that blinded eyes accustomed to the dark. They looked exactly like what they were: men who had crossed the line and who had nothing left to lose. Hard bodies and scars and unflinching eyes.
Vitus stood before them. Torch in hand. Sword at his waist. A giant shadow on the wall.
"Listen closely," said Vitus. His voice was low but every word hit its mark with the precision of a spear thrown by a trained hand.
"I'm offering you something you never imagined you would hear in a place like this. Freedom. Gold. Land. A new life in a place far from here where no one knows your faces."
Ten pairs of eyes stared at him. Suspicious. Intrigued, then suspicious again.
"In exchange, you do one mission for me. One night of work. After that, you are free. Gold and horses await you at a designated location."
"What mission?" asked one of the prisoners, a thick-bearded man with a long scar from his ear to his chin.
Vitus looked at him.
"In a few days, a peace delegation from Ravenna will travel north toward Milan. Fourteen people. You will take a different, faster route and get ahead of them. You will disguise yourselves as soldiers of Nepos's legion, wearing armors that I have prepared with the crests and banners of northern Rome."
Vitus paused. "And you will ambush that delegation at night. Kill everyone. Leave Nepos's banner at the location. Then disappear."
The silence in that underground corridor was different from any other silence that had ever filled this place. This was the silence of ten men calculating whether what they just heard was real or a trap.
"With one absolute condition," continued Vitus, and his voice dropped to a pitch that allowed no misunderstanding. "Among those fourteen people, there is one who must not die. One person you must let escape. The Praefectus Praetorio. He is the one wearing armor and a cloak different from the rest. Armor with an engraved golden eagle crest and a dark red cloak with golden borders. Impossible to mistake. He must survive. If he dies, then our deal is void and I will hunt you down one by one to the ends of the earth."
"Why must he live?" asked the bearded prisoner.
"That is not your concern. Your concern is to make sure he lives and everyone else dies. Can you do it or not?"
The ten men exchanged glances in the dark. Then the bearded prisoner grinned, revealing teeth that were black and incomplete.
"We can, Magister. For gold and freedom, anything can be done."
Vitus nodded. Turned to the guards.
"Prepare them. Horses, weapons, and the armors of Nepos's legion that I will give to you. Keep them in the back warehouse until the time comes. No one else must know besides the two of you and me."
The guards nodded with a fear they hid behind obedience.
Vitus walked back to the stairs. Marcellinus followed. The face of the Praefectus Castrorum was now pale under the torchlight, not from the cold but from what he had just witnessed.
In the quieter corridor upstairs, Marcellinus quickened his pace until he was level with Vitus.
"Magister," whispered Marcellinus. "This is too risky. If one of them is caught and talks, if one of them is recognized, if the emperor finds out that you planned the attack on his own delegation..."
Vitus stopped walking. Turned around. And in one motion so fast that Marcellinus had no time to react, Vitus's sword was drawn and its tip stopped one inch from the Praefectus Castrorum's throat.
Behind Vitus, his two personal guards who always followed him took position, swords drawn, surrounding Marcellinus from both sides.
Marcellinus froze. His eyes widened. His breath hitched.
"You heard what happened down there," said Vitus. His voice was low. Calm. The voice of a man who had made a decision and who would not change it for anything in this world. "And what you heard never happened. Swear it, Gaius. By the mother of Christ. By the mother who gave birth to you. By whatever is still sacred to you. Swear that your mouth will keep you quiet."
Marcellinus stared at the tip of the sword gleaming one inch from his neck. Then stared into Vitus's eyes. And in those eyes he found no hesitation. Found no room for negotiation. Only the cold certainty of a man who would kill him in this corridor and tell everyone it was an accident if he refused.
Marcellinus knelt. Slowly. With his hands raised.
"I swear," said Marcellinus. His voice was hoarse. "By the mother of Christ. By my mother. By my soul. I swear to remain silent."
Vitus sheathed his sword. Reached out his hand and pulled Marcellinus up.
"This is not a betrayal, Gaius," said Vitus, and the most terrifying thing about that sentence was that Vitus truly believed what he was saying. "This is salvation. The boy does not want to fight. But war must happen. Because if war does not happen now, in our condition, then war will happen later, in their condition. And at that time, everything I have built for six years will be useless because the enemy is already twice as strong."
Vitus patted Marcellinus's shoulder. A pat that should have been comforting but felt like a weight being placed.
"Romulus will thank me one day," said Vitus as he walked away. "When he understands. When Italy is united under one emperor and one Church and one army. He will understand that what I did tonight was to save his empire."
Marcellinus stood alone in the corridor. The hand he had just raised to swear an oath was now trembling at his side.
He watched Vitus's shadow disappear at the end of the corridor and felt something cold creep down his spine.
Spurius truly believes he is saving the empire. And there is nothing more dangerous than a man who commits an evil act with the conviction that it is a good one.
The next morning, the delegation gathered in the palace courtyard.
