Once, I stood at the edge of the pinewoods of Classe, far beyond Ravenna’s walls. There, the ancient trees stood like silent sentinels watching the ebb and flow of the Adriatic Sea. I saw an eagle fall from the heights of the gray sky. It fell not because its wings were broken, but because it clutched a marsh snake that was too large to be carried aloft. The two fell struggling upon the salt mud. The eagle refused to release its slippery prey, while the snake coiled around the hunter's neck with the last of its strength.

  Yet, as death nearly claimed them both, a small weasel emerged from behind a thorny bush. The weasel did not attack the eagle. Instead, it bit the snake's tail with its sharp teeth. The surprise caused the snake's coil to loosen for a moment, providing a gap for the eagle to break free and fly back into the sky, leaving its prey to become a meal for the weasel upon the mud.

  There, amidst the scent of pine and brackish water, I realized one thing. The world is not moved only by the beating wings of the predator or the coils of the prey. Often, the course of history is determined by a small creature waiting behind the bushes, who bites at the exact right moment not out of loyalty, but because he knows who will give him the most scraps of meat.

  The day after Bishop Johannes left the gates of Ravenna for Rome, he carried both hope and a curse for the Emperor inside his satchel. The city did not grow any calmer. On the contrary, Ravenna became like a boiling cauldron under a cracked lid. Romulus's victory over Odoacer had united the empire on parchment, but on the ground soaked by winter rain, old wounds remained wide open and waiting to be infected.

  Ravenna, November 18th, 476 AD

  The remaining barbarian forces such as the Heruli, Rugii, and Sciri who once worshipped Odoacer as a lion of war, no longer inhabited the warm main barracks within the city. By Vitus’s strict orders, they were moved to the West Sector Camp. It was an isolated lowland outside the inner walls of the palace and located right next to a foul smelling drainage canal.

  Their condition was deliberate. They were not and are not citizens of Rome. They were merely a group of people who had lost a war and were forced to swear an oath of loyalty under the threat of a spear's point. Although they had been forcibly baptized and now wore the coarse wool tunics of the Roman military, they lived under a suffocating surveillance. Each cluster of barbarian tents was watched by a newly built wooden watchtower. The tower was guarded by Roman Comitatenses who always placed an arrow on their bowstring whenever they saw movement below.

  During the day, they were forbidden from carrying sharp weapons. Even meat cleavers were chained in the communal kitchen so they could not be misused. At night, they were confined by a perimeter of mounted patrols that never stopped circling to ensure no campfire burned too brightly. Their existence was merely a number in military logistics records, but in reality, they were shunned prisoners of war. They lived alone in the mud and were looked upon with loathing by the civilians of Ravenna. The Roman military watched them with deep suspicion as if they were a plague that could explode at any moment.

  It was here, amidst the stench of the canal and festering resentment, that the seeds of rebellion began to be sown behind the shadows of the dingy leather tents.

  A foul and stagnant heat choked the space inside the primary tent. It reeked of sour ale, unwashed skin, and a bitterness that had long since curdled into something putrid. Draughts of night air hissed through jagged tears in the leather hide, making the lone oil lamp's flame spasm like a dying man. It threw distorted and grotesque shadows that clawed across the weathered features of the barbarian chiefs.

  Deep within the mire of the West Sector, these broken remnants of Odoacer's legacy huddled together. The cold ink of Vitus's ledger held the true count: five hundred and thirty three souls. They were no longer a sovereign host. They were a pack of mangy curs with their teeth pulled, yet still nursing the urge to draw blood.

  "Cursed! Cursed be all of you for your spineless cowardice!"

  The roar came from Hrodic, the nephew to the fallen Heruli chieftain. Among his people, they called him Hrodic the Left Handed, for his right arm had been severed at the shoulder, a brutal souvenir from a forgotten battle. He stood trembling in their midst, his solitary fist clenched white.

