Ravenna, November 24, 476 AD
Ten days after the Synod in Rome. Twenty days since the departure of Bishop Johannes.
Waiting is a torture that leaves no scars on the skin but crushes the bones from within.
It had been ten days since two battered soldiers brought the news that Johannes was stabbed on the Milvian Bridge.
Ten days without any tidings. Ten days in which Ravenna held its collective breath like a drowning man, uncertain if the surface was still within reach.
Romulus went through his days with an increasingly mechanical rhythm. In the morning, he practiced swordplay in the courtyard with Decurion Decius and the soldiers of the Eleventh, venting his anxiety into wooden blades and the arena's dust.
At noon, he sat in the Strategy Hall with Vitus and Spurius, listening more than speaking, absorbing their words while wringing the hem of his tunic beneath the table.
At night, he descended into the underground cells.
His visits to Fritigern had become an open secret. The entire palace knew.
The guards stationed in the underground corridors had grown accustomed to the emperor's footsteps descending every night with a torch.
They were no longer surprised. They simply bowed and cleared the way.
Spurius disliked this habit. He never said it directly, but Romulus could read the disapproval in every new wrinkle on the old man's forehead whenever he walked toward the basement stairs after dinner.
But Spurius did not forbid it. Perhaps because he saw that Romulus always returned from that cell a little calmer than before he went down.
Perhaps because he knew that forbidding an emperor, even a child emperor, was something he could no longer do.
Meanwhile, Vitus grew increasingly restless with every sunrise that came without answers.
"Enough."
Vitus threw his dagger at the map. The metal tip struck precisely on the spot marked ROME, sending a small tremor through the wooden table's surface.
That morning, the Strategy Hall held only three people: Vitus, Spurius, and Romulus.
The air in the room was thick with frustration and the smoke of candles that had burned through the night.
"Ten days, Spurius," Vitus continued, his index finger tapping the table in an aggressive rhythm.
"Ten days without a single line of news from Rome. Johannes might be dead. Paulus might be beheaded. And we sit here like oxen waiting for rain."
"Drusus said ten days after the Synod ends," Spurius replied with a calmness that only infuriated Vitus further.
"The message was clear. If there is no news in ten days, then we act. The Synod began on the fourteenth. That means the deadline is the twenty-fourth. Today."
"Exactly! Today! And up to this second, no courier, no bird, not a single sheet of paper has arrived from the south!"
Vitus pulled his dagger from the map and pointed toward the window with a trembling hand.
"I have prepared four thousand men outside those walls. They are fed, armed, and have been on standby for a week. Fresh recruits who have never seen blood are placed alongside veterans who have seen it too often. They are all waiting for one command."
Vitus slammed his dagger onto the table.
"Let me take them to Rome. Now. Today."
Romulus sat in his chair, his left foot swaying gently beneath the table, a nervous habit he could not shake.
He did not speak. He listened. His eyes shifted from Vitus to Spurius and back again, like a spectator at a match unsure of which side to support.
It was Spurius who answered.
"And what will you do once you arrive there, Vitus?"
His voice was calm. A simple question. But Vitus could feel the blade behind that simplicity.
"I will ensure the safety of our envoys," Vitus answered quickly. "Free Paulus and Drusus if they are held captive. And if necessary, apply military pressure on the Pope so a fair verdict can be delivered."
"Military pressure on the Pope." Spurius repeated the phrase slowly, letting every word hang in the air.
"That is a polite way of saying you want to point a spear at the gates of St. Peter's."
"I point my spear at whatever threatens us, Spurius!"
"And if that direction is the Throne of Peter, then the entire Christian world will see us as the enemies of God." Spurius shook his head slowly.
"We have discussed this countless times."
They both turned to Romulus, waiting. It was always like this. The arguments between Spurius and Vitus always ended at Romulus's chair, awaiting a decision from a mouth that was often too hesitant to open.
Romulus swallowed. His fingers stopped wringing the hem of his tunic. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it once more.
"We... wait," Romulus said. His voice was quiet. Not steady like the voice of an emperor in legends.
The voice of a child who knew he had to decide something far greater than himself.
"Until... until the sun sets. If there is no news by nightfall, we..." he swallowed again, "...we will talk again about that option."
It was not a valiant speech. Not a roaring decree. Just two short sentences spoken with a voice that cracked in several places.
