Classis Harbor, Ravenna. October 10, 476 AD
The pale morning sun began to peek shyly from the eastern horizon, illuminating the surface of the Adriatic Sea which was now calm as if the apocalypse had never happened there just hours before.
The silence of the morning was broken by the deep resonant sound of a long trumpet from the harbor watchtower.
TRUUUUUUUUUUUUUM!
Inside the palace, Spurius Maecenas who had not slept all night immediately rose from his chair upon hearing the signal. Without wasting time he put on his cloak and rushed to wake Theron. Meanwhile in his warm bedroom the young Emperor Romulus was still fast asleep, exhausted by the mental burden he had carried the night before.
Spurius and Theron rode their horses through the cold cobblestone streets of Ravenna toward the harbor. The morning dew mixed with the faint smell of smoke carried by the wind from the sea.
When they arrived at the docks a grim sight greeted them.
Vitus's merchant fleet began to enter the harbor one by one. Their torn sails and hulls charred in places bore silent witness to the ferocity of the night.
Port workers, porters, and city residents who heard the news of the fleet's arrival began to gather. Cheers began to be heard.
"Long live Legio Italica!"
"Long live General Vitus!"
"Rome prevails!"
They cheered happily. They threw their hats into the air. For the common people the return of these ships meant the enemy blockade was destroyed. It meant grain would come in. It meant they would not starve to death.
However Spurius immediately noticed something odd. Something that made his blood run cold amidst the cheering.
The ships were silent.
There were no returning cheers from the soldiers on deck. As the Fortuna docked and the gangway was lowered the soldiers of Legio Italica descended with dragging steps.
Their faces were empty. Their eyes were hollow staring straight ahead as if looking through the crowd welcoming them. They looked like empty shells, bodies without souls that had just returned from hell. When the people patted their shoulders and shook their hands the soldiers only forced thin pitiful smiles, smiles that did not reach their eyes.
Vitus was the last to disembark. The old General was not wearing his helmet. His face was smeared with black soot and his armor smelled of charred flesh.
Spurius immediately pushed through the crowd approaching his friend.
"Vitus," Spurius greeted, his voice trying to sound cheerful but failing. "How was your voyage? You won but you look like you've seen a ghost."
Vitus stopped walking. He looked at Spurius for a moment then gestured with his head toward a quiet stack of crates.
"Come here," said Vitus hoarsely.
They walked away from the crowd and cheers leaving Theron who was immediately swarmed by the ship's engineering officers.
After ensuring no ears were listening Vitus took off his dirty gloves and threw them to the ground in frustration.
"That weapon..." whispered Vitus, his hands trembling. "That weapon is too terrible, Spurius."
"Theron said it would burn," replied Spurius carefully.
"Burn?" Vitus chuckled, a laugh devoid of humor. "I have seen cities burn. I have seen forests burn. But this? This is not fire, Spurius. This is a curse."
Vitus leaned in close, his eyes wild with trauma.
"That liquid burns them alive down to the bone. I thought it would burn like normal fire just hard to extinguish. But no. This fire melts their skin like wax. This fire melts the metal of their armor and fuses it with their flesh. They screamed... by God they screamed even when they were drowning underwater."
Spurius fell silent swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth.
Vitus gripped Spurius's shoulder tightly.
"Caesar must not know the details of this," hissed Vitus sharply. "Tell him we won. Tell him the enemy drowned. But do not tell him how they died. If you do not want to destroy his soul do not let him know that he ordered a massacre this heinous."
Spurius nodded slowly. "I understand. We will protect him."
"You must," Vitus interrupted quickly. "Spurius, I saw with my own eyes. By the Mother of Christ with this weapon you could conquer the world in a month. No one can stand against us."
Vitus turned toward the crowd staring at Theron in the distance who was busy recording damage reports on the spray pipes with a cold emotionless face.
"I am afraid," continued Vitus, his voice lowering. "I am afraid if Caesar grows up to be like me. If he gets used to this kind of power... he will become a mad Caesar who unleashes hell upon the world just because someone looked at him the wrong way."
"You are too naive my friend," argued Spurius defending his ward. "Romulus is not that kind of person. His heart is too soft. He cried when his horse was sick."
"Too soft you say?" snapped Vitus. "Too soft for a child who beheaded a man with his own small hands last month? We do not know what he will become, Spurius. He is alone. He is an orphan. He has no one."
Vitus released his grip.
"We must hide this weapon. Or at least try not to use it again. If Ignis Dei falls into the wrong hands or if Romulus loses control of his morals..." Vitus did not finish his sentence.