  "If those wretched Rugii hadn't lost their nerve and started gutting us from behind like damned traitors when Odoacer fell, my uncle wouldn't have ended up as a carcass in the mud," Hrodic spat, his voice cracking with a jagged edge of grief and fury. "He was butchered by the very bastards who swore to bleed with him. Butchered while he reached for a sword to defend the very men who were busy driving steel into his ribs."

  Torsten, the war leader who once commanded the Rugii horsemen, let out a jagged and cynical snort. He tugged at the grime caked Roman tunic he was forced to wear. The garment felt like a personal insult against his skin.

  "Self preservation isn't cowardice, you Heruli swine," Torsten countered, his voice low and dangerous. "You were the ones who lost your wretched minds first. The moment you realized the King was gone, you didn't look for the Romans. You looked for us. Convinced we had slain Odoacer, you began hewing at anything that moved like men possessed. We tore each other apart like rabid dogs while that brat emperor watched and laughed from the safety of his walls. You made us all look like piles of horseshit in the eyes of Rome."

  "Mind your tongue, you horseless beggar!" Hrodic surged to his feet, his eyes bulging with a lethal heat. His left hand instinctively clawed at a hip where a blade used to hang before the Romans had stripped them of their dignity. "The blood of my house is on your hands, Torsten. By the gods, I would relish seeing your entrails steaming in this swamp right now more than any Roman head."

  "SILENCE, YOU STUPID BEASTS!"

  The voice was parched and heavy. It snapped the confrontation like dry kindling. Gisulf, the Scirian elder, rose with a slow and agonizing deliberation, his joints creaking in the damp cold. His hollowed eyes burned with a weary and biting contempt.

  "Have you not had your fill of barking like witless fools?" Gisulf's words were quiet, but they carried the chill of an open grave. "Look at yourselves. Rotting in this pit, drawing breath from a cesspool, and groveling at the heels of a child you claim to despise. We are failures. We spent the night of our defeat disemboweling one another like brainless animals, and now we are shackled to this cursed Eagle."

  The fragile peace inside the tent was obliterated when the flap was kicked open. A dozen Roman soldiers in gleaming armor and full kit surged inside. Without a word, they seized the three barbarian leaders, dragging them out into the open mud of the West Sector camp. There, hundreds of other Roman troops stood ready in tight formation, creating a wall of iron that hemmed in the prisoners.

  In front of the line stood a high ranking officer. He removed his bronze helmet and drew his sharp shortsword, resting the tip of the blade on his right shoulder with an air of casual arrogance. He paced slowly around the barbarian leaders who stood frozen under the points of several spears.

  "Let us see what our foul smelling friends have been up to," the officer muttered with a tone of pure disdain. He stopped directly in front of Hrodic, staring at his empty right shoulder with a mocking gaze. "You. They say you are Hrodic the Left Handed. I wonder, whose sword was lucky enough to take your right hand?"

  Hrodic did not answer. He simply gathered phlegm in his throat and spat onto the dirt at the officer's boots. Instead of growing angry, the officer let out a small laugh and replied with a cold insult. "Christ have mercy on your filth."

  He walked past Torsten, glancing at him as if he were nothing more than a pile of rubbish, then stopped in front of Gisulf. The officer took a scroll from his attendant and opened it with theatrical flair.

  "According to these records," he said while glancing at Gisulf, "you are the remaining barbarian leaders who are still alive and have repented." He spat the words with thick mockery. He laughed loudly, and at once, the dozens of Roman soldiers around them joined in. The officer then sheathed his sword with a sharp click. "Magister Vitus summons you. You will come with us now."

  Gisulf, in his raspy voice, asked in stiff and heavily accented Latin. "What does your Magister want with us?"

  The officer stepped closer until his face was only inches from Gisulf's. He raised a forefinger, prodding and poking Gisulf's chest with a deeply insulting gesture. "You do not need to know. This is a soldier's order. Besides, he is your Magister now. You should say my Magister instead of your Magister. Isn't that right, old man?"

  At the officer's command, the soldiers dragged the three men away. They were led through the crowd of hundreds of remnants of the barbarian tribes who could only watch in silence. Hundreds of pairs of eyes from the Heruli, Rugii, and Sciri watched as their leaders were taken under heavy guard toward the palace. As they marched, the officer and his Roman troops barked in crude Germanic to force the crowd to move aside.

