The banners waved heavily in the thick air of the plain, each movement echoing an impending struggle. The procession had stopped at a prudent distance from Fortium's imposing walls while the preparations for the negotiation advanced with the cadence of an ancient ritual. The tension in the atmosphere was so sharp it could be cut with a knife, yet Quinto Petilio Lupino shattered it in an instant with a firm voice tempered by the iron of generations.
—My lord grandfather says we can still avoid the spilling of blood among brothers —he declared, without turning his gaze toward Amalasunta, his eyes fixed on the battlements where Marco's unmoving silhouette defied destiny—. But my men… they want to fight. They ask why we do not advance. I suggest, madam, that you act with the same skill they believe you possess.
Amalasunta did not immediately turn her head. Only after a brief, measured pause—and with that contained gesture she wielded like a weapon—did she lift her chin and speak in a voice that was both sharp and piercing, yet as tempered as the chime of a well-cast bell:
—The tyrant has issued an order —she murmured, a slight smile touching her lips—. And, as I understand it, the men of the IX always obey, do they not?
In that precise moment, the air between them seemed to thicken even further, as if the very molecules held their breath in anticipation of the decision.
Quinto then regarded her—not with desire or hostility, but with a clear, unfathomable look in which burned something more primal than pride: a conviction that demanded no permission. Amalasunta met that gaze with unwavering resolve. Though she felt no attraction for him—Quinto was simply too straight, too removed from human passions—there was something in the way he looked that inevitably reminded her of Marco. Not in his face, nor in his tone, but in that inextinguishable fire he embodied.
That same fire smoldered beneath the sacerdotal robes, hidden behind doubts and the soft words Marco used to disarm her without raising his voice. A fire she had once tried to quell, yet now silently prayed it would never be extinguished. She closed her eyes for an instant and saw him: Marco, walking in the rain while carrying a wounded man; Marco, kneeling before an altar with blood still warm on his hands; Marco, oblivious to the peril looming close, unaware of how near he was to death.
Everyone believed that her actions were driven solely by ambition—that she wove alliances as if stringing a spider's web, serving as the bridge between her uncle Teodorico, the Ostrogoth king, and the new dictator of New Rome. They saw her as the perfect piece in the new order. And indeed, she allowed them to think so.
But the truth was quite different. Her sole objective was to keep Marco… and Ingomer alive. That was all that truly mattered. Everything else—the power, the throne, the masks—were merely useful disguises meant to conceal the fragility of the soul.
When she reopened her eyes, Quinto was still watching her without a question, and she offered no further explanation. With a voice both gentle and resolute, she simply said:
—If there must be bloodshed, let it not be of those I still love.
And the wind carried her words away, like a prayer or an inevitable warning.
Amalasunta continued on alone. Each step resonated softly on the neatly arranged gravel of the road, flanked by unmoving banners and silently vigilant horsemen. In the distance, Fortium rose, yet her thoughts were somewhere else—back at the camp of the IX in Pallanum. She remembered how, upon arrival, the sun filtered between the canvas and masts, reverently caressing the golden emblems that waved as if they had forever belonged to that place. The tents—cleaner, sturdier, and more elegant than the very buildings of the city—had made her doubt whether it was Pallanum that housed the camp, or if the camp itself was the true city. The locals, in astonishment, told her that it had been erected in a single sunset. A sunset that, paradoxically, seemed eternal.
They led her to a great central tent, made of white fabric framed in bronze, decorated with red stripes and an imposing standard of the IX solemnly hanging over the entrance. She had expected to find a tyrant perched high on a throne, draped in purple, crowned with gold, surrounded by an aura of incense and silence—a veritable theater of power reminiscent of the ones she knew so well in Rome. But what she found was quite different.
Inside, a man awaited her, seated behind a robust, rough-hewn wooden desk covered with maps, scrolls, reports, and waxed tablets. At first, he did not lift his gaze, absorbed in flipping through pages with the routine of one who bears the weight of the world on paper. For a few moments, he appeared more like an overwhelmed functionary than a dictator, more a provincial bureaucrat than a warlord. It was one of his Praetorians who coughed softly, rousing his attention. Finally, the man lifted his eyes and, without any grand formalities or fanfare, stood naturally—no haste in his movements, but exuding a strength that belied the age his face might suggest. His eyes, dark and ancient, scrutinized her as a craftsman would examine an unpolished tool. He did not look at her with desire or reverence, but with the acknowledgment reserved for something of undeniable worth. With a brief gesture of perfect decorum—like the deference of Rome's eldest senators to the ladies of consular households—he inclined his head in salute.