The two of them stood in silence for a long time under the shadow of the harbor warehouse while the morning sun rose higher.
"I will send a letter to the Vatican," said Spurius suddenly, breaking the silence.
Vitus frowned. "The Vatican? What for? Pope Simplicius has no army."
Spurius did not explain further. He only gazed at the calm sea with a mysterious look.
"Rest, General," said Spurius while patting Vitus on the shoulder. "You have won the war. Clean yourself of this smell of death."
Without waiting for an answer Spurius turned and walked quickly toward his horse. He spurred his mount back to the palace leaving Vitus standing bewildered.
Meanwhile news of the victory of Romulus's fleet began to spread throughout the city like wildfire. And along with the news of victory terrible tales told by the traumatized soldiers began to creep from mouth to mouth, whispering of a sea turned to blood and fire that could not die.
Ravenna was saved but a new ghost had been born in its harbor.
At nine o'clock that morning Romulus woke with a strange feeling.
Usually mornings in Ravenna always began with an oppressive silence or the sound of soldiers' hurried footsteps bringing bad news. But today was different. Even from behind the thick curtains of his room he could hear something that had long been missing from this city.
Laughter.
His bedroom door swung wide open. Spurius Maecenas strode in. His old guardian's face looked tired, dark bags under his eyes, but there was a broad smile plastered there. A smile that if Romulus had looked more closely did not truly reach his eyes.
"Wake up, Little Caesar!" Spurius exclaimed with a slightly forced cheerful tone. "Rome calls you. And this time Rome calls with good news."
Romulus immediately sat up rubbing his still-sticky eyes. "Spurius? What happened? Vitus's fleet...?"
"Won," interrupted Spurius quickly. He walked to the window and threw open the heavy drapes letting the morning sunlight flood the room. "They won decisively, Dominus. The blockade is destroyed. Julius Nepos's ships ran away like dogs with their tails between their legs."
Romulus's eyes went round. His drowsiness vanished instantly replaced by the surge of pure joy typical of a young boy.
"Really? Ignis Dei worked?" he asked enthusiastically jumping down from the bed. "How was the battle? Was the fire big? Did Vitus burn all their ships?"
Spurius paused for a split second. The image of Vitus's soot-stained face and the stories of melting skin flashed through his mind. He swallowed pushing the nausea deep down before answering.
"The weapon... was very effective," answered Spurius diplomatically. He picked up Romulus's imperial robe and draped it over the boy's shoulders. "The enemy was so terrified seeing the fire that they panicked and fled. Many of their ships sank due to their own collisions. It was a clean victory, Caesar."
"I want to see Vitus! I want to hear the story directly!" exclaimed Romulus trotting toward the door.
"General Vitus is waiting in the Strategy Hall with the Council," said Spurius, holding Romulus's shoulder gently to guide him out. "They are calculating the remaining logistics. Let us meet them."
The atmosphere in the Strategy Hall felt heavy despite the news of victory spreading. On the large map table which was usually filled with troop pawns lay the remains of a simple breakfast of hard bread and water, a sign that even the palace rations were running low.
General Vitus stood at the end of the table. His face was clean of soot but his eyes were sunken and his gaze blank as he stared at the map of the Adriatic Sea. Beside him sat Theron who was nervously cleaning his crystal spectacles. Meanwhile on the other side Manlius the Food Administrator was seen wiping sweat from his slick forehead.
The door opened. Romulus walked in followed by Spurius.
"Ave Augustus!" they shouted in unison, saluting.
But Romulus did not care for formalities. He walked straight to Vitus, his eyes shining with an innocent yet terrifying curiosity.
"General!" exclaimed Romulus. "Spurius said we won! Tell me! How did Ignis Dei work? Was it as we imagined?"
Vitus looked at his young emperor's face. He saw spirit there, spirit not yet tainted by the smell of burnt human flesh. Vitus felt a lump in his throat. He could not bring himself to tell how the enemy screamed as their skin melted and fused with their armor.
"It... went according to plan, Dominus," Vitus answered softly, his voice hoarse. "Theron's weapon worked perfectly. The fire burned their sails. They panicked and sank."
"But what about the details?" urged Romulus again staring intently at Vitus. "Was the fire green like Theron said? Did you see them trying to jump into the water? Did the water burn as in the experiments?"
Vitus closed his eyes for a moment, the image of last night's hell haunting him again.
"Yes, Caesar," Vitus answered briefly trying to hide the tremor in his voice. "The fire burned everything. Even water could not extinguish it. It was... a terrifying sight."