  "Weg! Weg!" they shouted in hoarse voices. "Widar!"

  Gisulf, Torsten, and Hrodic kept walking with their heads held high through the city streets. They moved toward the heart of power where they once lived as victors, but which had now become nothing more than a cold cage for them. They were marched toward the rear courtyard of the palace. An open pavilion tent had been erected in the center of the grounds, surrounded by dozens of Roman guards standing in grim, silent formation. As they drew closer, the sharp, rhythmic clatter of clashing metal began to slice through the air.

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  Once they crested the edge of the practice field, the sight became clear. Romulus was locked in a duel against Spurius. This time, they were using live steel, the blades flashing coldly with every strike. Beneath the shade of the tent, Vitus stood among his officers, watching the drill with a detached calm while sipping wine from a silver goblet.

  The officer leading the party raised a hand. "Halt here," he commanded sharply. He approached the pavilion and offered a formal salute to Vitus. The Magister turned slowly, fixing the three captives with a flat gaze, then gave a casual summons with his forefinger. Three soldiers then escorted the leaders closer toward the primary tent.

  Vitus set his wine cup down on a round timber table. "Give them chairs," he ordered curtly. Within moments, the round table was flanked by four chairs facing one another. Vitus took his seat on one side. "Sit," he said coldly.

  As they took their seats, the guards stepped back a few paces. "Fetch wine," Vitus commanded. A servant arrived bearing ornate silver cups, pouring thick red wine for the three barbarian leaders. Vitus stared at the crimson liquid in his own cup with a look of quiet satisfaction.

  "After months of bitterness, we can finally enjoy sweet wine with contentment," Vitus remarked. He drained his cup. "All of this is thanks to that boy," he added, gesturing toward Romulus who was still busy parrying Spurius's relentless lunges. Vitus then eyed his three guests. "What? Do you not like wine? Drink up."

  Gisulf was the first to lift his cup. He drank with a steady hand, followed by Torsten and Hrodic. After setting the cup down, Gisulf met Vitus's hollow gaze. "Magister, what is your purpose in summoning us here?"

  Vitus stared at him for a moment, then suddenly burst into a loud laugh. "Purpose? Haha! Is it a crime for me to call for you, Gisolf?"

  "Gisulf, Magister," the elder corrected in a flat tone.

  "Ah, Gisulf. I simply wished to converse with you," Vitus replied, leaning back in his chair with casual ease. "Instead of rotting away in that foul camp, why not associate with us for a change? Look at your Emperor. He is learning the proper way to kill. Is that not a fine sight to pass the time?"

  Vitus refilled Gisulf's cup until it nearly overflowed. "Tell me, Gisulf, how does it feel to wear Roman wool? Does your skin, so used to animal hides, feel the itch? Or do you finally feel a bit more civilized?"

  Torsten let out a soft snort, but Vitus turned to him immediately with a thin smile. "And you, Torsten. I heard the Rugii were master horsemen. It is a pity there is no room to gallop in that camp. Perhaps next time I can allow you to muck the stables of the palace so you do not miss the scent of the saddle too much."

  Hrodic clenched his solitary fist beneath the table. Vitus noticed it, then shifted his gaze to Hrodic's empty right shoulder. "Don't be so tense, Hrodic the Left Handed. Consider this a meeting between old friends. We have all fought in the same mud, only now the position is a bit more comfortable for me."

  Vitus refilled his cup with a casual motion. "Listen, my summoning you here is actually an act of Roman concern. We are not as cruel as you might imagine. Tell me, how are things at the camp? Is the food we send adequate for your bellies? Or perhaps you require something else? Clothing? Blankets?"

  Gisulf set his cup down with a soft, hollow thud. "Our food is wheat porridge mixed with gravel, Magister. And our blankets are the cold mud of the marshes. If you call that concern, then our definitions of humanity are worlds apart."

