The Lupanar of Frusino, a den of pleasures and decadence, stood at the southern edge of the city, where dirt roads turned to mud with the rain and the stench of stale wine and sweaty bodies lingered in the air. At this hour, just before dawn, the place still pulsed with the last murmurs of lust and drunkenness. Oil lamps flickered with a feeble glow, casting misshapen shadows on the crumbling walls and tattered tapestries.
The garrison officers were sprawled across worn-out fur beds and sticky wooden benches, sunk in a drunken stupor after a night of revelry. Some she-wolves, with disheveled hair and dresses slipping from their shoulders, whispered sly laughter as they rummaged through their clients' pouches in search of a few more coins. Others slept entangled with their temporary lovers, wrapped in the scent of wine, sweat, and cheap perfume.
In a more secluded corner, under the dim light of an almost extinguished lamp, lay Commander Teodomiro of Pannonia. His imposing body rested on a mattress barely worthy of his rank, with one hand placed on the bare thigh of a voluptuous woman who slept in his arms, her breathing deep and steady. His graying hair was tousled, and his breath still carried the weight of the last jug of wine he had consumed before falling into slumber.
It was then that the echo of a war horn shattered the stillness of the early morning, followed by the blaring of trumpets ripping through the silence. A sound that should not have been heard at this hour, a sound that chilled the blood of the sober and drew groans of protest from the intoxicated.
Teodomiro's steel-blue eyes snapped open, clouded by wine but sharpened by instinct. His furrowed brow deepened as a nervous tic twitched along his jawline. With a clumsy yet firm motion, he pushed the woman aside. She barely murmured a complaint before turning over and continuing to sleep.
"Who the hell ordered the trumpets at this hour?" he bellowed, his voice rough and laden with fury.
He sat at the edge of the bed and rubbed his calloused hands over his face, as if trying to dispel the haze of his hangover. The lupanar stirred with murmurs and sluggish movements as the men around him awoke with the same confusion and bewilderment.
But something within him, an instinct dulled by years of decadence, told him this was no simple mistake. Something had changed. Something was about to shatter the fragile peace of Frusino.
The doors of the lupanar burst open with a loud crash. It was a young page—perhaps the second, third, or fourth nephew, or maybe the bastard, of some officer dozing among sweat-drenched cushions and sour wine. The boy stumbled in, his tunic soaked to the thighs by the warm liquid that had escaped him the moment he crossed the threshold. His eyes were wild, his mouth open in a useless tremor, and his chest heaved with the ragged breath of someone who had run farther than his fragile body could endure.
The still-groggy officers barely turned their heads, more concerned with the liquor in their cups or the women whispering hoarse promises in their ears. But Teodomiro, half-naked and with his jaw clenched at the interruption, sat up in his cot, roughly shoving aside the she-wolf still clinging to his arm.
The boy tried to speak, but only choked sounds and an incomprehensible hiss escaped his lips. His trembling hand attempted to point at something, but his legs gave out, and he collapsed to his knees in the doorway.
"Goddammit, boy!" Teodomiro growled, leaping to his feet. He strode forward in two steps, grabbed the page by the collar of his tunic, and lifted him with the same ease as he would a jug of mead.
The sharp slap of his calloused hand against the boy's cheek echoed through the hall.
"Speak, or I'll knock your teeth out!"
The page blinked, eyes brimming with tears, his lower lip trembling like that of a child on the verge of sobbing.
"Romans!" he finally whimpered, his voice broken. "Romans, my lord!"
Teodomiro felt his blood run cold. Murmurs spread through the lupanar like wildfire. Some officers sat up abruptly, their heads clearing at once.
"What are you saying?" the commander asked, though his tone was no longer just anger, but caution.
The boy swallowed hard and stammered:
"The commissioner… from the south tower… said to warn you… there are men on the road! They are not Goths… they bear Roman standards!"
Silence fell. A hawk-nosed officer rubbed his face with both hands and let out a sharp breath.
"What kind of standards?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
The page shook his head, his lips dry.
"Eagles, wolves… pagan symbols. No crosses, my lord, like those I have seen in the armies of Rome… but they are Romans. They look like the drawings of the city of Rome…"
The air in the hall grew heavy. Teodomiro dropped the boy as if he had burned his hands and ran his fingers through his tangled beard.
"How many?" he demanded.
The page gasped for breath.