Romulus opened his mouth to ask more about the explosions or the enemy's screams but Vitus could not take it anymore. He had to stop this conversation before Romulus dug deeper and found the true horror.
He struck the map table lightly with his fist cutting off the boy's enthusiasm.
"Enough about the battle," interrupted Vitus firmly, his voice diverting everyone's attention. "The enemy is dead, Caesar. What matters now is that we are still alive."
Vitus immediately turned his body to face Manlius the Food Administrator rudely shifting the topic to a more pressing issue.
"Manlius," scolded Vitus sharply. "Forget about the fire. Focus on the stomach. With the blockade broken this morning how much longer must we survive with the remaining grain in the warehouse? When can the first ship from Sicily enter?"
Manlius was startled by the sudden question. He hurriedly opened his logistical scroll with trembling hands.
"Uh... well General, Your Majesty," answered Manlius nervously. "The news of victory just spread this morning. The grain merchants on the open sea need time to be sure the route is truly safe."
"How long?" pressed Vitus impatiently.
"Two days," answered Manlius quickly. "At the earliest the first grain ship will dock in two days. But our stock... our stock in the city is only enough for one day of normal eating. Or two days if we keep cutting the people's ration by half."
Romulus fell silent hearing that. His smile of victory slowly faded replaced by confusion and the burden of reality. He just realized that winning a war did not automatically make bellies full.
"Two days..." murmured Romulus softly.
"We must maintain strict rationing, Dominus," added Spurius taking over. "The people are euphoric because of the victory but their bellies are still empty. If we open the warehouses today for a celebration feast we will starve to death tomorrow before the relief ships arrive."
Vitus nodded in agreement. He looked at Romulus seriously trying to instill the burden of leadership onto the boy's shoulders.
"Winning the war is only half the journey, Caesar," said Vitus heavily. "We have burned the enemy. Now your job is to ensure your people don't eat each other while waiting for the grain ships. No parties today. Only hard work."
Romulus looked at the tired faces around him. He finally understood that the cheers outside were just a thin veil over the suffering that had not yet ended. He felt small in that big room realizing he knew nothing about running a city.
"Very well," murmured Romulus quietly, his voice sounding resigned. "Do what needs to be done, General."
Vitus sighed in relief. The topic of roasted flesh and screams of hell had been avoided. At least for now the boy's soul was still safe.
The meeting in the Strategy Hall was over. The officials returned to their posts with grim faces counting the days and the remaining grain. But for Romulus the true torture had just begun.
In the sandy courtyard behind the Scholae barracks the afternoon sun burned without mercy. Dust rose every time feet stomped the hard-packed earth.
"Raise your shield, Caesar!" barked Spurius.
THWACK!
Wood met wicker and hide. Spurius swung the rudis, a wooden training sword, with full force slamming into the side of the scutum held by Romulus. The impact was so hard that the vibration traveled up Romulus's arm making his bones ache.
Romulus stumbled sideways. His foot tripped on the uneven sand and he fell to his knees.
"Dead," said Spurius coldly. He stood towering over his Emperor offering no hand to help. "If this were a battlefield your collarbone would be broken and your neck would be open for slaughter."
Romulus spat to the side. His spit was mixed with sand. He growled in anger pounding the ground with his fist.
"Damn it!" cursed Romulus, his breath coming in rough gasps. "You cheated! My footing wasn't ready!"
"The enemy doesn't care if your footing is ready or not!" retorted Spurius sharply, his voice echoing in the silent arena. He kicked Romulus's toe lightly to make him get up. "Do you think a barbarian or a rebel will stop and ask, Excuse me Your Majesty, is your stance comfortable before I stab you in the heart? No. They only care that you die."
Romulus got up roughly, his face beet red from a mixture of shame and adrenaline.
"I am not a baby that you need to lecture every second," hissed Romulus.
Driven by frustration Romulus grabbed his wooden sword, deliberately made twice as heavy as a real iron sword, and attacked.
"HAAAH!"
Romulus lunged forward. He raised his sword high above his head intending to smash Spurius's skull with one lethal slash.
Spurius did not retreat. Instead he stepped forward calmly, raised his shield slightly to parry the blow, and twisted his wrist.
CLACK!
With minimal movement Spurius deflected Romulus's sword to the side leaving Romulus's chest wide open. Spurius then pressed the blunt tip of his sword against Romulus's solar plexus and pushed hard enough to make Romulus cough, gasping for air.
"Wrong," said Spurius flatly. He released the pressure. "You fight like a drunken farmer."
Romulus clutched his stomach, his eyes glaring. "I tried to slash you!"