  Vitus paused for a heartbeat, then burst into a low, mocking laugh. "Lord have mercy, you barbarians, I mean, you former barbarians, wish to lecture us on humanity?" He shook his head. "What a magnificent irony. You, who have spent lives tearing down civilization, now speak as if you were philosophers from Athens."

  Vitus turned toward Torsten. "What about you, Rugian? You look thinner than the last time we met on the field."

  Torsten stared at Vitus with sharp, piercing eyes. "We can survive on meager rations. We are soldiers. But there is something else we cannot ignore. Among the survivors in that camp, many have families. They have wives and children who are still in their villages, back in their lands of origin."

  Hrodic joined in, his voice heavy. "At least let them go to fetch their families. Grant permission for a few men to bring their wives and children here, or let them go to ensure their kin do not starve to death in their homelands."

  Upon hearing this, the smile on Vitus's face withered. He sipped his wine, his eyes fixed on Romulus's duel in the distance. "Let them go to fetch their families?" Vitus asked in a low, cold tone. "And let them desert along the way and once again take up arms against us? Do you take me for a fool? If I release them, they will vanish into the forests and return as enemies in a heartbeat. No one is leaving. It is better that they rot and die here in loneliness than become a threat to the Empire."

  Vitus leaned back, swirling the wine in his silver cup. "Look at that boy," he murmured. "I remember the day I was supposed to hand him over to you, to Odoacer. History has a funny way of spitting in our faces, does it not? Yesterday he was the prey, and now, he is the very reason you still have lungs to breathe. Odoacer did not die by the sword of Rome. He died because he began to believe he was a Roman. He forgot that a wolf wearing a toga remains nothing but a dog in the eyes of the Eagles."

  Gisulf set his cup down. "A man wearing a crown can also forget that he stands on cracking ice, Magister. Odoacer did not try to be a Roman. He only tried to build a cage where the eagle and the wolf would not tear each other apart. His mistake was thinking that Rome had enough honor to keep a promise."

  "Honor?" Vitus let out a dry laugh. "Honor is a decoration the victor places atop a pile of corpses. In Ravenna, a promise is merely a thorn we pull out once the wound has healed."

  Torsten snorted. "Then why are we still here? If honor means nothing, why not finish us in that marsh instead of giving us wine and chairs in this palace?"

  Vitus leaned forward until the scent of wine and iron was thick on his breath. "Because an executioner does not throw away a sharp axe just because he dislikes the color of the handle. Rome is being besieged by shadows. I need dogs who know how to bite, not rotting carcasses. And I want to see which of you still has fangs."

  "You want us to bite for you?" Hrodic interrupted. "You chain us, spit on our faces, and then expect us to rip the throats of your enemies?"

  "I do not expect your loyalty, Hrodic," Vitus replied with a lethal smile. "I expect your hunger. A well fed soldier is a useless soldier. But a man who has lost everything, who has nothing but spite in his gut, is the purest weapon in the world."

  Gisulf stared deep into Vitus's eyes. "You are playing with fire, Vitus. You put real steel into that boy's hands, and you invite hungry wolves to your table. You may feel you are in control, but fire does not care who lit the match once the house starts to burn."

  Vitus raised his cup toward Gisulf in a mocking salute. "That is the beauty of intrigue, old man. We are all burning. I am simply making sure that I am the one holding the torch."

  He dipped his forefinger into the red liquid and began to draw rough lines across the table. "Do you imagine the walls of Ravenna are thick? These walls are cracking from the inside. Julius Nepos does not merely send letters from Dalmatia. He sends shadows. And now, the church begins to whisper the word excommunication. If Rome officially casts Romulus aside as an illegitimate ruler, every sword in Italy will have a holy reason to hunt for our heads."

  Gisulf watched the wine stained lines closely. "So a great war is coming, sooner or later."

  "Not later, old man. Only sooner," Vitus replied. "Under my command, Romulus has no more than four thousand reliable Comitatenses. Nepos? Even though his naval legions have been destroyed, he still possesses strong backing from Constantinople and a substantial land force across the Adriatic. Not to mention the nobles in the South who are merely waiting for the right moment to betray us. And we will never know what will come next from the North."

