The rumors began as a murmur among the barracks, sneaking in between spoonfuls of watery broth, amid the dull clangs of the forge and fragmented conversations. At first, no one dared speak them aloud. Crossed glances, furrowed brows, and silences that stretched too long were enough. But as the hours passed, what was once a rumor became a wind, and that wind ultimately turned into a bitter certainty that could no longer be hidden: the Latins were going to surrender, and with them, they would hand over the Ostrogoths.
The few who remained—barely about two hundred—did not raise their voices nor draw their weapons. Not because they lacked courage, but because they understood, with the wisdom that is cultivated in defeat, that there was nothing more they could do. They were surrounded—not only by enemies beyond the walls, but also by the uncertainty that nested within Fortium like a dark guest. The city was besieged from the outside, yes, but also from within, gripped by fear, fatigue, and the bitter feeling that something essential had already been lost.
It was then that Drusar, overwhelmed by the general silence, pushed his way along the stone corridors. He climbed, with contained fury, the stairs that led to the main wall, where the Roman command was stationed. With every step, he shoved aside soldiers, brushed aside standards and breastplates with his shoulder, while a pain boiled in his chest—a pain he couldn't tell whether was rage, despair, or both. The sun was just beginning to rise, and the fog that cloaked the fields was slowly receding, like a vanquished beast that still refused to yield to dawn.
Marco was there. Standing, serene, his arms crossed over his chainmail and his face bathed in the gray light of dawn. He neither spoke nor moved. Beside him, the standards did not flutter but hung with a strange weight, as if even they understood that they were confronted not with war, but with destiny.
—Are we going to surrender? —Drusar spat, his voice rough and wounded. —Say it, Latin! Are you going to hand us over?
Marco did not answer immediately. He did not raise his voice, nor did he even look at him. He simply extended an arm and pointed toward the north, beyond the wall.
—Look at that —he said calmly. Then he slowly lowered his arm and added, —We will return to your argument later. I will listen to you, Drusar. Without reproach. Without reprisals. I swear it.
And they remained there. Side by side. In silence. Just watching, like old sentinels who have seen too many deaths to still search for glory.
The enemy vanguard had arrived with the first light of day. There were no war horns, no shouts of victory. They deployed with unsettling efficiency, and began to work not in haste but with absolute precision. What they did was not improvised. Every group knew its function, every tool had its place, every movement was part of something greater than themselves.
From the wall, they did not look like glorious troops. In the distance, their armor did not shine with gold or purple; it was sober, without adornments or exaggerated emblems. But it remained clean, without a stain of rust nor a single dent. They did not appear like an army on the march, but rather like a well-maintained and silent machine. Marco knew it: those armors were forged from the finest steel, crafted with techniques that even their own blacksmiths wouldn't know where to begin. Yet what disturbed him most was the uniformity, that faceless equality that turned each man into part of a greater structure. Only the high officers dressed in black, wearing helmets of complex shapes and details that defied classification. They were like shadows walking among order—not imposing fear through their gestures, but through the calm with which they concealed their true strength.
There were no colorful pennants or chants. They did not need to announce themselves. Their threat did not come from volume or violence, but from that impassive exactness, as if they were the gears of something larger. As if they needed to prove nothing to anyone.
Throughout the day, they erected a complete fortification in front of Fortium. Not an improvised palisade, but a city. Raised with the natural ease with which others prepare a mass, or an execution. Streets, towers, warehouses, double walls. And all of it appeared before their eyes as if it had been done a thousand times before. Facing the proud stone of Fortium, now rose a threat that did not roar, but imposed itself by the mere fact of its existence.
Drusar saw it all. He did not eat a bite, he did not drink water, he did not exchange a word. The sun burned his face, and the wind dried his lips, but he did not move an inch. His jaw was clenched, his eyes wide as if he could not blink, and his heart was reduced to a knot. When the day waned, when the shadows began to lengthen and the new city before them was complete, alive, beautiful even in its impersonal perfection, then his sword fell from his hand. He did not let it go. It slipped, as if his body could no longer sustain the lie of hope.
There was no possible victory.
Trembling, he drew the small bone knife that had belonged to his uncle. Without ceremony, he unsheathed it, held it in both hands, and, without closing his eyes, attempted to drive it into his belly. He wanted it to hurt. He wanted it to be quick.
But a hand stopped his. It was not a shout, nor a struggle, nor a violent shove. Just one hand, warm and firm, closed around his wrists. A hand as steadfast as the word of a man who has nothing left to prove, strong as a promise spoken at the edge of an abyss. Marco was there, unannounced, without drama, with the serenity of someone who does not let that which can still be held crumble.
—No, Drusar —Marco said, his voice carrying the calm gravity of a shepherd speaking equally to wolf and lamb. —I am not going to hand them over violently. I will negotiate a deal. But an honorable one.
Drusar panted. Tears clumsily streamed down his hardened face, and he did not reply. He simply sank to his knees, the knife trembling in his hands as if he still did not know whether he should kill himself or cling to life.
Marco leaned forward, placed his hand on his shoulder, and said with a solemnity that did not seem to come solely from him but from a greater force that had silently dwelled within him all along:
—Do not lose your composure. And pray to our Lord while I take care of this.
In that moment, Drusar looked at him as never before. He no longer saw the small Latin, the faltering priest, or the introspective commander. He saw someone who, without effort or shouting, rose every day a little more—until he was taller than fear, taller than defeat.
And then, with shame still burning in his eyes, he nodded.