"That is your mistake. You tried to slash, a move known as caesim," Spurius began to explain, his tone shifting to that of a serious military instructor. He demonstrated the movement slowly. "Look when you raise your hand to slash. What happens? Your armpit is open. Your ribs are open. You give your life to the enemy even before your sword touches them."
Spurius returned to a ready stance. Low center of gravity, shield tight against the chest, sword hidden beside the right hip.
"Remember this well, Romulus. The Romans conquered the world not with the wild slashes of barbarians. We conquered the world with the thrust, the punctim."
Spurius performed a quick thrusting motion. Short, straight, lethal.
"A slash might only cut muscle or be stopped by the enemy's collarbone. The man you slash can still get up and kill you. But a thrust?" Spurius pointed to Romulus's solar plexus again. "Two inches. It only takes two inches of iron entering the body to tear a lung, liver, or kidney. It is fatal. It is efficient. You do not need the strength of an ox; you only need the precision of a snake."
"Now," ordered Spurius. "Forget your ego. Take your stance again. Keep your elbow tight to your ribs. Leave no gaps."
Romulus regulated his breathing. He corrected his position. Left foot forward, knees bent. He hid the heavy sword behind the profile of his shield.
"Use your anger," baited Spurius. "But channel it through the shield. The iron Umbo in the center of that shield is a weapon not a decoration. Smash it into my face, make me stagger, then stab. Understand?"
Romulus nodded. His eyes narrowed, focused.
"Again!" shouted Romulus.
This time when Spurius moved Romulus did not retreat. He took the initial impact with his shoulder enduring the pain. Then with a loud grunt he shoved his entire body weight forward.
CRASH!
Romulus slammed the central boss of his shield as hard as he could into Spurius's chest.
Spurius was pushed back a step. His balance wavered slightly due to the boy's explosive power.
Seeing the opening Romulus did not swing. He launched his hand straight forward like a released spring.
THUD!
The wooden tip of the rudis hit Spurius's lower belly squarely.
Spurius winced slightly. The thrust was solid, heavy, and precise. If it had been an iron gladius, Spurius knew his guts would have been torn open.
Romulus immediately stepped back into a defensive position, breathing heavily, waiting for a counterattack. But the attack did not come.
Spurius straightened up, rubbed his sore stomach, and nodded slowly. There was no laughter, only a respectful nod between soldiers.
"Clean," said Spurius briefly. "A clean thrust. Slid right into the armor gap."
Romulus lowered his weapon. His legs turned to jelly instantly and he sat down on the sand. Sweat soaked his entire body turning the dust into mud on his skin.
He looked at his palms which were blistered and starting to callus. Suddenly his face turned gloomy.
"My father..." murmured Romulus softly, his voice trembling slightly. "He was the Supreme Commander of Rome. He was the greatest soldier of his time."
Romulus stared at the sand not daring to look at Spurius.
"He would be ashamed to see me, Spurius. He would be ashamed to see his son beaten repeatedly by an old man, falling in the sand like a stupid child. I... I am not as strong as him."
Silence fell for a moment. The afternoon wind blew gently.
Spurius walked closer then sat beside his Emperor on the dirty sand. He laid down his wooden sword.
"Do you think your father was born holding a sword?" asked Spurius quietly.
Romulus turned his head.
"I knew Orestes since we were young, when we were both junior officers under Attila," continued Spurius, his eyes gazing into the past. "His first training was far worse than yours. He vomited three times from being hit in the stomach. He cried because his feet were so swollen he couldn't walk."
Romulus's eyes widened. "Father cried?"
"All soldiers bleed, Romulus. All soldiers fall," said Spurius firmly but gently. "What made your father a great General was not that he never fell. But because he always got back up, spat the blood from his mouth, and took his stance again. Exactly as you just did."
Spurius patted Romulus's shoulder which was thin but hardening.
"If he saw you today... saw you thrust into my gut after being beaten to a pulp... he would not be ashamed. He would be proud. Because you have the same fire in your eyes."
Romulus fell silent. The words seeped into his heart healing his bruised ego faster than any medicine. He wiped his eyes briefly with the back of his hand ensuring no tears were visible.
"Thank you, Spurius," whispered Romulus.
Spurius patted Romulus's thigh then stood up brushing the dust from his trousers.
"My stomach which you just stabbed is getting hungry and I am sure you need dinner before we face the pile of logistical reports tomorrow," said Spurius, his voice returning to its normal pragmatic tone.
He turned to the two Scholae guards on the sidelines who had been watching in silence.
"You two! Take Caesar to the baths. Ensure his muscles are massaged so he doesn't walk like a hunched old man tomorrow."