—Octavio Petilio Cerialis Duces, —he announced evenly—. Heir of the IX. Dictator of New Rome.
He then offered her a seat and some drink—a glass of lukewarm wine served by his own hand. Facing him, Amalasunta was struck by the ease of his presence, a power that radiated without ostentation or the need for raised voices. As she sat before him, for the first time in many years, she was unable to discern whether she was negotiating or simply asking for permission, for the difference between the two had blurred in that unexpected encounter.
Now, as she advanced alone toward Fortium—with thousands of eyes upon her back and the tension in the air like an ignitable gas—she carried within her the memory of that meeting. It moved her deeply, not from fear, but from the terrible suspicion that all the power games she had learned, all the meticulously woven networks and amassed masks, might prove insufficient when faced with men like him. Yet she pressed on, relentlessly, for two lives still hung in the balance: that of her beloved Marco and that of her uncle Ingomer. For those, she was willing to lie, to bend… or to set the whole world aflame.
The gates of Fortium swung open with a dry, resounding crash—as if the very heart of the city were splitting in two. At that very moment, Marco appeared. He did not walk with the rigid bearing of a commander hardened by duty; he ran, leaping over steps and weaving through soldiers and shields. When he saw her—tall and radiant atop her white steed—he wasted no time in drawing her into his arms with a desperation that required no formal permission. Amalasunta gasped softly, not from surprise but from the impact of his armor pressing against her chest, feeling each link of his chainmail, initially cold but quickly warmed by the heat of his body. Her dress, made of fine fabric embroidered with golden threads and studded with precious stones, ruffled under the urgency of the moment.
And then they kissed. With a voracious passion, filled with hunger, anger, and a tenderness as ancient as Rome itself. From the walls and courtyards of Fortium, the men watched with wide, childlike eyes. First, they smiled, then burst into laughter, shoving and celebrating amongst themselves.
—Look at him! —one exclaimed—. Our commander kisses the goddess herself!
—That kiss has not a shortage of wine or fire! —another shouted.
—And when will we be granted such blissful indulgence? —a third roared, provoking even more raucous laughter and wild ovations.
Amalasunta clung to Marco's chest, as if his warmth could shield her from the entire world. For a moment, Marco tensed; he cast a sidelong glance, uncomfortable, always considering the example and dignity. For an instant, he even contemplated reprimanding those boys, chastising the most vulgar. But she spoke first—her voice soft, barely a whisper, yet laden with an indisputable truth:
—Let them be.
Her quiet word sealed everything, implying that perhaps it was the last time they would be allowed to feel anything other than fear. Marco swallowed hard, looked at her intently, and kissed her once more with renewed passion—as if to seal his soul to hers, as if the very world might crumble then, and only their heat could stave off the collapse. With a gesture blending strength and tenderness, he lifted her in his arms. She offered no protest; she only rested her head on his neck while, behind them, with a solemn creak, the portals of Fortium closed slowly, like the doors of a sanctuary or a tomb. Outside, the heavy horsemen of his escort remained immobile, silent witnesses to an act they could not fully comprehend but deeply respected.
For the next three hours, Marco and Amalasunta set aside all talk of politics. They spoke not of alliances, dictators, or lost legions; they merely sought each other, surrendering to the intimacy of the moment. In the highest tower of Fortium, amid cold stones and heavy drapes, their bodies entwined as if the world would end at the first crow of the rooster. Her delicate body, wrapped in silks and jewels, seemed to dissolve in his arms, while his, marked by battle and guilt, yielded to the only true peace he had ever known: the communion of their skin, the murmur of their voices, and their shared, silent understanding.
Outside, the city celebrated in its own way. They ate and drank, sharing wine diluted as was customary in times of scarcity, yet still imbued with the joy of survival. Some soldiers surrendered to the women of the town—with tenderness at times and with abandon at others—as is often the case when war shatters customs and bodies. Others succumbed to fleeting encounters, seeking warmth or stories to tell if there were to be a tomorrow. For war, much like a storm, could excite some and strip away everything from others.
