Rome, 1000 AD. The Great Library of the Athenaeum Imperialis.
My name is Aelius Tacitus. I write these lines with a hand trembling from age while sitting beneath the glow of electric lamps shining in Rome's highest tower. Around me lies the map of a world now wholly subject to one law and one emperor.
If I look out the window I can see steam-powered airships drifting slowly over the majestic Colosseum. I see iron trains carrying gold from the continent of Atlantica and silk from Serica connecting the world in an unbroken web of prosperity. We live in a golden age that seems as if it will never end. An era where the Pax Romana is no longer merely a poet's dream but a reality sustaining hundreds of millions of lives.
Yet as keeper of the imperial archives for half a century I know a secret. We often forget that this giant tree was nearly felled when it was but a fragile sapling.
Many people in this age consider Romulus Augustus the founder of our dynasty to be a demigod figure. His statues in the forum depict him as a muscular giant wielding lightning and a sword. Legend says he was born clutching a wolf and his eyes glowed like fire from infancy.
That is all a lie.
I have spent the remainder of my life digging through forbidden archives beneath the Vatican. I have read Spurius's diary which is stained with blood and nearly destroyed by time. I have translated the confession of General Vitus scratched with fingernails into his prison wall before he died. I have read every book hundreds of years old. And I have assembled fragments of truth far more astounding than any myth.
The truth is that the savior of our world was no god of war.
He was just a fifteen year old boy. Thin and fearful and weeping. A child whose world was destroyed in a single night and who was forced to choose between becoming the prey or the predator.
The story of how we can all stand here today does not begin with a glorious victory. This story begins with rain and mud and the heartbeat of a father stopping.
Let us turn back time to five hundred years ago. To the year 476. The year the world nearly ended.
It all began on the muddy streets of Placentia.
Placentia, Northern Italy. August, 476 AD.
The sky above Italy no longer looked like the majestic roof of the world. The sky now resembled a dirty and torn shroud stretching from horizon to horizon with a sickening gray color. Rain had fallen ceaselessly for the last three days. The water did not wash the earth but instead turned the once solid Roman roads into a slurry of mud ready to swallow anyone exhausted.
Flavius Orestes the Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces and true ruler of the remnants of the Western Empire pulled the reins of his horse with a trembling hand.
The air smelled of rusted iron and rotting leaves. There was no birdsong. There were no cheers of victory. The only sounds accompanying this bleak journey were the clinking of weak armor metal and the heavy breathing of thousands of soldiers trudging behind him. They were no longer world-conquering legions. They were merely thin ghosts walking in their sleep dragging their feet toward an inevitable defeat.
Orestes felt his chest tighten.
In our current age of enlightenment medical experts at the University of Salerno name this silent killer Cordis Constrictio or sudden heart failure. A fatal biological consequence when the human body is forced to bear a burden of stress beyond its limits. But for the people of the year 476 this was a nameless death.
At first it was only like a small prick but in an instant the pain turned into a giant squeeze. It was as if an invisible hand had reached inside his chest cavity and crushed his heart with full force.
His breath hitched. His vision began to blur and was replaced by black spots dancing wildly.
"My Lord?"
The voice sounded distant as if coming from the end of a long tunnel. Spurius his trusted lieutenant spurred his horse closer. The old soldier's face was wet with rain his eyes hollow from lack of sleep and hidden fear.
"We must not stop My Lord" urged Spurius with a tone of suppressed panic. "Odoacer's dogs have already scented our trail. They are no more than half a day's journey behind."
Orestes wanted to answer. He wanted to order his troops to form up. He wanted to scream that Rome would not bow to that barbarian traitor. But his tongue felt stiff as lead. The words were stuck in his throat choked by the pain now spreading to his left arm.
The world tilted.
The body of the commander who had supported the weight of the entire empire on his shoulders finally surrendered to gravity. He was thrown from his saddle. His body hit the muddy ground with a pathetic thud. Cold mud immediately assaulted his face entering his mouth and nose.
"Lord Orestes!"
Spurius's shout sounded broken. The legs of the horses around him moved in panic. Several soldiers ran closer but Orestes could no longer feel their hands trying to lift him.
He lay on his back. Rain battered his face which was starting to pale.
His mind drifted leaving his dying body flying far to the east across the misty marshes toward the fortress city of Ravenna.
Romulus, his mind cried out in pain.
His son's face appeared in his mind. A fifteen year old boy thin and awkward. A boy who preferred feeding chickens to holding a sword. Orestes remembered how he had placed the oversized golden crown on his son's head months ago. He thought the crown would provide protection and authority.
He was wrong. How foolish he was. The crown was merely a target.
He did not give his son a kingdom. He only gave his son a death sentence. He left the little lamb alone in the pen while the wolf was breaking down the door.
"Forgive me Son..." he whispered weakly. His voice was lost swallowed by the rumble of thunder.
Pink bloody froth escaped the corner of his lips. His last tear fell and merged with the dirty mud beneath his head.
Be strong, his final prayer echoed in the silence of his fading brain. This world will not pity you. You must become a monster or they will eat you alive.
Flavius Orestes's heartbeat stopped. The eyes of the last protector stared blankly toward the endless gray sky.
In the distance lightning struck illuminating the muddy road where the father's corpse lay stiff. The storm had arrived and there was no one left standing between Odoacer and the young Emperor in Ravenna.