The bonfire crackled among the remains of damp branches and splintered logs, sending columns of thin smoke into the leaden gray of dawn. Around it, seated on stones, on old saddles, or merely on the hardened mud from the night, the new Ostrogoth captains shared a fire that conveyed more frustration than warmth. They grumbled, cursed, and whispered the names of distant cities as if they were promises: Ravenna, Aquileia, even Sirmium—anywhere but this field steeped in defeat and bewilderment.
Hrodulf, the captain of the feared Bronze Arms Guard, remained silent. He did not answer the complaints nor the veiled suggestions of retreat. With his light brown hair pulled back in the same martial disregard that had characterized him in a hundred campaigns, and a firm mustache accompanying that sparse beard he never quite mastered, he seemed more a statue than a man. His armor was immaculate, his belt fastened with precision, and his cloak—worn yet orderly—barely fluttered in the wind.
His blue eyes, cold and alert, surveyed the circle of warriors as if trying to understand them. But inside, he was empty. A brilliant shell of steel and discipline that, without Ingomer, felt blind. Hrodulf was brave, yes. But he was not a leader of soul. He was an executor. A pillar. His strength did not lie in the spark but in the fulfillment. And now, without a superior to obey, he was trapped in an unnatural limbo. Chaos disoriented him. He lacked the voice to tell him when and where. And without it, he was fading.
Then Marco arrived.— Without escort.— Without announcing himself.— Alone.
With his Gothic helmet on, his black mane trailing behind him like the banner of a new empire, his Latin eyes sparkled—not with pride or faith, but with something more dangerous: ideas.
The captains fell silent upon seeing him. Not out of respect, but out of surprise.
Marco did not wait. He took two steps into the center of the fire's circle, his compact figure radiating authority like a contained blaze.— We must march as quickly as possible toward Fortium, he said bluntly. Move your men, Hrodulf. Send messengers to Ravenna. There is no time for doubt.
There was an outburst of voices—aggressive murmurs, harsh chuckles. One captain muttered something in Gothic meaning "the little Latin has lost his mind." Another dropped his helmet with a snort of disdain.
But before the tide of protest could rise further, Drusar stood up.
Now wearing an officer's cloak—the improvised insignia of a captain imposed after the death of nearly all his superiors—his face was hardened, marked by the mourning of fallen comrades, his leg still bandaged from yesterday's wound. He looked at Marco with narrowed eyes, full of contempt, yes, but also of recognition. He no longer saw the prefect. He saw a soldier.— A soldier with Gothic arms. With a war outfit crafted by a barbarian queen. A man who spoke Gothic with a perfect accent, whose voice was firm and whose posture demanded obedience rather than begging for it.
— Silence! he thundered, his voice falling like a lash upon the group. I don't care if your mothers hated him for being Latin. This man gave us orders yesterday while you were still counting arrows in the sky. And we survived, didn't we?
He turned, his captain's cloak fluttering with a grim dignity.— I hate him. But I recognize what he is. And right now, he is the only thing between us and annihilation.
The captains fell silent. The embers of the bonfire crackled, as if they had crouched in anticipation of the change in the wind.
Hrodulf, until then motionless, rose with measured dignity. His blue eyes met Marco's—cold, analytical. He measured his bearing. His words. His gaze. He gauged the chain of command… and restored it.
He nodded slowly.— Captains, he said now with a voice that did impose, we will form columns. The first and second squadrons will take the vanguard. The reserves with the Latin levies. Messengers to Ravenna. Let them know that Fortium will be reinforced.
There were no further objections.One by one, the men began to stand. The bonfire was trampled underfoot. The armors closed with the sound of reactivated duty. Hrodulf's shell had been filled. Not with his soul… but with the reflection of another.
And Fortium awaited.
The citadel of Fortium emerged from the morning mist like an island of stone standing against uncertainty. Its walls, blackened by rain and the centuries, dominated the plain like a closed fist. Marco arrived at the forefront, mounted and still wearing his helmet, preceded by the standards of the Latin levy and followed by the disciplined remnants of the Ostrogoth cavalry. Exhausted but alive. Royal soldiers, forged through humiliation and determination.
From the very first moment, Marco deployed his natural gift: complete command.
In a matter of hours, chaos became order. The garrison was reorganized, the wounded transferred to appropriate shelters, the storerooms inventoried with precise care. He ordered the reinforcement of the vulnerable sections of the wall, placed the peasant levy on the battlements, and the Ostrogoths at the gates and assault stairs. He had workshops installed for the repair of arms and gathered blacksmiths, carpenters, and even laundresses, turning Fortium into a living defensive machine. By the afternoon, the city already breathed to the rhythm of war.
It was then, as the sun disappeared behind the western bastions, that the messenger from Rome arrived.Dust on his boots, exhausted, but with a letter sealed in red wax bearing the personal sign of Amalasunta.
Marco took it without ceremony, but upon breaking the seal and unfolding the parchment, his world stopped.The handwriting was hers, firm yet sinuous, and the words… were not those of the cold queen, nor of the manipulative strategist. It was the voice of the young woman he had met under a lemon tree in Suburra, before the court and the crown transformed her into what she was meant to be.— "Marco, my beloved..."
The letter exuded passion, yes, but it was more than mere flesh. It was a shedding, a stripping away. It told him that only he and his uncle Ingomer mattered. That Rome did not deserve the sacrifice of their souls. That she had already spoken with the Pope, that politics were settled, that peace could be sealed… if they handed over Fortium. If they surrendered the city. If they betrayed the Ostrogoths.— "Surrender, and survive. Turn them over. They will not love you as I do. Come home, and make me yours. I have done everything to protect you; now it is for you to decide if you still want to live."
