The Last King of Rome

If he stopped remembering, the world would forget Rome. Romulus was tired of carrying it. He stared at the colossal statue of Augustus, daring those below to look upon its gaze.

The Goths found him wandering near the lake, parched and left to rot by bandits. He felt the statue's presence. Looming above, its head was lost in the golden sky. Guide me, Lord, for the demon looks at me every day. The jagged head of Augustus could not be seen from below. The eyes of Augustus had seen him in nightmares and every waking moment. They never left him.

A dark cloud enveloped the statue while thunderstorms burst overhead, burning trees until they resembled tentacled flesh. The land had been wounded for generations. Out of dead horses, white asphodel flowers grew among scattered skeletons. Gold seeping from the statue pooled on the ground. He stared at the corpses surrounding it, those burned for daring to touch the statue of a god. Hundreds of skeletons remained in the mud, mouths open as if ripped apart by demons. Animals had not ventured near for a long while.

No one knew how long it had remained there since the founding of Rome. Old passersby who remembered the days of old muttered about legions and the forest of Arminius. Even those days were gone.

The sky had been gold for decades, sunlight refusing to die for night to enter. People were driven mad. Pagans called it punishment for letting Rome fall, but he blamed the greed of men. It was not the Pagan Gods; they were myths. It was God who brought this test.

A hand grabbed him by the collar, yanking him from the cart. Rothric's men dragged him to the Hill of the Old Ones. Pain echoed through his ears. His knees tore at the mound's sickly white surface. Some called it the tears of a dead Etruscan King. He was tired of barbarians masquerading around his land. The stream of tears felt cold against his knees, squelching like paint. To the Goths, Romulus was found for a reason. He watched the dead grass lie lifeless around the lake of white tears. He wondered if the Good Emperors knew what had become of the Empire.

Yet no thief had entered it. It had been weeping brown mud. The Goths kicked him relentlessly. He had nothing to say. He would have preferred sleeping under a tree, undisturbed. But when Rothric arrived, he knew better than to fight.

He recognised the mound as it came into view. It was a Tholos, the tomb of an Etruscan King. Rothric advanced, hand on his sword. He raised his right hand and mumbled. The earth shook. The mud unearthed itself as stone fell. The doors emerged from the ground, bellowing into the air.

Two slabs of white marble emerged. Rothric's men whimpered, grasping at the soil, while Romulus saw their leader standing his ground. The doors crackled, grinding out a screech, then swung open to release darkness. Torches ignited on their own as Rothric entered. Romulus halted inside the corridor of Kings, marvelling at paintings he had never seen. Here was a world erased by Rome. The sight brought memories of the Palatine Palace and walks through imperial corridors inhabited by jealous courtiers ready to topple an unworthy Emperor.

The air thickened with bitter woodsmoke and roasting garum. Silas lounged on a marble couch. For Romulus, the incense roused a buried hatred, recalling pagan priests in temples closed by Emperor Gratian. Barbarians never forgot to play Roman when it served them. Romulus saw the judgmental eyes of painted senators fixed upon the Goths.

Silas sipped from his jewel encrusted cup. He looked like a nightmare of the Great Migration. A Roman general's breastplate had been hammered to fit his chest, now covered in soot. His cloak was draped in moth eaten purple from Tyre. His helmet sat nearby, a grim iron face mask that stared at Romulus.

Silas leaned forward. "It took a long time to find you, Roman. You are not found easily."

Every Gothic war chief said the same: find the Tomb of Alaric and his staff to become the most powerful in the Realm. Those chiefs were cut or hanged. Silas was not the first to ask him.

Silas sipped his cup. "They call you Romulus, do they not?"

A faint smirk reached Romulus's lips. "They do."

"Why do you persist, Romulus? Every warchief who employed you met a fate worse than death. Why do you persist in the name of the Lord?"

Romulus said nothing.

Silas leaned forward. "You know what I want. You do not want gold. Not since the archbishop of Rome cursed you with the ability to live forever. You cannot have a family. They would outgrow you. They grow old questioning why you are so young."

His eyes darted toward Romulus. "Find the Tomb of Alaric and his staff. Bring it to me and I will restore the Empire. I will restore what Rome should have been, become Caesar, and cross the Rubicon."

Romulus laughed, the sound echoing off the walls. The flickering torchlight made the painted senators seem to flinch. "You? Become Caesar? A random Gothic warlord no one knows?"

The blow caught Romulus across the jaw. He tasted copper and centuries of anger. His head snapped back at Rothric. Rothric growled. "Keep your mouth shut, scum."

Romulus kept chuckling. "How many before you had the same ambition? How many?"

Silas replied. "I am not them."

"Then what are you? An agent of the Byzantines?" Romulus spat.

Silas threw his cup, wine sloshing onto the marble. He rose. "Do you dare call me an agent of Constantinopolis?"