But it was a decision. And both Vitus and Spurius recognized that beneath the nervousness, there was an unshakable intent.
Vitus clenched his fists. His jaw twitched. He wanted to argue. But he saw Romulus's eyes.
The golden-brown eyes that were once soft and innocent now held something new. Not hardness. Not yet.
But a resolve growing in the place where fear once nested.
"As you command, Caesar," Vitus finally said. Every syllable felt like shattered glass in his mouth.
Before the tension could dissipate, the doors of the Strategy Hall burst open.
A scout stumbled in, panting, his travel cloak wet with morning dew and swamp mud.
"Magister! Caesar!" the soldier bowed hastily while catching his breath. "A convoy from the south has been spotted on the main road, about three miles from the southern gate."
The three men in the room froze.
"A convoy?" Vitus instantly stood tall, his hand reflexively gripping the hilt of his sword at his waist. "What are the numbers? A battle formation?"
"Not a battle formation, Magister," the scout answered. "A small convoy. Perhaps fifty to sixty riders, plus a few carriages. They bear banners of white and gold."
Spurius stepped forward, his eyes narrowing.
"White and gold. Those are the papal colors."
"There is more," the scout added. "Some of them wear heavy armor. Cataphracts. That is our men, Magister. The cavalry we sent with Bishop Johannes."
Vitus let out a long breath that sounded like air escaping a leather balloon that had been held too long.
Spurius closed his eyes for a second, his lips moving soundlessly in a short prayer that only he and God heard.
Romulus did nothing dramatic. He merely sat taller in his chair.
And his hands, which had been anxiously wringing his tunic, finally fell still.
"But Magister..." the scout hesitated for a moment. "There is one carriage at the back of the convoy that... that is draped in black cloth. The soldiers guarding it wear mourning bands on their arms."
The silence that fell after that sentence felt different from the silence before. This silence was heavier. Colder.
Spurius bowed his head.
"Johannes," he whispered.
No one needed to explain. They all understood. The old bishop did not return alive. He returned in a coffin.
"Open the gates," Romulus said. His voice was hoarser than usual. "Prepare... prepare a full honor guard reception. And send word to... who replaces Johannes at the church?"
"Dean Marcellinus," Spurius answered.
"Tell him to prepare the church. We... we will bury Johannes today. He has been on the road for far too long."
Romulus stood from his chair. His legs felt shaky for a fraction of a second before he forced them to steady.
He walked toward the door with a stride too stiff to be called natural, the stride of someone trying very hard to appear strong before those watching him.
At the threshold, he stopped.
"And prepare hot food for them," Romulus added without turning back. "They must be starving."
The sentence came out quieter than the last. Softer. Not an emperor's command.
Just the care of a boy who knew what it felt like to be hungry.
The convoy entered Ravenna's southern gate just as the sun reached its zenith.
Romulus stood on the palace steps in a freshly washed purple mantle and a pearl diadem that never felt comfortable on his head.
His hands were folded in front of him, his fingers occasionally squeezing each other beneath the folds of his cloak.
On his right, Spurius stood in ceremonial armor, his back straight as a pillar.
On his left, Vitus, who could finally release his grip on his sword hilt after weeks of holding it.
Along the road from the gate to the palace, Ravenna's soldiers formed two lines of honor.
Spears thrust toward the sky, creating a corridor of iron that glinted under the pale November sun.
At the front of the line, Tribune Drusus rode with a straight back, though the dark bags under his eyes spoke of weeks without proper sleep.
Behind him, the remaining Cataphract cavalry marched neatly but visibly thinned. Out of the hundred who departed, Romulus counted. Seventy. Perhaps less.
Some rode horses that were not their own, a sign that the original riders would not return.
In the middle of the convoy, a carriage was adorned with white and gold cloth. The emblem of the Keys of Saint Peter was carved into its doors.
And behind it all, moving slowly like the tail of a funeral procession, which it indeed was, a much simpler carriage.
Dark wood. Black cloth. Atop it, an oak coffin polished with oil.
Simple and dignified, just like the man lying within.
Romulus felt his throat tighten.
Johannes. The old bishop who once stood in the Strategy Hall with his frail body and declared with a trembling yet unshakable voice: I will stand in St. Peter's Basilica. I will be a shield for Romulus before the Pope.