Vitus had prepared the escort: ten cavalrymen from the Ravenna garrison. Fresh horses that had been well fed. Fully armed but not excessively so. Enough to show authority without provoking.
Spurius stood at the front, wearing the Praefectus Praetorio armor polished to a shine for the occasion. Armor that was different from ordinary soldiers; a chest plate with an engraved golden eagle crest, wider shoulder guards, and a dark red cloak with golden borders signifying the highest rank beneath the emperor.
Beside him, two diplomatic advisors: Lucius, a retired senator whose mind was still sharp even though his legs could no longer run, and Severinus, a young deacon fluent in Gothic and Latin who had a talent for finding words that offended no one.
Paulus stood at the foot of the palace steps, observing the prepared escort with furrowed brows.
"Only ten soldiers?" asked Paulus, looking at Vitus.
"A peace delegation to the enemy capital," answered Vitus, his voice as smooth as silk. "A large number would look like a military provocation. Ten is enough for honor and road protection without giving the impression that we are sending a strike force."
Romulus, who stood at the top of the steps, nodded.
"Vitus is right. I'm not sending them to fight or draw their swords."
Then another voice was heard from inside the palace. Steady footsteps on the stone floor.
Decius appeared in the doorway, wearing full armor and carrying a sword and shield on his back.
"I'm coming," said Decius. Flatly, without asking.
Spurius turned around.
"Decius, your place is here. Guarding the emperor."
"The others are enough to guard the emperor without me. My place is by your side, Praefectus. I have followed you for seven years. I will not stop now."
Vitus heard this conversation from the bottom of the steps. He did not want Decius to come. One extra soul not in the plan. But forbidding him too forcefully would raise questions he could not answer.
"Decurion," said Vitus. "The Praefectus is right. Your place is in Ravenna."
"The emperor's guards are the best troops I have ever trained," answered Decius without looking at Vitus, his eyes locked on Spurius. "They don't need me for a few weeks. Spurius needs me now."
Spurius looked at Decius for a long time. Then nodded.
"Very well. You come with me."
Vitus swallowed something that felt like iron in his throat. But he could not force a refusal without drawing attention. He merely nodded and turned away, ensuring his expression remained flat, even though his heart was heavy because he knew, someone who was not planned to die, would be fated to die, because of his actions.
Romulus descended the steps and approached Spurius. They stood face to face. The emperor and his guardian. The boy who was no longer a boy and the adoptive father who was too old to pretend his age did not matter.
"You must return," said Romulus. One word that carried all seven years.
"Always," answered Spurius. And he smiled. An old smile full of wrinkles but which still held a warmth that could not be imitated by any younger smile.
Fourteen people. Fourteen horses. Fourteen shadows moving through the gates of the Ravenna palace and disappearing into the road heading north.
Romulus watched them until the dust from the last horse's hooves disappeared on the horizon. Gisela stood beside him. Paulus behind him. Marcellinus in the corner, his face paler than it should be for a man merely watching a delegation depart.
The attack happened on the fourth night, twenty miles north of Bononia, in an open plain near the small town of Regium Lepidi.
The delegation had crossed the border line a day earlier. The journey so far was without incident. The roads in the northern territory were quiet but not suspicious. A few passing merchants bowed respectfully upon seeing the Ravenna banner. There were no Nepos patrols blocking their way.
They camped by the side of the road, on a flat and open grassy plain, near a small river whose water was clear and cold. Spurius chose the location because the view was open in all directions. Hard to be attacked by surprise. Or at least it should have been.
The night was dark. The moon was covered by clouds. The stars were hidden behind a gray blanket. Eight soldiers slept in shifts. Two stood guard at the watch posts facing north and south. Spurius sat near the fire that had turned to embers, awake, an old habit that never vanished. Decius lay beside him with his eyes half open.
And in the darkness, from a direction not watched by any watch post, ten shadows moved.
The attack began with arrows.
Three arrows from three directions. The soldier guarding the south post fell without a sound, an arrow piercing his neck before he could open his mouth. The soldier at the north post managed to scream, one short scream cut off by a second arrow striking his chest. That scream was enough to wake the camp.
Chaos.
The awakened soldiers fumbled for their weapons in the dark. The horses neighed in panic, pulling at their tethers. The campfire that had turned to embers only provided enough light to make shadows visible but not enough to distinguish friend from foe.
Ten men charged from the darkness. Wearing the armor of northern Rome. Carrying the banners of Nepos's legion fluttering on short poles. Swords drawn. Shouting in a chaotic mix of Latin and Gothic, shouts deliberately designed to sound like a coordinated military strike.
The battle lasted less than ten minutes. Ten minutes that changed everything.
The escort soldiers fought with the courage of men who had no choice but to fight. Eight soldiers against ten attackers in near total darkness, swords striking swords, iron clashing against shields, shouts mixing with groans. Four Ravenna soldiers fell in the first two minutes, struck from blind spots unseen in the dark. The other four fought longer, forming a defensive circle around the diplomats and Spurius, but one by one they collapsed.