"Dozens… no… hundreds. They come armed, with shields and swords…"
A broken laugh rang out from some dark corner of the lupanar. A drunken officer spat on the floor and muttered with disdain:
"Who knows what those fools at the tower saw. Any gang of bandits with stolen gear can wave a Roman standard."
Teodomiro did not share his indifference. He ran his tongue over his dry lips and spat on the ground.
—"What if they are troops from the East?" someone asked.
The commander clicked his tongue and shook his head.
—"Troops from the East marching with the eagles? I don't think so… But if those bastards have sent an expedition to reclaim these lands, we'll know soon enough."
Finally, he exhaled sharply and, without bothering to fully dress, turned to his officers.
—"Rouse the men!" he roared.
Some soldiers leaped from their beds, stumbling over empty bottles and entangled limbs.
—"What if it's just a scavenger patrol?" ventured one of the men, his voice still thick with sleep.
Teodomiro shot him a sharp look.
—"I don't care if it's Caesar himself reborn. We're going to find out."
Without waiting any longer, he turned toward the door and strode out into the night.
The icy dawn breeze struck Teodomiro's face as he left the brothel, his breath still tainted with stale wine and the sweet scent of cheap incense. His mind, however, was already awake—sharp as a drawn sword.
—"Sound the bells! Rouse all the men!" he bellowed as he marched down the cobbled street.
Around him, the guards stationed in the pleasure district jolted upright, some still swaying from the effects of drink. The city slept, but not for much longer. In the distance, the heavy echo of the bronze bells began to toll, warning the citizens that war was upon them.
Teodomiro was striding toward the wall when a messenger intercepted him, running so fast he nearly crashed into him.
—"My lord!" the man panted, bowing with a mixture of terror and urgency.
—"Speak, damn you! What is it now?" the commander growled, stopping in his tracks.
The soldier swallowed hard before speaking.
—"A detachment from the garrison… those who used to spend the night in the abandoned pagan temples… they've been massacred."
Teodomiro's face tensed.
—"How many?"
—"Twenty dead. Only one survived… a young noble, but he refuses to speak."
The commander clenched his teeth. He knew those soldiers. They were a band of warriors who found solace in their own brotherhood—inclinations many in the garrison despised or ignored—but they were good fighters. Or at least, they had been.
—"Massacred by whom?" he snapped, his eyes flashing with fury.
The messenger swallowed again.
—"No one knows. The bodies were scattered among the ruins of the great temple, mutilated… There were no signs of looting, no survivors to raise the alarm."
A chill ran down Teodomiro's spine. This was no mere skirmish. This was a deliberate slaughter.
Before he could order an investigation, another messenger arrived, gasping for breath, his face deathly pale.
—"My lord, news from the south tower! The enemy army is… is…!"
—"Spit it out already!" Teodomiro roared, his patience wearing thin.
—"They are at least thirty thousand… maybe more."
The commander felt the air grow heavy in his lungs.
Thirty thousand.
How?
How could an army that size have arrived here without word reaching them weeks—or even years—before?
His knuckles turned white as he clenched his fists. His mind swirled with unanswered questions. Thirty thousand men were not a band of raiders or a hostile patrol. This was an army. An army of a magnitude that shook the very foundations of his reality.
Teodomiro, a man hardened by battles and the games of power, felt for the first time in years a sliver of true fear.
The cold of the early morning seeped into his bones. The city still slept, for the most part, but not for long.
—"Seal the gates! No one enters or leaves without my command!" he bellowed, his voice thundering across the square.
The guards rushed to obey. From the towers and walls, the watchmen's cries rang out, raising the alarm. The metal of the chains groaned as the massive wooden and iron gates slammed shut with a resounding thud.
Reality struck him with brutal clarity. He had, at best, eight hundred men at his disposal. Most were battle-hardened riders, veterans of a thousand fights. But against thirty thousand… even with the walls, they were doomed.
The peasant levies from the valley could, in theory, raise twenty thousand. If only he had a month. But this army had appeared out of nowhere. No rumors, no warnings, no scouts raising the alarm. It was impossible.
And yet, they were here.
Teodomiro gathered his commanders in the inner stronghold's hall. The torches flickered, casting light on the tense, exhausted faces of his officers. Some still reeked of wine, others hadn't even fully dressed.
—"Where did they come from?" one of the captains asked, still in disbelief.
—"Who the hell has an army like this and moves it unnoticed?" added another.
A heavy silence filled the room.
—"It doesn't matter where they came from," Teodomiro interrupted gravely. "What matters is what we're going to do."
