The Terrace of Diocletian's Palace, Salona, Dalmatia. October 11, 476 AD.
"Pour it again," mumbled Nepos lazily, shoving his empty golden goblet to the side without looking.
Dark red wine flowed, filling the cup until it nearly spilled over. Nepos sipped it slowly, letting the sweet and astringent taste coat his throat while the morning sun warmed his skin. He was reclining comfortably on a soft klinai layered with purple silk, enjoying a luxury far removed from the starvation of Ravenna.
"You drink too early, my love," teased the woman beside him.
His wife, the niece of the great Empress Verina, laughed softly. It was a crisp sound like the chiming of gold coins. Her slender fingers adorned with jeweled rings were breaking open a pomegranate. She took a pinch of the red seeds and fed them to her husband's lips with deliberately slow movements.
"This fruit is fresh," said Nepos after chewing the pomegranate, his eyes gazing at his wife with hunger. He shifted his body closer, his hand beginning to crawl mischievously onto her waist wrapped in thin silk. "But it would taste far sweeter if we ate it on Palatine Hill."
The Empress smiled, resting her head on Nepos's shoulder. "You are too impatient, Husband. Is Salona not beautiful enough? Look at that sea... so calm. It is perfect."
"Salona is merely a waiting room," whispered Nepos huskily. He pulled the nape of her neck closer, inhaling the scent of expensive rose perfume from her slender neck. "Rome is our true bed. And when I sit back on that throne... I will ensure the whole city sees how beautiful the Empress is who brought the glory of the East back to the West."
"Mmhh..." she sighed as Nepos began to caress her, ignoring the servants who bowed their heads in embarrassment in the corner of the room. "Is that a Caesar's promise?"
"It is a lover's oath," answered Nepos, then kissed her lips, a deep, wet kiss full of possessive arrogance.
In the midst of that intimate atmosphere, heavy footsteps were heard trying to be muffled but failing to hide their urgency.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Military boots clicked softly against the marble floor. In the wide-open doorway of the terrace, Count Ovida stood rigid. Nepos's trusted General bowed his head deeply, his eyes fixed on the floor, trying not to look at the intimate scene of his master and mistress. However, his stiff posture ruined the peace of the morning.
Nepos broke the kiss reluctantly. He turned, slightly annoyed but his mood was still too good to be angry.
"Ah, Ovida," greeted Nepos with a broad smile, his cheeks slightly flushed from the wine. "Come in. Don't stand there like a pagan statue."
Ovida stepped forward slowly. His face was hard and pale, a stark contrast to the bright sun. He gave a stiff salute to Nepos and the Empress.
"Hail, Augustus. Hail, Augusta," greeted Ovida flatly.
Nepos sat up, straightening his robe. He took a clean silver goblet from the table, poured the finest Falernian wine to the brim, and offered it to his general.
"You look tense, my friend," said Nepos casually while extending the cup. "Drink. It is a bright day. The wind blows from the West, bringing news of victory, does it not? Surely the blockade has finally broken them? Perhaps the boy in Ravenna has finally surrendered."
Ovida accepted the goblet with a slightly trembling hand. However, he did not drink it. He slowly placed the cup back onto the marble table with a soft but firm clack. The wine inside rippled, untouched.
Nepos's smile slowly faded. His eyes narrowed at the refusal.
"What is it, Ovida?" asked Nepos, his tone sharpening. "You refuse wine from your Emperor?"
Ovida swallowed. He looked Nepos straight in the eye, ignoring the presence of the Empress beside him.
"My Caesar..." said Ovida quietly, his voice heavy and hoarse. "I feel... I must speak of this matter with You alone."
Nepos laughed shortly, a dry, forced laugh.
"What nonsense is this? My wife is the blood of Emperor Leo. There are no secrets between us," snapped Nepos, trying to maintain the illusion of control.
"I beg you, Dominus," interrupted Count Ovida quickly, pressing with a tone that almost breached etiquette. His eyes radiated pure fear. "Only. You. Alone."
Nepos's laugh died instantly.
He stared at Ovida for a long time, looking for signs of a joke, but he found only darkness in his general's eyes. A bad omen began to crawl up his spine, cold and sharp.
Nepos turned to his wife. He gave a small nod, a silent code.