Romulus stood up. His body ached all over but his step was lighter. Hearing Spurius's order he paused for a moment then looked at one of the guards with a serious face.
"Soldier," called Romulus.
The guard immediately straightened up, a bit nervous to be addressed directly by the Emperor. "Yes, Dominus?"
"Be honest with me," said Romulus, pointing at Spurius with his chin. "Who looks more like a hunchbacked old man here? Me or him?"
The guard flinched. His eyes darted to Spurius who was glaring playfully then to Romulus who awaited an answer. He paused for a moment, swallowed, and decided on his loyalty.
"Of course, Master Spurius, My Caesar," answered the guard loudly.
Spurius laughed crisply while shaking his head admitting defeat in the banter while Romulus smiled triumphantly.
Romulus looked at Spurius then raised his hand in the air in a theatrical gesture.
"The verdict has been spoken," said Romulus proudly.
Without waiting for a reply Romulus turned and continued his walk toward the baths with a chuckle leaving his old instructor still smiling in the middle of the arena.
After ensuring Romulus entered the baths under heavy guard Spurius did not rest immediately. He walked toward his quiet study. His steps were heavy not just from age but from the weight of the future he had just realized in the training arena.
He sat on an oak chair and poured a little wine into a goblet then pulled out a sheet of vellum, a finely tanned and durable sheepskin. He dipped his quill into the dark black ink.
Spurius did not know that the sheet of sheepskin he touched that night would survive through the ages. He did not know that hundreds of years in the future this letter would be known as the "Codex Maecenas", a sacred artifact safely stored in the Vatican Secret Archives which was recently moved to the Imperial Library in Rome at my request so that the world could see the original handwriting of the man who saved the soul of the Dynasty's Founder.
But tonight for Spurius it was merely a desperate plea from a foster father.
His hand roughened by the sword now danced across the skin surface composing sentence after sentence with deep urgency.
To His Holiness the Holy Father, Pope Simplicius, Successor of Saint Peter on Earth,
I, Spurius Maecenas, a humble servant of God and protector of the Emperor, write this letter on bended knee in spirit.
Today Ravenna prevailed, Holy Father. God allowed fire to consume our enemies. Yet this victory brings a new fear to my heart. We have placed a sword in the hands of a boy. We have given him the power to take lives and burn oceans but we forgot to give him a shield for his soul.
In Romulus's eyes I see seeds of greatness but also seeds of destruction. Without a righteous guide a Caesar can easily mistake himself for God.
Therefore in the name of the Empire I beg the Holy See. Send us your best priest. Not a robed politician but a shepherd who carries the whip of truth.
Caesar needs a Prophet Nathan for his King David. Someone who is not blinded by palace gold who dares to point at the king's face and say "You are the man!" when the king sins. Someone who will always remind him that above the golden throne of Rome there is still the White Throne of God's Judgment.
Send him immediately before the glory of this world hardens the heart of my ward.
In the service of Christ and Rome,
Spurius Maecenas, Praefectus Praetorio.
Spurius sprinkled fine sand to dry the ink. Once dry he rolled the letter carefully.
He took a stick of red wax and melted it over the seam of the scroll. Before the wax hardened Spurius raised his right hand. On it was a heavy iron ring engraved with a scorpion which was the symbol of the Praetorian Guard.
This legendary unit had once been disbanded by Constantine due to their dark history but after Odoacer's death, Vitus gave strategic advice to revive it as a small loyal elite unit. And tonight the scorpion seal pressed into the wax again sealing the spiritual fate of the Empire.
SPLAT.
Spurius pressed the ring firmly.
"Enter!" ordered Spurius.
The door opened. Five fit men stepped in. They wore travel cloaks covered in dust with helmets in hand. They were Speculatores, the fastest cavalry messenger unit the legion possessed.
"This letter is for Pope Simplicius's eyes only," said Spurius while handing the tube to their leader. His gaze was sharp and deadly. "Take this to the Vatican. Do not stop to sleep. Do not stop to eat except on horseback. Change horses at every waystation."
The leader of the couriers accepted the tube with respect. "We will fly, Commander. In the name of Caesar."
"Go. May God be with your horses' steps."
The five men saluted then turned and ran out of the room. Minutes later the sound of galloping horses was heard leaving the palace courtyard breaking through the night gate carrying with them Spurius's hope for the salvation of Romulus's soul.
Spurius stood at the window watching the dust left by the couriers under the moonlight. He had done his part. He had trained the Emperor's body and now he had asked the Church to train his spirit.
That night for the first time in a long while Spurius Maecenas could sleep peacefully.