The options were few. They could resist… but for how long?
One of the centurions spat on the floor.
—"We could surrender. If they're Romans, maybe they'll offer terms."
Teodomiro glared at him with contempt.
—"If you think those bastards marched thirty thousand strong just to negotiate, you're a bigger fool than I thought."
The captain lowered his gaze.
Theodomir remained motionless, watching as the map of the city unfolded before him, as if by looking at the edges of its walls, he could find some answer that would save him from the dilemma consuming him. The news of the enemy army's movements echoed relentlessly in his mind. The siege had closed in rapidly. It was as if an unstoppable force had emerged from nowhere, a war machine so precise that it seemed forged by the gods.
"They are building..." he murmured under his breath, not even realizing he was speaking aloud. "Ditches, walls, palisades... They are raising towers with such speed..." He cut himself off, studying the map's lines as if he could find a solution within them. His words were interrupted by the resounding sound of hammers coming from the walls, the metallic clatter that accompanied the enemy's frantic work.
One of the closest officers dared to speak, his tone anxious, as if the mere act of talking could relieve the growing tension that was beginning to suffocate the room.
"My lord, this is not like what we saw at Adrianople, is it? These men... they are not like the Romans who defeated our ancestors. No, these... are different. They are raising those towers as if we were ants before a wall, as if they were automatons moving with deadly precision. Those... those walls and towers… they do not follow the construction times of a Roman army, nor their patience. It is as if... as if they were being controlled by some supernatural force."
Theodomir closed his eyes and ran a hand over his head, trying to organize his thoughts, battling against the feeling of despair. He did not know how to face this situation. He, who had led so many battles, who had witnessed the horrors of war, now found himself powerless before a threat he did not understand. The men of the Roman Empire he had known, those he had fought in his youth, were not like this. They did not build with such speed or precision. They were not so determined, so relentless.
"This makes no sense..." Theodomir murmured, as if speaking to himself. Sweat began to bead on his forehead, but he could not shake the feeling that he was facing something far greater than a mere invasion.
Then, another officer, stationed at one of the watchtowers, shouted urgently, shattering the heavy silence that filled the war room.
"My lord! Something strange has been seen from the walls! These 'Romans'… they are making offerings to their gods… pagan gods. No… they are not Christians. It is… it is a pagan cult."
A murmur spread through the room. The officers exchanged glances, but Theodomir, without losing his composure, raised his hand in an authoritative gesture, demanding silence. This was no longer just about an enemy army; this was something beyond logic.
"Pagans?" Theodomir repeated, his gaze hardening. "Then they are not men of the Byzantine Emperor. These… these are not Romans."
The phrase sounded strange, almost as if he were still processing it himself. He had fought against Romans, but these men, these invaders, seemed to have nothing in common with those of the past. Their appearance was different. And their methods… their approach was something else—more primitive, more barbaric.
He struck the table forcefully, the impact echoing through the room and shaking the heavy air. His thoughts were clouded, but the decision had to be made now. He was the commander, the leader, and the responsibility rested on him. What was he to do?
"We must capitulate…" he said in a low voice, almost as if confessing a bitter truth. His words weighed like a stone. He knew resistance would be futile. With only 800 men, most of them cavalry and a few conscript commanders, it was clear they would not last long. But the thought of surrendering was unbearable. He could not… he must not let his people fall without a fight.
The silence that followed was heavy, laden with uncertainty. The officers knew this was no time for weakness. They knew that Theodomir's leadership was not just about orders, but about principles. But they also knew the situation was dire.
Another officer stepped forward, looking at Theodomir with determined eyes.
"No!" he said firmly. "These men are not Romans. They are something else, something dark. If we surrender, they will drag us before their pagan gods and subject us to their will. We cannot allow it!"
Theodomir stared at him, and the pain in his eyes was evident. He knew the officer was right, but the reality was that they were not prepared to face such an overwhelming force. How could he ask his men to fight against something he did not even understand?
He struck the table again, this time harder.
"We cannot surrender!" he shouted, finally making his decision. Though his army was outnumbered and outmatched, the idea of yielding was unbearable. He would not be the man who betrayed his people.
"Prepare everyone! Gather the troops! We will defend ourselves to the end!" he ordered decisively.
Theodomir turned to his officers, the fire in his eyes rekindled after so long. No matter the magnitude of the threat, no matter how much his forces could endure—he would fight. Because a man like him, a leader of war, could not surrender.