The Empress, intelligent enough to read the dangerously shifting situation, immediately adjusted her shawl and stood up. She approached, kissing Nepos's cheek briefly, a kiss that now felt cold.
"Do not keep me waiting too long, Husband," she whispered, then signaled the servants.
With graceful but quick steps, the wife and servants left the terrace, leaving Nepos and Count Ovida alone in a gripping silence.
Once the heavy oak door was shut tight and the click of the latch echoed, the mask of calm on Ovida's face crumbled instantly.
"The west wind brings bad news, Dominus," whispered Ovida quickly, his breathing sounding heavy.
Nepos frowned, the goblet in his hand pausing in mid-air. "Speak."
"Since sunset yesterday until this very second, the watchtower at the harbor has not seen a single sail of our ships return. No Liburnians. No Triremes. The sea is empty, Caesar."
"Empty?" repeated Nepos, his eyes narrowing. "Perhaps fog is blocking the view?"
"There is no fog," countered Ovida, his tone now darker and more urgent. "This morning, fishermen on the coast of the Island of Brattia reported. They found no intact ships, but they found... pieces."
Nepos's heart skipped a beat. "What pieces?"
"Charred wooden debris. Torn sails. And bodies, Dominus. Hundreds of bodies of our soldiers washed up on the sand or floating like dead fish. Their skin was pitch black, as if they had just come out of a volcano crater." Ovida stared at Nepos with a grim look. "Our fleet... The pride of Dalmatia... has been destroyed."
Nepos's grip on his goblet weakened. He did not smash it. Instead, he lost his strength. His legs felt like water, and he sat back down weakly onto the soft klinai.
Wine spilled a little from his cup, staining his purple robe, but Nepos did not care. His eyes stared blankly at Ovida.
"Fifty ships..." murmured Nepos, his voice barely audible. "Destroyed in one night? Against what? Old merchant ships? How is it possible?"
"That is what makes my blood run cold, Dominus," continued Ovida, stepping closer and lowering his voice to a horrified whisper. "Coastal patrols found a small lifeboat drifting near the southern docks. Inside were three deserters. They are not mercenaries, they are your loyal veteran marines, but..."
Ovida paused for a moment, swallowing saliva that tasted bitter.
"But when found, they were crying and shaking. Their bodies were full of strange burns. They were raving about... Green Fire."
Nepos looked up slowly, his gaze shifting from confused to sharp. "Green Fire?"
"They swore by Christ," said Ovida quickly. "They said Romulus's ships did not fire arrows or ordinary ballistae. They said the ships spewed liquid green fire from the mouths of copper dragons. They said... the fire burned the water. The ocean turned into hell, and our fleet could not run because the fire chased them over the waves."
"Enough." Nepos closed his eyes, massaging his temples which suddenly throbbed hard. "Romulus's troops spewing fire? Burning water? That sounds like the excuses of madmen."
"I saw their wounds, Dominus. Their flesh melted. That was no ordinary fire."
A long and gripping silence filled the terrace. The sea breeze that felt warm earlier now felt bone-chilling.
Nepos took a deep breath, gathering his sanity that had wavered. He was the Emperor. He must not look broken. He placed his goblet on the table with a forced steady hand, then stood tall. His face which was pale earlier now hardened, cold and calculating.
"Take those deserters to the dungeon," ordered Nepos coldly. "And assemble the War Council. Summon the land legion commanders and the head of logistics. Take me to the Map Room now."
Nepos walked closer to Ovida, his eyes glinting dangerously.
"I will hear their testimony myself. But listen to me well, Count Ovida."
Nepos gripped his general's shoulder, his voice low but sharp as a knife.
"The people of Salona must not know. The other troops must not know. If I hear a single whisper in the market about 'Green Fire' or a destroyed fleet before I decide the next step... I will behead whoever leaks it and hang them at the city gates. I do not care if it is a soldier, a servant, or an officer. Understood?"
"Understood, Augustus," answered Ovida firmly.
"Move."
Nepos strode quickly down the cold hallway leading to the ground floor of the palace, his purple robe billowing behind him. He pushed open the heavy wooden doors leading to the Strategium, the main Map Room. Inside the chamber, which smelled of melted wax and old paper, the military high command had already gathered. A giant wooden table holding a map of the Adriatic Sea was now surrounded by the tense faces of land legion commanders and the head of logistics, standing rigid as statues awaiting their Emperor.
