Anthemius stood by the window of his palace, staring out at a city that no longer seemed to know its own name. Rome — the eternal city — lay quiet beneath the pale light of morning. He was Emperor of the Western Roman Empire, though sometimes it felt as if he ruled only its memories. Since the great division in 395, the East had flourished in gold, trade, and arts, while the West had slowly crumbled under the weight of corruption, usurpations, and the endless push of barbarian tribes.
He was born around 420 in Constantinople into a powerful aristocratic family. His grandfather, Procopius, was a cousin of Emperor Julian, while his father — also named Procopius — was a general who had once rescued Roman troops ambushed by Zhayedan forces and later served as an envoy in peace negotiations. For these successes, he was awarded the title of patrician and promoted to magister militum.
Anthemius himself was a competent general and administrator. During the reigns of Marcian and Leo, he became one of the most capable and trusted men in the East. His campaigns against the Huns and Ostrogoths had proven his skill. In 467, Emperor Leo appointed him as Western Emperor, hoping to restore the unity and strength of the Empire.
Below, the Tiber slowly flowed through the heart of the city. Once, ships from every corner of the world had crowded its banks; now weeds grew where anchors once bit into the mud. The marbles were cracked and stained, their inscriptions worn to whispers. From the Palatine Hill, Anthemius could see broken arches and half-empty streets — the remnants of a once-mighty empire.
As he continued to stare out the window, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway, followed by a pounding on the doors.
"Come in," he said, his voice low.
For an instant, a dark thought crossed his mind — that this might be the moment someone came to kill him. Perhaps, after his failure against the Vandals, he even deserved it. But the door opened to reveal only a messenger — a boy who looked no older than eighteen.
"Sir, I bring an important message from Magister Militum Ricimer. He needs to meet with you urgently."
"Thank you. Do you know what is so urgent that he needs to meet me now?" Anthemius asked. He did not expect an answer, yet asked anyway.
"I don't know, sir. I was only told to deliver the message."
"Oh, then thank you. You may go."
The boy started to leave but suddenly paused and turned back."Sir… I was also told you should bring your armor and sword. I'm no general, but… I think a military campaign is about to begin."
"Thank you. You can go now," Anthemius said before turning back to his preparations.
He began readying his armor. First were his tunic and trousers, adorned with purple ornaments, followed by his shoes and leg wraps. Then he moved to the corner of his chamber, where his armor, helmet, and sword awaited him.
He wore his woolen subarmalis first — the soft padding a necessary layer beneath the metal. Over it, he secured the squamata, each scale catching the light as he adjusted it carefully. Finally, he lifted his helmet — a golden Berkasovo type, decorated with glass ornaments and a purple plume — and set it firmly in place before donning his purple cloak.
As he picked up his sword, his eyes landed on the eagle-shaped pommel. He wondered what Caesar, Augustus, Trajan, or Aurelian would have thought if they could see the state in which Rome now lay.
He slid his sword into its scabbard and left his room. First, he went to the commander of the Palatina troops.
"Flavius," he said, relief and authority mixed in his tone, "I'm glad to see you alive and well. We'll be moving out in twenty minutes. Take half the men with us and leave the rest here to guard the palace."
Flavius nodded, his face serious, and quickly went to rally the men. Anthemius watched them assemble in the courtyard, the clatter of armor and the stamping of boots echoing off the palace walls. They formed into two centuries, each led by a centurion and bearing its own signifer. They belonged to the Herculeani Seniores — the eagle on their shields confirming it. Anthemius took a brief look at them before ordering the men to mount their horses.
As they rode through Rome — the once eternal city — all he could see was destruction. It had been fifteen years since the Vandal sack, yet many places still lay abandoned. Rome was a shell of its former self, its once-busy streets now stretched in emptiness.
All he could think was: How did it end up like this?
"These walls are the only thing that keeps us safe. Without them, all would be lost," Anthemius murmured under his breath as he rode through the city gate.
But the truth was that even the walls could not protect them — the Visigoths and Vandals had already proven that. In the early days of Rome, the walls went unguarded and the gates remained open even through the night — yet the citizens felt safe. Now, they did not even feel secure behind garrisons and massive walls.
The first two days of travel were relatively calm. Along the way, they passed countless burned houses and abandoned villas — scars of raids long past. On the third day, however, they came across a house still smoldering, smoke curling into the pale morning sky.
As they drew closer, one of the scouts signaled alarm. From the nearby forest emerged a large bandit party.
"What should we do, sir?" asked Flavius Valerianus, centurion of the first century.
"First century — and half of the second — dismount. The first will form the shield wall and hold the line. The dismounted half of the second century will stand behind them and throw plumbatae at the enemy. Riders, guard our flanks and, if possible, strike their rear."
Anthemius' orders rang out. Men scrambled from their saddles and formed the ranks — a solid wall of shields, the sound of leather and metal filling the air. Signifers stood just behind the front line, their standards held tall and proud. Flavius Valerianus walked the line, shouting short commands and urging his men to steady themselves.