Marco left Fortium escorted by four Ostrogoths, the tallest and firmest that remained. They walked in silence, their patched armor and their spears now more symbols than threats, yet their stride remained dignified. They were not guards; they were witnesses. They did not protect the commander; they accompanied him to the final act.
Before them, in the open clearing in front of the citadel freshly raised by the IX Legion, awaited Quinto Petilio Lupino with his escort. His men needed no ostentation: their armor was unadorned, clean, functional, made of steel that looked brand new, without blemish. Only Quinto, with his dark cape and his sword secured at his side, stood out like the shadow of an inevitable decision.
When Marco stopped, both groups greeted each other in the Roman style, with a fist pressed to the chest and the head barely bowed.
—Marco, son of Rome, son of these turbulent times… —Quinto began in a firm yet gentle tone—, you have done the right thing by coming. Our terms are clear, and I state them without disguise: the city surrenders. The Ostrogoths who still live—and who have fought with valor—must hand over their weapons, their horses, their armor. They will be stripped of their war power, yes, but they will not be treated as prisoners. They will have free passage to return to Ravenna, if they so desire. They may fight another day, under another banner, if there is still fire in their chests.
Marco remained silent. His face was a mask tempered by duty, yet his eyes could not hide the tension. Still, Quinto continued, without a threatening tone or arrogance, but with the composure of one who has already witnessed the future.
—And regarding faith… all religions shall be free to be practiced in the lands of New Rome. All. The dictator has made himself clear: he will not impose worship, nor persecute images or dogmas. The only condition is respect for the common covenant: peace, law, and duty toward the community.
A soft truce-like wind blew between them.
Marco lowered his head slightly. It was not submission, but acceptance. One war was ending. Another was about to begin. But not with swords. With words.
Quinto dismounted with the precision of someone who has repeated the gesture a thousand times, shaking the dust from his cloak while the sentinels set aside their spears without a word. He advanced among the white canvas pavilions and golden standards with a steady step, his face impassive despite the visible fatigue in the folds of his neck and the singed edges of his breastplate. In front of the central tent, the Praetorians made way. The greeting was simple, almost martial: a fist pressed to the chest, the head slightly bowed—not in submission, but out of absolute respect.
Inside, Octavio Petilio Cerialis Duces, dictator of New Rome, scarcely lifted his eyes from a parchment spread on his desk. No further was needed. He immediately recognized the sound of his grandson's steps.
—Speak —he ordered, without raising his voice. His tone was as ever: dry, measured, accustomed to being obeyed.
Quinto straightened up and began his report without preamble.
—All the villages between the Lepino and Hernico mountains are under control. No organized forces were found. Only scattered militias, many of them surrendering without the need for combat. Weapons have been confiscated, granaries sealed, and patrols established to maintain order. The rear is secure.
Octavio nodded slowly. There was no praise in his face, but neither was there disapproval. Only a pause filled with calculation, as if each piece of data were being fitted into an invisible board of future decisions.
—Then, we could march directly on Rome —he finally said.
Quinto did not reply immediately. He knew him well. He knew that that phrase was neither an order nor a question, but a sign of something more.
Octavio rolled up the parchment with steady hands and set it aside.
—But we shall not do that yet.
The statement hung for a few seconds in the silence of the tent.
—We will first march to Castra Albana —continued the dictator—. There we will establish the headquarters for the next movement. From that position, we can receive the bulk of the Gothic army, if King Teodorico decides to act with dignity... or, failing that, the delegation of the Holy Father. Whichever arrives first.
His eyes, hardened by a thousand campaigns, searched his grandson's with glacial clarity.
—We must show control. No haste. Rome will come to us, not the other way around.
Quinto nodded in understanding. It was not merely a matter of military strategy. It was theater. It was power. It was the imposition of a new order not by immediate violence, but by the inevitability of a tide that covers everything.
He saluted again, took a step back, and withdrew silently. Outside, the sun was beginning to tint the sky with metallic hues. Castra Albana would be the next stage. Rome would still have to wait.
Quinto was already retreating when he stopped, as if something more compelled him to speak. He turned just enough so that his voice reached the dictator's ear without having to raise it.
—One more thing, Grandfather… Marco is alive.
Octavio did not move immediately. The phrase hung in the air like a stone thrown into an ancient lake. Then, slowly, his gaze lifted, fixed, lingering on an empty point in space. For a moment, he was not the invincible dictator nor the old commander of the IX. He was simply a grandfather, trapped between memories that still hurt.
He recalled a battle. A hell of darkness and fire. A roar that was not human. A demon wrapped in lightning and shadow, devouring men as if they were dry straw. And there, amid the chaos, a small, fragile figure… and then, nothing. Only a stifled cry and the certainty that he had lost him—a grandson erased by time and war.
—Are you sure? —he asked in a lower voice, as if he did not want to awaken the hope he had learned so often to kill.
—I saw him with my own eyes —Drusar said. —He did not recognize me. But his body, his form… and a scar, right here. —He touched his temple.— The surgeon told me that such wounds sometimes erase entire memories. It is a common affliction among soldiers. He… now fights for them.
The ensuing silence was long, as if time itself had ceased counting.
Then Octavio smiled.
It was not a warm smile, nor a melancholic one. It was the smile of a gambler who discovers that the piece he had long given up on is still on the board.
—Then, if we make him remember… he will be an excellent agent.
He added nothing more. It was not necessary.
That was how Octavio Petilio Cerialis Duces acted. Always several steps ahead of everyone.