And he left. And he did not return.
The papal carriage stopped at the foot of the palace steps. The doors opened from within.
The first to step down was a man Romulus had never seen in person.
About forty years old, tall and thin as a pole, with a sharp face and eyes that darted quickly, assessing everything around him in mere seconds.
His diaconal robes were dark and simple, devoid of excessive ornamentation.
But the way the man carried himself radiated an authority that required no decoration.
Gelasius.
The Archdeacon of Rome. Pope Simplicius's right hand. Romulus recognized the name from the reports he had studied with Spurius.
People in Rome called him the sharpest administrator the Church possessed. And now he stood at the foot of Ravenna's steps, looking up at Romulus with dissecting eyes.
Behind Gelasius, Paulus dismounted from his horse. The young deacon looked ten years older than the last time he left this city.
His face was gaunt, his cheekbones sharper, and his eyes carried a depth that had never been there before. But he was alive.
Wounded on his left arm, wrapped in bandages, but alive.
Gelasius bowed in a formal, flawless gesture of respect.
"Your Imperial Majesty, Caesar Romulus Augustus," Gelasius said. His voice was clear and resonant, despite coming from a body clearly exhausted from the journey.
"I bring greetings and a mandate from His Holiness Pope Simplicius, Bishop of Rome and Successor of Saint Peter."
Romulus felt the gaze of the entire convoy and the honor guard bearing down on him. His mouth opened slightly.
The words he had rehearsed with Spurius the night before suddenly evaporated from his mind like morning dew touched by the sun.
His hands trembled faintly beneath the folds of his cloak.
He glanced to his right. He looked at Spurius for a fraction of a second. Spurius nodded, barely perceptibly.
Then Romulus glanced to his left. He looked at Vitus. And Vitus, who understood the signal from years of standing beside an emperor too young for ceremonies like this, stepped slightly forward.
"We welcome His Holiness's envoy with the highest honor," Vitus said, his booming, resonant military voice filling the steps and the ranks of soldiers.
"Ravenna opens its gates to the eyes and ears of the Holy See. We hide nothing from the view of the Church."
Gelasius listened to the response and his eyes, sharp since he stepped off the carriage, moved slowly from Vitus to Romulus.
He saw where Romulus glanced before Vitus spoke. He noted the exchange of looks. Gelasius missed nothing.
A general speaking on behalf of his emperor, Gelasius thought. Either because his emperor chose to delegate, or because his emperor was incapable of speaking before a crowd.
The two tell different stories. I must find out which it is.
Then Gelasius broke the lead seal of a parchment scroll and read with a voice projected to be heard all the way to the back ranks.
"Hereby, His Holiness Pope Simplicius declares that the charges of witchcraft and darkness leveled against Emperor Romulus Augustus have been examined by the Holy Synod and are deemed NOT PROVEN."
A collective exhale flowed through the ranks of soldiers like wind sweeping through a wheat field. Vitus closed his eyes for one full second.
Decurion Decius, standing behind Romulus with the Eleventh, lowered his shoulders that had been tense for weeks.
Even Theron, standing among the crowd of palace officials at the corner of the steps in his oil-stained tunic, seemed to let out a breath he had seemingly held since he forged the first bronze tube of Ignis Dei.
Gelasius continued.
"Furthermore, His Holiness commands a subsequent investigation into the nature and origin of the weapon used in the battle on the Adriatic Sea. To this end, Archdeacon Gelasius is appointed to reside in Ravenna on behalf of the Holy See, with the full authority of the Pope."
Gelasius rolled up the parchment. The formal ceremony was over. But Romulus knew that this man carried far more than what was written on that scroll.
He could feel it in the way Gelasius's eyes constantly moved, assessed, measured, and filed away.
Then Gelasius's gaze shifted back to the black carriage at the end of the convoy. His voice changed. Softer. More human.
"We have also brought Bishop Johannes home," Gelasius said. "His remains were treated with the utmost respect in Rome. The Pope personally blessed him before we departed. He stated that Johannes was a martyr who fell in the service of truth."
Romulus stared at the coffin. Dark oak polished to reflect the pale November sun. Simple. Dignified.
Like the man who gave him weapons in the form of words for a battle Johannes himself never got to see the end of.