Marco closed his eyes.For an hour, he did not respond. Then for another. And then half a day.He locked himself in a windowless tower, with the letter on his lap, his fingers gripping the edge of the paper as if he could keep her voice there. He felt divided into a thousand fragments: the commander, the lover, the priest who had died, the man who still longed to believe in something more than victory.And in the midst of it all, he went out to the walls.From there, he saw her.In the distance, at the edge of the Roman camp, Amalasunta herself had arrived. Not mounted in triumph, but standing, alone, her cloak fluttering as she observed from afar. Her eyes were two embers burning in the nascent night. She did not shout, nor raise her hand. She only looked.
Marco felt terror.Admiration.And then… a profound nostalgia, as if he were finally standing before his home after years of exile.An incomprehensible joy, that of one who has survived the abyss only to find that he can still feel something beyond duty.And just as his soul began to lean… Hrodulf appeared by his side.
— Commander, he said in his exact tone, neither cold nor warm. A messenger has arrived from the enemy camp. The idolaters wish to negotiate.
Marco did not answer immediately. He simply closed the letter and slid it under his breastplate, against his heart.The warrior took a deep breath.And returned to war.
The breeze moved his crimson cloak, edged in purple and gold, as if it wanted to drag it back, away from that stone city perched upon the hill. Fortium. Motionless, heavy, defying time and forgiveness.Amalasunta kept her back straight, her fingers tightly grasping the reins of the white steed that carried her with an almost unnatural docility. On each side, her escort—a dozen riders on equally white beasts, clad in armors as brilliant as they were unyielding—waited in silence. The men around her neither spoke nor breathed heavily, nor did they fear. They were the living echo of something older than Rome, and that was enough.
Quinto Petilio Lupino, to her right, had not uttered a word since they departed. He was a figure of granite, with his dark skin and the IX Hispana standard raised like an impossible memory. His armor seemed to absorb the sunlight, and his sword, still sheathed, appeared to burn with a silent promise. Amalasunta dared not look at him for too long. There were things in him she did not entirely understand.
The earth under her steed barely trembled with their advance. In the distance, atop the walls of Fortium, Marco stood.She recognized him instantly. Not by his form—many now wore the same helmet, the same martial posture—but by the look in his eyes. Even from afar, his eyes were contained fire. Beneath the metal, under the years of faith, guilt, and duty, he was still there. Him.
Amalasunta pressed her legs against the horse to steady herself. But it was not the cold. Not the fear.She had been educated for this. She had whispered orders that would make any general pale. She had laughed with senators, slept among monsters, and played with the most powerful pieces on the imperial board. But now, before him, she felt the vertigo of the abyss.Would he come?Would he look at her as before?Or see her as part of the machine he now had to defy?She did not know.And that—doubt, the only weakness she had never managed to eradicate—twisted her chest.
She remembered the smell of oil in her hair when she knelt to pray, her hands clean of blood but firm as she gave orders. Her flickering faith, always at odds with her duty. She had wanted to shatter it, and yet, he had let her in; he had touched her as only men who still believed something could be saved do.Now, he wielded a sword. Command. A city. And a decision that could destroy them both.She swallowed, aware that her lips trembled. She straightened her back even more.Show nothing. Never.
The men around her remained silent, like statues wrapped in black furs. A cloak fell in the wind. The standard fluttered. The messenger dismounted and walked toward the gate.
She did not think. She only murmured, very softly, like an incantation:— Marco...And she waited.Waited for his response.Waited for the future.
Amalasunta narrowed her eyes as she saw Fortium rising in the distance like a broken promise. The air was dry, and the dust raised by the hooves of her escort hung suspended like an omen. But her mind was not entirely there.She remembered Pallanum.Her arrival had been at dusk, when the sun folded over the hills like a golden veil. From a distance, she had mistaken the city for the camp… or perhaps it was the other way around. That makeshift camp erected in a single evening—according to the locals—seemed more glorious than the city itself.Wooden and canvas walls raised with the precision of architects. Watchtowers emerging like golden spines, white gravel roads stretching among tents arranged at perfect angles. There was no mud, no chaos, no shouts from cooks: only order, only discipline.The soldiers received her with measured reverence, without exaggeration or disdain. They escorted her through silent formations and eyes that neither desired her nor feared her. They looked at her as if she were a dignitary, and that was, after all, what she was.— "A refined courtesan, many senators would say," she thought with a bitter smile. "But let them say so. Those prejudices have always played in my favor."To walk like a shadow that does not come unnoticed, to speak like a maiden and think like an emperor. She had survived thanks to men's blindness.But her eyes—sharp, trained, ruthless—saw more. They saw what others might have overlooked.They were not mercenaries.They were not Byzantine troops.They were neither Romans nor barbarians.They were something else.They moved as if the entire world belonged to them. As if everything they knew—the sword, the fire, loyalty—were part of a deeper truth than any religion or crown. Each one of them was like a piece in a greater, unstoppable machine.And seeing that, feeling that, she knew: the list of options was closing.There were few forces in the world that could do what she had just seen. Few… or only one.Now, before Fortium, with her heart beating faster than her breath, Amalasunta knew that she carried with her something more than words of peace or veiled threats.She carried with her the end of the masks.And she hoped that Marco, from the height of his walls, would understand. For if not...There would be no stone left upon another.