Lucius, the old senator whose legs could no longer run, was slashed where he stood. A sword pierced his shoulder and he fell to the ground without a sound.
Severinus, the young deacon, managed to run a few steps before an arrow struck his chest. He fell with his hand still clutching the Consortium Imperii offer parchment he had guarded throughout the journey.
Then the attackers' eyes found what they were looking for.
The armor of the Praefectus Praetorio. The golden eagle crest. The dark red cloak with golden borders. He stood amidst the chaos, carrying the body of a wounded man with an arrow stuck in his stomach, trying to drag him toward the nearest horse.
There he was. The Praefectus. He must live.
Three attackers moved closer to him. Not to kill. To steer him away. To make sure he escaped. According to orders.
But the person he was dragging was still moving in his arms. Still alive. And their orders were clear; kill everyone except the Praefectus.
One of the attackers threw a spear. The iron pierced the chest of the dragged man from behind, tearing through his already weak body, and finally he stopped moving.
The Praefectus felt the body in his arms become dead weight. He let it go and saw the spear protruding from his chest. Eyes that no longer saw. A mouth that no longer spoke.
He knew there was nothing more that could be done to save the man. He had to run.
He ran to the nearest horse. Grabbed the saddle and climbed up with frantic, adrenaline-fueled movements. An arrow shot from the darkness and struck his right thigh. A burning pain spread from the entry point through his entire leg. But he did not stop. He spurred the horse south, toward the border, toward the place where the Ravenna flag still flew.
Behind him, the attackers did not pursue. Vitus's orders were clear. The Praefectus must escape.
They left the banners of Nepos's legion planted in the ground beside the dead fire. Left the scattered bodies on the plain near Regium Lepidi. Then disappeared into the darkness from which they came, taking gold and the promise of freedom.
The Praefectus Praetorio arrived in the small town of Claterna, twenty miles south of the attack site, as dawn began to color the eastern sky.
He fell from his horse in front of the town gates. The arrow was still stuck in his right thigh, its shaft broken from the riding movements but the arrowhead still embedded in the flesh. Blood had clotted around the wound, forming a black crust that cracked every time his leg moved. The Praefectus Praetorio armor was covered in blood.
The guards of Claterna found him lying on the ground with the horse standing over him, shielding his body from the morning dew as if the beast understood that its rider needed protection.
They carried him inside. Treated his wound as best they could. Pulled the arrowhead from his thigh, a process that made him scream even though he was half unconscious. And they sent a courier to Ravenna with the highest speed a fresh horse could cover.
The news arrived in Ravenna three days later.
Romulus heard the news from the mouth of the courier kneeling before him in the Strategy Hall, breathless, his face covered in dust, his eyes carrying news he did not want to deliver.
"The delegation was attacked, Caesar. On the plain near Regium Lepidi. Soldiers attacked carrying the banners of Nepos's legion." The courier swallowed hard. "The entire party is dead. Except for one person. The Praefectus Praetorio was found in Claterna with an arrow in his thigh. Gravely wounded but alive."
The silence that fell in the Strategy Hall felt like a room that had suddenly lost all its air.
Romulus did not move for several seconds. Anger, fear. A guilty relief that Spurius survived mixed with grief for everyone who did not. And beneath it all, something turning slowly and darkly: who did this. Why. And what must be done next.
Then he moved swiftly. Without hesitation.
"Horses. Now. A hundred cavalrymen, ready in one hour. Gisela, Vitus, you are coming with me."
Vitus, who was standing in the corner of the room when the news was delivered, nodded with a flat face.
The face of a magister receiving a battlefield report.
"Nepos has crossed the line," said Vitus. His voice heavy with a very convincing anger. "Attacking a peace delegation. Killing diplomats carrying a negotiation offer. This is not a minor border incident. This is a declaration of war."
Romulus looked at Vitus. Did not answer. His eyes were fiery but his mind was still spinning too fast to form words.
"We will discuss that later," said Romulus. "Right now we go to Spurius."
An hour later, a hundred and one riders dashed out of the gates of Ravenna. Romulus at the front, wearing armor and sword, his face hard and his eyes blazing. Gisela beside him, constantly looking at Romulus's face filled with anxiety. Vitus behind them, controlling the formation of a hundred cavalrymen moving on the Via Aemilia at a speed that sent dust rising as high as the trees.
In Romulus's head; one thought. Spurius. Is he alright. Is his wound serious. Will he still be breathing when they arrive.
In Gisela's head; who attacked. Why. And how many must die in return.
In Vitus's head; everything is going according to plan.
A hundred and one horses ran south toward Claterna, toward the small town where the Praefectus Praetorio lay with an arrow wound in his thigh, waiting for the emperor who did not yet know that what awaited him there would change everything.