"We... we will bury him now," Romulus said. His voice was small. Almost swallowed by the winter wind. But Spurius heard it and nodded.
The funeral took place at the Church of Santa Maria in Ravenna, an old stone building that had stood in the heart of the city since Emperor Honorius moved the capital here nearly a century ago.
There was no excessive extravagance. No long speeches from politicians feigning grief.
Only simple prayers recited by Dean Marcellinus with a voice that occasionally cracked with emotion.
Candles burned around the oak coffin, their small flames flickering as if weeping along with them.
Romulus stood in the front row. Beside him, Paulus wept silently.
The young deacon had lost his mentor, the man who taught him to write, to read the scriptures, and to stand tall when the world wanted him to kneel.
His tears fell onto the stone floor of the church, leaving dark spots that would dry before the day ended.
Vitus stood with a locked jaw, his eyes staring straight ahead.
He remembered the night Johannes stood in the Strategy Hall with his trembling old body and declared he was going to Rome.
Vitus had called him mad. Johannes merely smiled and said: There are things that must be fought with words, not swords, Magister. Even though words can also kill the one who speaks them.
Theron stood at the back, half-hidden behind a pillar. The engineer was unaccustomed to religious ceremonies.
His body was awkward among the praying crowd, his hands not knowing where to rest. But his eyes were wet.
He remembered Johannes once visiting his workshop, the only church official who didn't look at his tools with fear, and asking with genuine curiosity: How does all of this work, Theron?
Gelasius observed it all from the corner of the church, standing beside a pillar with folded arms. He had not known Johannes personally.
But he recognized the sorrow filling the room, and he honored it in silence.
The coffin was lowered into the vault in the church floor, right beside the altar. Dean Marcellinus scattered holy soil.
The covering stone was slid shut over the grave with a heavy scrape that echoed against the ceiling.
Romulus did not cry. Not because he didn't want to. But because he had learned, in these past few weeks that felt like years, that there is a grief too deep for tears.
A grief that can only be expressed by standing and witnessing.
As the people began to leave the church, Romulus remained in his place.
He stood over Johannes's covering stone, staring at the freshly carved name on its surface.
JOHANNES
EPISCOPUS RAVENNAE
QUI PRO VERITATE CECIDIT
Who Fell for Truth.
Romulus moved. Slowly, awkwardly, with the motions of a child unsure if what he was doing was right, he knelt and placed his palm flat against the cold stone surface.
His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Perhaps a prayer. Perhaps an apology. Perhaps both.
Then he stood up and walked out, passing Gelasius who still stood by his pillar. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second.
Gelasius saw something in the boy's eyes that added another line to his mental notes.
He feels everything, Gelasius thought. But he doesn't yet know how to show it. Soft clay. Very soft.
The dinner was prepared in the palace's long-unused banquet hall.
For weeks, food in Ravenna had been a matter of survival. Hard bread, wheat gruel, salted meat that was barely chewable.
But tonight, on the initiative of Spurius who understood that humans needed more than just calories to endure, the palace kitchens mobilized the very best of their remaining supplies.
Roast lamb with spices from thinning cellars. Fresh bread still steaming.
Dark red wine that Vitus had saved for a moment he was never certain would arrive.
The long table became a microcosm of surviving Ravenna. At the head of the table, Romulus sat with a posture still not entirely comfortable in the oversized chair, his feet swaying faintly beneath the table.
On his right, Spurius. On his left, Vitus. Across the table, Gelasius sat with a posture that never slacked even as he chewed.
Beside Gelasius, Paulus still wore his dusty travel cloak, his eyes red from weeping at Johannes's funeral earlier.
In the middle of the table, Tribune Drusus ate with the speed of a man unsure when his next meal would be, shoving bread and meat into his mouth with both hands alternately, occasionally filling the glasses of those around him unprompted.
Beside him, Decurion Decius sat with a straight back and a mostly untouched plate, his eyes constantly sweeping the room, a bodyguard's habit that could never be turned off.
And at the end of the table, almost unnoticed, Theron sat in his slightly oil-stained work tunic.
He had been asked by Spurius to wear something more appropriate.
He showed up in the same tunic, but added a layer of a cloak that seemed to be borrowed from the palace gardener.
No one commented.