Moments later, the iron door in the corner opened. Two men were herded in by Ovida's personal guards.
Their appearance was pathetic. Although the wounds on their arms and faces had been dressed with clean linen bandages, a sharp, acrid smell still wafted from their bodies, the scent of burnt flesh and sulfur that could not be washed away. They limped, their eyes wild and red, as if every shadow in the room was an enemy about to pounce.
Nepos stood at the end of the table, his face expressionless. His eyes calculated quickly.
"You said there were three," said Nepos coldly without turning to Ovida.
"The youngest died before the physician could stitch his skin, Dominus," answered Ovida flatly from behind him. "His burns were too deep, and his lungs were destroyed from inhaling the smoke."
Nepos gave a small nod, showing no sympathy. He gestured with his chin to a protocol officer standing beside the survivors.
"Soldiers!" barked the officer, making the two trembling survivors flinch in shock. "Before the Great Emperor Julius Nepos, introduce yourselves!"
The first survivor, a large man now hunched over in pain, opened his mouth with difficulty.
"D-Decimus, Dominus," his voice was hoarse like grinding stones. "Senior Rower on the Trireme Gorgon. Under the command of Captain Aetius."
"V-Varro," answered the second, a thinner man with half his left face covered in thick bandages. "Archer on the Liburnian Swift Wind. My commander... Centurion Gallus."
Silence fell for a moment. The names of those ships were well known to the officers in the room as the finest vessels in the fleet.
Count Ovida stepped forward, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword. His face was hard, exerting an intimidating pressure that made the room feel even smaller.
"In the name of the Emperor of Rome," said Ovida, his voice echoing off the stone walls, "You are ordered to explain everything you saw with your own eyes to the Emperor truthfully. Nothing covered. Nothing added."
Ovida leaned in, staring at them sharply.
"And you will swear by Christ."
"I-I swear!" cried Decimus quickly, his hands trembling.
"By Christ, I swear," whispered Varro, his voice barely there.
Nepos tapped the map on the table with his finger. "Speak. How did Vitus's fleet destroy you? Did they ram you? Ambush from behind?"
"Not ramming, Dominus," interrupted Varro quickly, his eyes widening as if seeing a ghost in the corner of the room. "They... they did not get close. They just stayed still. Like corpses on the water."
"We thought they surrendered," continued Decimus, his breathing starting to hitch, talking over his comrade. "Captain Aetius ordered us to approach to board their ships. The sea was calm. No wind. But then..."
Decimus stopped, his hand gripping his own tunic until his knuckles turned white.
"Then what?" pressed Nepos.
"That sound..." whispered Decimus. "A hissing sound. Sshhhh... Like thousands of venomous snakes. Then... then copper dragon heads appeared on the prow of their ships."
"And they spewed it!" shouted Varro suddenly, causing several officers to step back in shock. "Not fire arrows! Not ordinary oil! It was... it was a green liquid that glowed! The color was like the devil's eyes! It was so bright that night turned into day!"
"The liquid flew, Dominus!" Decimus chimed in, his voice rising an octave in panic and trauma. "It flew so far! When it hit the sails, the cloth vanished instantly, devoured by fire. When it hit wood, the wood melted. When it hit men..."
Decimus swallowed, his face deathly pale. "My friend... Lucius... the liquid hit his face. He tried to wipe it off, but his hands caught fire too! His flesh melted like wax in a church!"
"We jumped into the water!" interrupted Varro again, his body shaking violently. "Everyone screamed 'To the water! To the water!'. We thought the water would save us. But..."
Varro looked at Nepos with a terrifyingly empty stare.
"The water burned, Dominus. The fire did not die! The fire ate the waves! My friends who jumped... they did not drown... they burned alive on the surface of the sea! They screamed, but boiling water rushed into their throats!"
"It was sorcery!" cried Decimus hysterically, tears mixed with cold sweat streaming down his face. "I saw it myself! The fire was alive! The fire chased us! Even when we dove, the light still burned underwater! It is not a weapon of man! Vitus has allied with Hell!"