Fortium, that ancient stone steeped in history, seemed to understand what was coming. One could hear it in the echoes along its walls, in the cracks that breathed like skin, and in the soft patter of rats along the old beams. Amid such revived ambiance, Marco and Amalasunta lay bare, their skin still damp with shared sweat, the sheets tangled like maps without destination. She gazed at him, lips slightly parted, and finally whispered with certainty:
—You will not win.
—My uncle Teodorico will not win.
—They… are something more.
More than Byzantium, more than the hollow shell we still call Rome. Marco did not reply; he merely looked at the ceiling, where a pair of rats scampered nervously among the beams, agitated as if they too sensed that pleasure was but the final breath before the storm. And he knew it—he had known it from the first kiss, from the first bugle of war—since the entire fortress seemed to yearn to feel something before burning.
In a low voice, as his fingers gently caressed Amalasunta's hand—as if recalling a murmur in the twilight of a forest rather than on the rumpled bed in Fortium's highest tower—Marco began his tale. Outside, the wind softly battered the shuttered windows, and the echo of the slumbering city mingled with the cadence of his narration:
—From Rome to Castra Albana it was a parade of glory —he began, his tone tinged with a bitter nostalgia barely masked by sentiment—. Maidens during the hunts would throw flowers, handkerchiefs, even their own promises at the noble Ostrogoth knights who rode with backs as erect as living statues. Tall, handsome, proud, with foreheads still perfumed by victory and swords gleaming—not in thirst for blood, but in ceremonies evoking times of splendor.
Wrapped in the linens, Amalasunta rested her head upon his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart and the story that seemed to emerge from the depths of history.
—The people would come out to see us pass by, as if we were the living sons of Rome —continued Marco—. There were laughter, marches, impromptu hymns; children ran alongside our mules, and elderly women greeted us with bread and wine. For a brief moment, the empire appeared to still beat with life, and we truly believed, if only for that moment, that it lived.
He paused, allowing silence to fill the space between his words.
—Then the reports arrived. At first, vague and imprecise. They said that Anagnia had fallen—not by fire or relentless catapults, but without siege, taken in a single dawn. Some claimed the attackers were men from the east, others swore they were local pagan fanatics. Ingomer, of course, did not hesitate. Faced with the possibility of a scattered or hidden enemy, he ordered an immediate march. He wanted to confront face-to-face whoever dared defy his name.
—Did they pass through here? —Amalasunta inquired, her eyes half-closed as if seeking confirmation in the shadows of memory.
Marco nodded slowly.
—Yes. Fortium was merely one of the stops. The soldiers drank with caution, yet Ingomer did not restrain himself: he became drunk on wine and women. That night, while he celebrated with half his personal guard and made the porters sing, I spent the night organizing the supply chain. And the next morning… we had to depart late. Far too late, for the sun was already high when we finally managed to set the column in motion.
Marco closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to relive the dust rising once more from that day.
—We camped in the fields of Collafierro, an expanse of broad, open land perfect for rest and reorganization. But it was there that we saw them. At first, we thought they were merely trees swaying in the wind; then, we believed them to be restless shadows. But no—it was a forest on the move, a forest of spears advancing with an inescapable determination.
Amalasunta held her breath at the enormity of the revelation.
With each word in that tower steeped in history and passion, the narrative grew ever more vivid. The intensity of the battle, the fragility of alliances forged in chaos, and the imminent confrontation intertwined with the personal destiny of each of them. The story—raw and beautiful—unfolded to remind them both that the game of power could be as destructive as it was sublime, and that sometimes saving the ones you love meant risking everything.
Thus their recollections and confidences advanced, as fate simmered in the fire of the looming clash. Every word echoed both the past and a portent of the future—a delicate balance between passion and duty, between intimacy and war. And at that crossroads, where love and strategy merged, it was decided what was still to be saved and what, if not achieved, would condemn everything to ashes.
The weight of that duality was felt in every heartbeat, in every shared sigh within Fortium's highest tower, and in that moment, the future emerged as uncertain as the smoke vanishing into dawn.