Gelasius watched Theron throughout dinner with a curiosity he made no attempt to hide. Finally, after sipping his wine, he spoke.
"Master Theron," Gelasius said, his voice polite but sharp as a silk-wrapped scalpel.
"I have heard many tales about your weapon. Tales that made the bishops in Rome lose their sleep and made old senators sign petitions in fear. But I did not come to listen to stories. I came to understand."
Theron swallowed his piece of bread with difficulty. His eyes began to widen. He glanced at Romulus, seeking permission. Romulus gave a small nod.
So Theron began to speak. And when Theron spoke of his science, the timid man transformed. His back straightened. His eyes lit up.
His voice became steady and rhythmic, like a man who was finally allowed to discuss the only thing he truly understood in the world.
"The foundation is Naphtha, Your Eminence," Theron began, his finger absentmindedly drawing a diagram on the tabletop among the wine stains.
"A black oil that seeps from the ground in the Persian deserts. The Roman Legions have used it to burn fortifications for centuries. But ordinary Naphtha can be extinguished by water."
"What makes Ignis Dei different are three additional ingredients. First, yellow Sulfur to accelerate the combustion. Second, Bitumen to make it sticky. So the fire clings to wood, to sails, to..." Theron hesitated for a moment, his eyes blinking rapidly, "...to any surface, without being able to be scraped off."
Drusus stopped eating. His meat fork hovered in the air between his plate and his mouth.
He remembered the green glow on the horizon of the sea that night. He had never asked what caused it. Now he regretted knowing.
"And the third ingredient," Theron said, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
"Calx Viva. Pure quicklime. This substance is extremely thirsty for water. If it comes into contact with water, it does not die out. On the contrary. It reacts. It drinks the water and releases an incredibly high heat. It means, Your Eminence..." Theron raised his hands, illustrating in the air, "...the seawater that should extinguish the fire instead becomes its fuel. The wetter it is, the hotter it gets."
Silence fell over the table. Gelasius set down his glass with a slow motion.
"This is not magic," he said, more to himself. "This is natural science."
"That is what we tried to prove at the Synod," Paulus said, his voice still hoarse from crying.
"I burned Ignis Dei in a basin of seawater inside the Basilica to show that it is a mixture of God's creations, not a curse."
"Yes," Gelasius commented in a flat tone, "and you nearly burned down the basilica. The Pope was still talking about the green smoke on the church ceiling up until the day I left."
Drusus choked on his wine. Decius patted his back expressionlessly. Theron smiled sheepishly.
Even Vitus, whose face had been set like stone all night, allowed the corner of his lips to twitch upwards for a fraction of a second.
Romulus did not laugh. But he looked at Paulus, and in his eyes was something resembling a gratitude too vast to be spoken by a mouth unaccustomed to saying grand things.
Gelasius retrieved a second parchment scroll from the folds of his robes.
"There is one more thing," he said. His tone shifted. Heavier.
"His Holiness Pope Simplicius, through the authority of the Apostolic See, decrees an official appointment."
The table fell silent.
"Deacon Paulus, who has shown extraordinary courage in defending the truth before the Holy Synod, and who took up the staff of his beloved mentor when that mentor fell, is hereby elevated to the new Bishop of the City of Ravenna, with all rights and duties attached to the office."
Paulus froze. His wine glass stopped between the table and his mouth. His eyes widened.
"M-me?" Paulus stammered. "But I... I am only a deacon. I haven't..."
"Your mentor died on the road defending this city," Gelasius interrupted. "The Pope considers no one more worthy to continue bearing his staff than the disciple who picked it up when his master fell."
Paulus set his glass down with trembling hands. He looked to his right and left, staring at the faces at the table as if looking for someone to stand up and say this was a joke.
No one did.
Theron, sitting at the end of the table and normally never speaking in matters outside his work, suddenly raised his glass.
His hand trembled slightly, his glass tilted a bit, but his voice was clear.
"To Bishop Paulus," Theron said with the simplicity of a man who didn't know how to make elegant toasts and didn't pretend to.
"And to Bishop Johannes. One taught us courage. The other inherited it."
Spurius looked at Theron with a gaze he had never bestowed upon the engineer before. Something resembling respect.
"To Paulus and Johannes," echoed the entire table.