"Our ships crashed into each other in panic," added Varro, his voice breaking into terrified sobs. "The screams... thousands of men screaming at once. The smell... the smell of roasted meat mixed with sulfur... I can still smell it... I can still smell it!"
The room was silent. No officer dared to speak. The testimony was too horrible, too impossible, yet the pure fear in the eyes of the two soldiers was undeniable proof.
Nepos listened to it all without blinking. His face remained flat, but behind his eyes, the gears of his mind turned rapidly.
"Enough," said Nepos calmly. His voice cut through the men's hysteria.
Nepos raised his hand, giving a sharp dismissing gesture.
Without a verbal command needed, the guards immediately dragged the two sobbing survivors out of the Map Room. The iron door slammed shut again with a heavy thud, leaving a suffocating silence among the high-ranking Dalmatian military officials.
Nepos gripped the edge of the map table until his knuckles turned white. He looked at the faces of his generals one by one with a demanding gaze.
"Is there anyone here," Nepos's voice trembled, holding back rage and frustration, "is there a single person in this room who can explain to me what kind of fire burned my ships? Has any of you ever heard of a weapon that can devour water?"
Silence.
The legion commanders looked down. The head of logistics looked away. Even Count Ovida, the bravest man among them, could only shake his head slowly, his face pale. They were men of war; they knew swords and spears, but they knew nothing of the science created by Theron. To them, it was beyond human reason.
"No one?" hissed Nepos. "Are you all mute?"
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps came from the dimly lit corner of the room.
"Black magic, Caesar."
All eyes turned to the source of the voice. A man in black silk robes with a large gold cross on his chest stood up slowly. He was Bishop Julianus, Nepos's personal spiritual advisor in exile. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken but burning with a terrifying fanaticism.
"It is sorcery, My Lord," repeated Julianus, his voice echoing like a sermon of death. "Let us not forget who now sits on the throne of Ravenna. Romulus allows hundreds of barbarian remnants of Odoacer's army to live in that city. He harbors pagans. And that green fire..."
Julianus raised his hand high, his finger pointing to the ceiling.
"Fire that is not extinguished by water is the fire of Hell. It is the result of heresy and a pact with the Devil. That boy is no longer a Christian. He has sold his soul for a false victory."
The Bishop stepped closer to the map table, his eyes locking onto Nepos with burning intensity.
"Your Majesty, if the world knows this, if the Church knows this, then your enemy is not only fighting against you. Romulus is waging war against God. This is no longer a struggle for the throne. This is a Holy War."
Nepos fell silent, digesting the words. His political brain began to see a crack of light amidst the darkness of this defeat. "A Holy War..." he muttered.
However, doubt still shadowed him.
"But the Pope," countered Nepos bitterly. "Simplicius in Rome does not even care about me. He let me be overthrown by Orestes. He only cares about the bellies of the starving Romans. What is the use of me screaming about magic if the Vatican closes its ears?"
Bishop Julianus smiled thinly, a smile that did not reach his eyes.
"Pope Simplicius is old, Dominus. His mind is slow, and his heart is too weak. He no longer holds full control over the Church." Julianus lowered his voice, his tone turning cunning. "However, I know someone who can help you. Someone who wields a sword of the spirit sharper than Simplicius."
"Who?" asked Nepos.
"Permit me, Dominus."
Julianus leaned into the Emperor's ear. He whispered something very long and deliberate. The other generals could only watch as Nepos listened intently, his eyes slowly widening, then narrowing slyly. An evil plan was being woven in that whisper.
After a few moments, Nepos pulled his face away. He looked at Bishop Julianus, then nodded slowly. A cruel smirk began to form on his lips.
"Brilliant," praised Nepos.
Nepos turned to face Ovida and the other officials. His posture changed completely. There was no more fear. There was only cold authority.
"Hear my decree!" shouted Nepos loudly.
"Summon the best scribes in Salona. Prepare parchment. We will not answer them with swords, but with ink."
Nepos walked around the table, dictating his plan.
"Spread the news throughout Dalmatia, and send spies to spread it to every market in Italy. Tell the people that our destroyed fleet was not a war fleet. Tell them that it was a humanitarian aid fleet carrying grain for the starving people of Rome."
The generals gasped at the lie, but Nepos did not care.