  Vitus wiped the wine lines away with his palm. Torsten frowned. "And you share this map of power with us? Men who were once your enemies?"

  Vitus offered a thin smile. "I share it because you are the only men in this city desperate enough to fight without fear. If Nepos wins, you will be hanged as the remnants of Odoacer's rebellion. If the Northmen reach here first, you will be the first carcasses they trample as defectors. Your only chance to keep breathing is to ensure that the boy remains on his throne."

  "Besides, you have all sworn an oath of fealty to him. I intend to test whether the oath of a Heruli, a Rugii, and a Sciri is something that can be honorably trusted, or if it is merely the barking of a dog too terrified to face the point of a spear."

  In the practice field, the duel reached its climax. Romulus lunged forward with his shoulder, slamming into Spurius with surprising force until the officer lost his balance and fell sprawling onto the dirt.

  "Excellent, Caesar. A very clean strike," Spurius praised as he stood up.

  Romulus steadied his heavy breathing. "That is enough for today," he said curtly. An imperial guard handed him a towel. Romulus wiped the sweat from his face, then his gaze shifted toward the open tent. He began to walk toward them with his steel blade still naked in his right hand. Spurius followed in silence a few paces behind.

  Vitus rose as Romulus approached, and the others followed his lead. Vitus offered a sharp military salute. Romulus fixed his gaze on the three men.

  "Perhaps I should introduce them so they may pay their respects to you, Dominus," Vitus said. "This is Gisulf, an elder of the Sciri. And here is Torsten, a war leader of the Rugii, and beside him is Hrodic, a commander of the Heruli." Each of them gave a stiff, reluctant nod of respect.

  "Sit," Romulus said simply. They took their seats, but Spurius stepped forward. "A chair, Dominus?"

  "No," Romulus replied. "My legs are still too tense to sit." He reached for a goblet on the table, poured himself some wine, and looked at the three leaders. "I once heard that the men of the North were giants. You look more like shipbuilders to me."

  Vitus, who was mid-sip, suddenly choked on his wine and broke into a cough. "They would make excellent sailors then, Dominus," Vitus managed to say. The atmosphere broke for a moment as Romulus, Spurius, and the soldiers laughed. Vitus quickly praised the training session, but Romulus looked at the barbarians again. "I would like to spar with a Northman someday," Romulus remarked.

  Torsten spoke up instantly, his voice dripping with venom. "A fine idea, Dominus. Perhaps it will be just like when your men burned people until they melted to the bone."

  The courtyard turned freezing. Vitus and Spurius went rigid. Romulus looked puzzled, his face filled with genuine curiosity as he set his cup down. "What do you mean by that?"

  "Oh, you do not know, Your Majesty?" Torsten replied. "They tell the story everywhere. How your fleet burned men like melting wax."

  Vitus stood up abruptly. "Enough of your words!"

  Torsten continued anyway. "Like paper devoured by the flame."

  In a flash, Spurius drew his sword and pressed the cold edge against the skin of Torsten's neck. "One more word and I will cut out your tongue," he hissed.

  "Vitus! What are you doing?" Romulus shouted.

  "Dominus, this man is speaking of things far beyond his station," Vitus said, his voice trembling.

  "Put your sword away!" Romulus screamed. Spurius looked at Vitus. "Magister..."

  "Your sword!" Romulus commanded again. Spurius slowly lowered the blade.

  Torsten looked at Romulus with a grim smile. "It seems there is something you do not know, Dominus."

  Vitus did not wait. He turned to his officers and barked an order. "Take them back to their quarters immediately!" The soldiers seized the three leaders roughly and dragged them away.

  Romulus watched them go, then turned to face Vitus and Spurius. His eyes were burning with suspicion. "What are you hiding from me?" he demanded. "Tell me. That is an order!"

  "Dominus..." Vitus began, but he never finished his sentence.

  An officer came running toward the courtyard. He fell to his knees, gasping for air. "Forgive me Dominus, but two soldiers from Bishop Johannes's escort have arrived. They bear an urgent message from Rome."