Glasses clinked. Wine flowed. And for the first time in weeks, within the banquet hall of the Ravenna Palace, scarred by war and the shadow of death, a nearly forgotten sound could be heard: a conversation that was not about dying.
Dinner lasted until the wall torches began to dim.
The conversation drifted from topic to topic. Drusus recounted the journey home from Rome with a military detail that made Vitus nod along and Theron stare blankly.
Decius asked Paulus about Rome, but not about the Synod.
He asked if the stalls in the Forum Romanum still sold the spicy pork sausages he remembered from his last deployment there, six years ago.
Paulus laughed for the first time that night and said no, that stall had closed down, but there was a new one selling much better goat cheese.
Small, trivial conversations that, precisely because of their triviality, became the most potent medicine for exhausted souls.
Gelasius observed it all. His eyes moved from face to face, absorbing the room's dynamics.
He noted that Vitus drank more than the others but never appeared drunk.
That Spurius drank almost nothing at all but his glass was never empty because Drusus kept filling it.
That Theron spoke with extraordinary passion when the topic touched on mechanics or chemistry, but became instantly mute the moment the talk shifted to politics or theology.
That Decius never sat fully relaxed, his shoulders always slightly tense, his eyes always sweeping the room.
And he noted the most fascinating detail of all: Romulus, in the midst of this dinner, listened far more than he spoke.
Occasionally he smiled. Occasionally he nodded. But he did not dominate the conversation.
He was like a spectator enjoying a performance from the best seat in the theater. Comfortable in his own silence.
But as the night wore on, Romulus's eyes began to dart toward the door.
His fingers tapped the edge of the table in an increasingly impatient rhythm.
Just as Drusus began a story for the third time about a donkey slipping on the Milvian Bridge, Romulus pushed his chair back and stood.
"Excuse me," he said briefly to the table. "I have... something I need to do."
No further explanation. No carefully crafted excuse.
Just three words spoken by a boy who was not good at lying and made no attempt to be.
He gave an awkward nod toward Gelasius, avoiding prolonged eye contact, then walked out with a pace too quick to be called casual.
Gelasius waited for the doors to close. Then he set his glass down and looked at Spurius.
"Where is he going?"
A direct question. Without preamble. Spurius had expected it.
"Below," Spurius answered. "The dungeon cells."
Gelasius's eyebrows rose. Drusus, who was gulping down wine, stopped mid-swallow. Theron stared at his empty plate as if hoping to disappear into it.
"The Roman Emperor visits the dungeon cells at night?" Gelasius asked slowly, as if making sure he heard correctly.
Spurius let out a long sigh. He grabbed his glass, took a sip to buy himself some time, and began the story.
"A few days before you arrived, Romulus did something no one expected. He rode out to the barbarian camp outside the walls. Into the midst of the captive remnants of Odoacer's army. And he challenged a young man to a duel."
Gelasius listened without interrupting. Beside him, Paulus, newly appointed as bishop and not yet fully processing the reality of it, turned his head in curiosity.
"A young man of Romulus's age," Spurius continued. "Unknown. Unranked. Just a barbarian boy sitting on a log sharpening an old shield. Romulus approached him and challenged him in front of hundreds of watching eyes."
"And?" Gelasius pressed.
"The boy defeated him. Convincingly. Humiliatingly. He threw Romulus to the ground and battered his face with his fists. Blood. Mud. In front of everyone."
Drusus set his glass down. Decius, who already knew the story but had never heard it told to outsiders, shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"His name is Fritigern," Spurius continued. "Or at least that is the name he uses. Some say he bears the blood of Fritigern the Goth."
Gelasius understood. That name to a Roman soldier was the same as a demon's name to a priest.
"I arrested him. Chained him in the underground cells." Spurius paused. His hand slowly turned his glass on the table.
"And then Romulus went down to that cell. The first night, I thought he was going to punish him. The second night, I thought he was going to interrogate him. The third night, I realized he was just... talking."
"Talking," Gelasius echoed.
"He removed the prisoner's chains with his own hands. Ordered blankets and warm food sent to the cell. Scolded the guards over conditions he deemed unfit."
Spurius set his glass down with a sound slightly too loud. "And now, every night, our emperor descends into that hole and spends hours talking with a barbarian who punched him in the face."
Gelasius was quiet for a long time. His fingers tapped the table's surface in a slow rhythm.