"Tell them that Romulus, in his madness using dark magic, has burned his own people's food with hellfire. Paint him not as a hero, but as a monster who would rather see his people die than accept help from his uncle."
Nepos then looked at the gathered commanders with a dismissive gaze.
"Now, go. Execute those orders. Get out."
The legion commanders saluted and rushed out of the room, relieved to leave the suffocating atmosphere.
"Except you two," added Nepos as Ovida and Julianus were about to turn. "Stay here."
The heavy iron door closed again with a loud thud, leaving the three of them in a silence filled only by the crackling of candles.
Nepos walked slowly to his private desk in the corner. He sat down, pulled out a sheet of thick sheepskin parchment, and dipped a quill into dark black ink.
"And you, Father," said Nepos without turning, his voice bouncing softly off the stone walls. "Tonight, sail North. Take chests of gold from my treasury. Take a large amount."
Count Ovida frowned, confused.
"For whom is the gold, Caesar?" asked Ovida cautiously.
"Call it... a voluntary donation from me for the renovation of the Cathedral in Milan," answered Nepos with a smirk, his eyes fixed on the blank paper. "Give it to Archbishop Theodore II."
Nepos began to write. But he did not write quickly. The quill moved slowly across the skin surface, scratching letter after letter with heavy pressure. He was not writing a diplomatic letter. He was brewing venom. He wrote a short, dark, and dirty message. An accusation that would change the Church's view of Ravenna forever.
After a time that felt very long, Nepos finally put down his quill. He sprinkled fine sand to dry the ink, then rolled the scroll and sealed it with blood-red wax.
He turned, handing the scroll to Bishop Julianus.
"Slip this message with the gold," said Nepos coldly. "Tell Theodore that the Pope in Rome has been blinded by Ravenna's sorcery. Tell him that Milan must become the new fortress of faith against that little Antichrist."
Julianus accepted the letter with both hands. "It shall be done, Dominus."
Nepos then pointed to the door where the survivors had been dragged out.
"And take those two wretches with you," ordered Nepos, his finger stabbing the air. "The rower and the archer. Keep them alive. Keep their wounds raw and festering. They are not men anymore; they are exhibits. Theodore will need them to shock the Romans."
Nepos turned to Ovida with a sharp gaze.
"Ovida. Assign your deadliest men. The best guards you have. Escort Bishop Julianus and the witnesses to the gates of Milan safely."
As Julianus departed for the North under heavy guard, carrying gold and living nightmares, the seeds of deceit began to sprout across the Adriatic. Within a week, the poison had spread faster than a plague.
In the markets of Rome, in the dingy taverns of Rimini, down to the squares of Ancona, whispers began to be heard. Starving people, who had previously praised Romulus's name for his naval victory, now began to doubt.
"I heard the fire was green... like demon vomit." "They say the ships that were burned were carrying grain for us." "Is it true? Romulus burned our food with magic?" "That tongueless survivor... did you see his burns? That is no ordinary weapon."
Nepos's propaganda worked perfectly. The victory of Ignis Dei which should have been glorious was now covered by a fog of fear and superstition.
Meanwhile, hundreds of miles to the North.
The Archbishop's Palace, Milan. October 20, 476 AD.
A Bishop sent from Salona stepped into the cold episcopal palace. Before him sat a man in golden robes, staring at chests filled with Eastern Roman gold coins with sparkling eyes.
Archbishop Theodore II picked up the message tucked between the piles of gold. He read it, then looked at the two bandaged survivors trembling in the corner of his hall. The corners of his lips lifted to form an ambitious smile. He did not care if it was magic or science. All he saw was opportunity. An opportunity to pressure the weak Pope Simplicius and make Milan the new center of power.
"Send my regards to Emperor Nepos," said Theodore II as he rolled the message back up. "Tell him... the Church will not let darkness rule Italy. Prepare my carriage. We ride to Rome immediately to investigate this sin of Ravenna."
Theodore stood up and walked to the balcony. Below him, the bells of the great basilica began to toll, calling the faithful to mass. It was a heavy, iron sound that commanded more obedience than any army. Romulus had conquered the ocean, but as the echoes of the bells filled the air, it was clear he was about to lose something far more valuable: the hearts of his people.