Romulus shrugged. "What does it matter? The New Romans are traitors. Men who forgot Rome and left it for vultures. The East never helped us. They will kill you when you are of no use. If you found his staff, what then? Would you become emperor of an empire only remembered in hearts? No one had the courage to defend it when barbarians roamed. You posed as Romans and stole our farms."

Silas nodded. "You talk a lot."

Romulus replied. "Give it up, Goth. The Age of Rome is gone."

"Then what do you fight for, Roman?"

The answer never came. In a world of gold skies and empty temples hollowed like the husk of elephants, Rome had died. Bled dry by men wearing purple cloaks. It haunted every Roman since Alaric transformed the Eternal City into a slaughterhouse. Pagans were crucified while statues of Old Gods were melted for gold. When Romulus looked at Silas, he saw a barbarian in civilisation’s guise. Wolves prowled the nursery, welcoming barbarians who shared Roman bread only to burn cities in the name of God.

He had never fought for stone or money. The light of Rome never vanished in hearts that remembered. When Scipio's men held against the elephants of Hannibal, it was the defiant roar of Aurelian's legions. Centuries of rot could not extinguish that glory.

He stared at Silas. "Rome was always the light of the world. She was the people. Seven farmers founded the city. She became an Empire that stretched beyond the known world. People do not forget an Empire like that. I fight because I am the only one who remembered when the bells rang in Rome's churches. I am the last of the Old Romans."

Silas leaned forward. The joints of his bronze breastplate groaned like a sinking ship. "Do not tell me you are the first King reborn. Your cousins in the East would forget you exist. For what? For this?" He gestured to the sweltering darkness outside. "Civil wars destroyed you. When legion turned against legion, you fought like dogs for the purple rag. You turned the world into a graveyard."

"I never forgot Rome," Romulus said. "The world can go blind. The sun can refuse to set. For as long as I breathe, I am the last of the Old Romans. I will never let the world forget that a city called Rome ruled the world."

Silas stopped pacing. "No, I do not think you ever would. Now, bring Garic."

A young boy arrived, escorted by guards. He was a bright haired boy with small eyes. His nurse arrived with him, watching desperately. "This is Garic," Silas pointed. "They say he is the lost heir of Alaric."

The scent of woodsmoke was replaced by lavender and unwashed wool. Garic stepped into the firelight. His hair was the color of grey stone. He wore a tunic devoid of color.

The boy looked at the Goths in silence. When his eyes met Romulus, something shifted. It was as if the boy could see Romulus from the days of old.

"This is him?" Romulus asked. "He should be playing with toys, not chasing ghosts."

"He is the key," Silas hissed, tightening his grip on the boy. "Alaric's blood runs in the heroes of our legends. The tomb will not open to Goths because those Etruscan ghosts haunt me. It will open only for him. He will only go if you lead him, Saint. He thinks you are the first King of Rome. But if you are the first King reborn, you have no Rome to return to."

"And the nurse?"

"Sophia is assigned. She will not be making the journey."

Sophia clutched the boy's arm. "No, Silas! Let me be with him. The boy does not know this world."

Silas raised his hand. "I am in no mood to welcome you on a journey where a harpy will eat you alive."

Sophia's eyes flared. "I will protect Garic even if I have to die."

Silas shrugged. "You are collateral. As you wish."

He turned to Rothric. "Accompany these three. Make sure they are protected. Otherwise those Lombards will hunt you down."

Rothric placed a hand to his chest. "You do not need to worry, Lord Silas."

Silas waved them away with a flick of his hand. His attention turned to the maps. Rothric shoved Romulus toward the corridor.

As they stepped through the marble doors, Romulus stared at the Etruscan paintings. For a minute, their eyes opened. A heartbeat passed, and then they closed. The open air met his face as the wind howled. The light of the gold sky radiated, unblinking, casting shadows across the lake of white tears. Sophia clutched Garic so tightly her fingers left marks on his tunic.

Heavy armoured soldiers arrived with shields wearing the Chi-Ro. Rothric nodded. Garic stumbled into the white mud, his sandals sinking. Romulus hauled the boy upright. For a second, Garic's face reflected the eternal light.

"Is it true?" Garic said. "Are you the one who built Rome?"

Romulus looked toward the horizon where the statue of Augustus loomed in black thunderstorms. The Demon remained there. "I am the one who watched Rome fall, boy," he rasped. "Now move. And stay with me. Always."

A cart arrived. The Goths formed a ring of steel. Sophia sat on the cart with Romulus and the boy. The cart began to rumble across the white mud.

Rothric stared at him. "If you betray us, it will be the end of you."

Romulus stared back. "I know."

The journey to the tomb had begun. As long as the boy breathed, Romulus knew the truth.

The boy was the future of Rome.