"We may be outnumbered, men," he called, "but look at them — look at their armor. They are not soldiers. That is our advantage. Discipline, training, and our faith in God will win this day!"
As the men braced for the attack, Anthemius sat on his horse, watching over the field, searching for a way to strike the enemy as they closed in. Two hundred men, ragged but armed, advanced with a reckless confidence born of desperation. Their armor clinked and rattled, but there was no cohesion — no discipline, only chaos.
He signaled to the dismounted half of the second century. With a clatter of leather and metal, the soldiers drew their plumbatae, gripping them tightly. Anthemius felt a small surge of reassurance. His men were trained, seasoned, and steady — and that gave him an edge over these desperate, but still dangerous, bandits.
"Throw your plumbatae!" Valerianus shouted.
Around forty darts whistled through the air. Few missed; most found their mark. Some bandits managed to hide behind shields, but many were struck. The luckier ones took the hits in the legs or torso, their screams of agony filling the air. The less fortunate were struck in the head, dropping instantly. Around twenty fell after the first volley, either killed or wounded, but the rest continued to charge.
"Hold the line! Don't — don't break formation!" Valerianus shouted.
As the bandits drew closer, the Romans could finally see what they were up against. Most of the enemy were poorly armed — carrying axes, spears, or even pitchforks — and wore little more than torn tunics. But among them, perhaps fifty stood out. They wore chainmail and scale armor, along with helmets — some adorned with plumes. These were no simple bandits or peasants. Their gear had likely been stripped from ambushed limitanei garrisons.
Anthemius sat on his horse as the first clash erupted.
The sound was deafening — shields slammed against blows, spears and swords thrust into unprotected flesh, and the screams of the wounded mingled with the ring of iron. The scales of armor rattled and deflected strikes from the few lucky ones who managed to land a hit through the shield wall.
Slowly but steadily, the barbarian lines began to crumble. At the sight of this, Anthemius gave the order for the cavalry on the flanks to envelop the enemy. When the heavily armored horsemen appeared, the barbarians in the rear tried to flee, but it was too late. Moments before impact, the riders leveled their spears and charged. Unable to retreat, the raiders were cut down in cold-blooded slaughter.
In the end, around 150 barbarians lay dead in the field, while the Romans suffered only four injuries. Two guards had been stabbed in the leg, one had his forearm pierced by a pitchfork, and another had his face slashed by a sword — fortunately, the cheekguards of his helmet absorbed the blow, or he would likely have joined the dead.
Before they departed, the men dug graves for the murdered farmer and his wife, giving them what little dignity they could. The bandits, however, were heaped into a single pile — they did not deserve a proper burial after slaughtering innocent civilians.
The rest of the day passed calmly. As night fell, they made camp in a long-abandoned villa. It must once have belonged to a wealthy man, perhaps even a senator, but after years of banditry, barbarian invasions, and civil war, it now lay in ruin.
As Anthemius lay down to sleep, a sudden feeling of unease washed over him — as if someone were watching. It made no sense; he was in a room without windows, the doors firmly closed. Yet the feeling endured. Carefully, he cracked the door open and peered through the gap. He saw only his guards patrolling outside — nothing more.
Relieved but still restless, he closed the door and lay back down, trying to shake the feeling and finally rest.
As he drifted into sleep, Anthemius was suddenly woken by screams — not the shouts of his men, but the terrified cries of women and children. When he opened his eyes, he could hardly believe what he saw. He had fallen asleep in the villa, yet now he was back in his palace… in Rome.
He rushed to the window. The entire city was ablaze. Burning men, women, and even children ran through the streets, their screams filling the air. Suddenly, a loud voice spoke.
"Anthemius… tell me, why have you forgotten us? Why have you abandoned us?"
He spun around, but the room was empty. Heart pounding, he turned back to the window — and before him stood a man.
"Who are you? What are you doing here? What do you mean, 'abandoned us'?" Anthemius demanded, panic rising in his voice as the screams continued outside. Yet, even as he spoke, a strange certainty gripped him — he had seen this man somewhere before.
"Soon, you will realize who I am — but by then, it will be too late," the man said, his voice low and rough. "For hundreds of years, we helped you turn the tides of war in your favor. And how did you repay us? You abandoned us. After all we gave you, you turned away. Now it is time for us to take back what was once ours."
As he spoke, understanding struck Anthemius like a blade. He knew this figure — not as a man, but as someone far greater. It was no mortal who stood before him, but a god. Jupiter himself.
"You let the temples fall silent. You turned your face from the gods — and so the gods turned their faces from you," Jupiter said.
Then suddenly, everything went dark.Anthemius gasped as he sat up, drenched in sweat. Faint light slipped through the cracks in the door. He stood, breathing heavily, realising it had only been a dream.
He hurriedly put on his armor and stepped outside, where his men were already waiting. The last few days of the journey had passed without interruption, and now, on the fourteenth day since their departure from Rome, they stood before the gates of the imperial city of Ravenna.