"And you are worried," Gelasius said. It wasn't a question.
"Of course I am worried. He is Fritigern's descendant. Enemy blood. And Romulus..." Spurius shook his head.
"Romulus is too young to understand that not everyone who speaks softly to you has good intentions."
"Or," Gelasius said quietly, "Romulus is too young to have grown the suspicion that blocks genuine connection."
Spurius looked at Gelasius with an illegible gaze.
"What do you mean?"
"The boy found an equal, Spurius. Someone who does not bow to him. Someone who hits him and does not apologize. In a world where everyone kneels and says Ave Augustus, a prisoner who calls him by his first name might be the most honest thing he has ever received."
Spurius did not answer. But something in his face shifted. Not agreement. Not yet.
But a reluctant acknowledgment that maybe, just maybe, there was truth in the bishop's words that he could not deny.
"I will watch over the matter," Gelasius said, closing the topic with the decisiveness of an administrator accustomed to making decisions.
"For now, let it be. I have more pressing matters to attend to."
Late into the night. The palace was silent. Only the occasional footsteps of the night watch echoed down the corridors.
Gelasius sat in the room prepared for him. A modest room by palace standards.
A bed with clean linen sheets, a wooden table, a chair, and a candle. He liked it. Luxury made the mind lazy.
He dipped his quill into the pitch-black ink and began to write on the vellum.
To His Holiness Pope Simplicius, Bishop of Rome and Successor of Saint Peter,
First letter from Ravenna.
I have arrived safely. The city stands, though it still gasps for breath. We buried Johannes today.
A small church in the heart of the city. Paulus wept throughout the ceremony. The young emperor did not cry.
He knelt on the tombstone and moved his lips soundlessly. I do not know if he prayed or apologized.
Perhaps both.
Regarding the boy, Your Holiness. Regarding the clay you asked me to mold.
I have seen him. And what I saw was not what I expected. He is not a petty tyrant in need of taming.
Nor is he a young hero in need of polishing. He is a fifteen-year-old boy who is too thin for his robes, whose feet sway beneath the table during council meetings, who glances at his general before answering questions because he does not yet believe his own voice is strong enough to fill a room.
But beneath that nervousness, Your Holiness, there is something. I saw a glimpse of it when he knelt at Johannes's grave.
I saw it again when he ordered the gates opened for our convoy.
There is a resolve growing in the place where fear once nested. Not yet strong. Not yet upright. But it is there.
He is surrounded by men who love him but who do not know how to speak to him in anything other than the language of swords and commands.
A general named Vitus who thirsts for war like a dying man thirsts for water.
An old guardsman named Spurius who loves this boy as his own son but who is too terrified to let him grow.
An engineer named Theron who created a weapon of mass destruction but who blushes like a village maiden when asked to speak in front of a crowd.
And there is one more thing that caught my attention. Something I did not expect.
This boy has a prisoner whom he visits every night in the palace dungeons.
A young barbarian who defeated him in combat and who calls him not Caesar, not Augustus, but Romulus.
From behind iron bars, that prisoner offers something no one else in this palace possesses: ruthless honesty.
This child is not a threat to the Church, Your Holiness. He is a threat to himself.
He possesses the power to destroy the world but lacks the compass to navigate his own soul.
Your Holiness asked me through the vision of the two tables whether this clay could be molded.
My answer, after one day in Ravenna: yes. The clay is soft. Very soft. Too soft, perhaps.
It could be shaped into a flawless vessel, or it could crumble under the pressure of hands too rough.
I will be careful, Your Holiness. I promise.
In the service of Christ and Rome,
Gelasius, Archdeacon of Rome.
Gelasius sprinkled fine sand over the wet ink and waited for it to dry.
He rolled the letter and sealed it with red wax.
He stared at the seal for a moment. Then his eyes drifted to the window, toward the darkness of the night outside, toward a point deep beneath the palace where a young emperor and a barbarian prisoner spoke of things kings and enemies never discussed.
Soft clay, Gelasius thought.
The question is not whether I can mold it.
The question is whether I possess the wisdom to know what shape it ought to take.
He blew out the candle. Darkness swallowed the room. And somewhere below, deep in the damp belly of the earth, two young voices still spoke softly behind the flickering light of a torch.