Julio stood at the threshold of his door at the agreed hour. The frame was clearly marked with SPQR, and as he stepped into the street, he saw her, cloaked and hooded, revealing only her sharp and beautiful chin. She addressed him as Senator Pisco, trying to suppress any hint of disdain. Pisco then told her that he and his family deserved her disdain—they had let the Empire die slowly, and now they must face the consequences. This made her smile slightly, her icy demeanor breaking for a moment, and the hood seemed to let in light, revealing Drusila's full beauty. Julio fell silent, feeling as though he were speaking to a real goddess, and told her that the brothel serving as the headquarters of Commander Theodomir (Commander Theodomir of Pannonia, a 38-year-old Ostrogoth, is an imposing but worn figure, his body showing the toll of years of service and excess. Standing over six feet tall, his robust frame is beginning to sag under the weight of his wine addiction. His once-thick, chestnut hair is now streaked with gray and unkempt, and his poorly groomed beard frames a face weathered by the sun and marked by battle scars. His grayish-blue eyes reflect cunning and weariness, with deep bags betraying sleepless nights and overindulgence.
Theodomir is a competent but conflicted leader. He respects military discipline and is feared on the battlefield, but his addiction to alcohol and frequent visits to the local brothel have tarnished his reputation. He is a volatile man: loyal and protective of his soldiers but irascible and ruthless when drunk. Though he lives in decadence, he clings to a code of honor that drives him to fulfill his duty and protect the weak, even if reluctantly. His life is a reflection of a man caught between the glory of the past and the shadow of his own excesses.) was several blocks away. He then pulled up his hood, and they began to walk.
The fog enveloped the city like a ghostly shroud, thickening in the dark corners of the cobblestone streets. The air was cold and damp, filled with the scent of burning wood and the rot of war. The moon, barely visible through the low clouds, cast a pale light over the ruins of buildings, where the wind howled through broken shutters and tattered banners.
Julio stood at the threshold of his door at the agreed hour. On the stone frame, marked with cast iron, the letters SPQR gleamed, a testament to a Rome that no longer existed, at least not in this land or this era. His hand brushed the inscription with a melancholy he dared not show. As he stepped into the street, he saw her.
She was there, wrapped in a dark cloak with a hood that barely revealed her sharp and beautiful chin. The light of a nearby torch reflected on her lips, giving her face an ethereal glow. When she spoke, her voice was controlled, measured, like someone who had learned to master her emotions.
"Senator Pisco."
Despite her effort, Julio noticed the faint tremor of disdain in her tone. He smiled bitterly.
"My family and I deserve your contempt, Drusila," he said frankly. "We let the Empire die slowly, watched it rot from within, and now we must face the consequences."
She looked at him with surprise and, for the first time, smiled. It was a barely perceptible gesture, but it was enough to crack the icy barrier around her. In that instant, the hood seemed to lose its shadow, revealing her face in all its splendor. The fog parted as she moved, and Julio felt, for a moment, that he was in the presence of a real goddess.
The senator took a few seconds to find his voice.
"The brothel serving as the headquarters of Commander Theodomir is several blocks from here," he finally said.
Drusila nodded naturally. Julio pulled up his hood, and they began to walk, slipping through the shadows of the sleeping city.
In the distance, the laughter of drunken soldiers echoed through the alleys, accompanied by the murmurs of those still living in fear of the occupation. Theodomir, the Ostrogoth commander in the city, awaited them in his decadent refuge, a man caught between the glory of his past and the slow destruction of his present.
The path was shrouded in spectral silence. The fog seemed to thicken as they advanced, absorbing sounds and blurring the silhouettes of the ruined buildings. The footsteps of Julio and Drusila echoed softly on the wet cobblestones. In the distance, the echoes of drunken laughter and furtive murmurs mingled with the creak of old wood and the howl of the wind winding through the alleys.
Drusila, wrapped in her cloak, kept her gaze fixed on the path, but her mind was tangled in a web of thoughts.
"I don't understand," she murmured, more to herself than to her companion. "According to my grandfather, the Empire stretched from Hispania to Persia, from the North Sea to the endless sands of Africa. How could something so vast fall?"
Julio sighed wearily, as if that question had haunted him all his life.
"No one knows for sure," he admitted. "There isn't a single reason. Some blame the barbarians, others corruption, but I believe the plague and the loss of the silver mines in Hispania were decisive factors. Without wealth, without soldiers, without stability... Rome collapsed under its own weight."
Drusila nodded slowly, bitterness in her gaze.
"My home," she said after a moment of silence, "is called Middle-earth. It lies between the realm of the Dark Lord and that of the gods. It was there that my grandfather's Iron Men were cast by the curse, 56 years ago."
Her voice hardened slightly.
"The Kingdom of Oriath, where my mother was from, was beautiful... too beautiful. I grew up among its palaces and gardens, and I always felt that my soul belonged more to my mother's and grandmother's house than to my grandfather's. But when I came here, when I visited the abandoned temples of Minerva..."
She paused for a moment, recalling the unmistakable scent of her childhood—the incense and limestone in the sun, the fragrance of withered laurels in deserted courtyards.
"There, I smelled my home," she whispered.
Julio remained silent, understanding that, for the first time, Drusila was accepting that her destiny was tied to this world, no matter how much she tried to deny it.
They continued walking, and the fog seemed to part as they moved. In the air hung a dense aroma, a mix of cheap perfumes and spilled wine. They had arrived at the Street of Pleasure, where lust and decadence intertwined with violence and power. There, in a brothel of blackened stone, worn by time and sin, awaited Theodomir of Pannonia, the Ostrogoth who ruled with an iron fist and wine-stained lips.
Drusila moved with firm steps through the crowd of Ostrogoth soldiers. The thick fog and smoke from the bonfires distorted the silhouettes, enveloping the scene in an unreal atmosphere. The riders gathered around the pleasure house, their mounts snorting in the cold and the stench of the city. No one seemed to pay her much attention, as her figure was hidden under the cloak, and at this hour, the she-wolves came and went like shadows before the rooster's crow.
As she advanced, a group of men laughed loudly around a bonfire lit in the ruins of an old brothel. One of them, with golden hair and a scar across his face, leaned over a dark-haired woman trying to break free from his grip.
"Don't be shy, little one," growled the Ostrogoth with a heavy accent. "Spend some time with me, and I'll pay you well."
The woman struggled, but the soldiers' laughter drowned out her protests. Drusila did not stop, but her ear caught the tense conversation.
"Let her go, Gunnar," said another soldier, less drunk. "She's not a she-wolf; she's one of the commander's slaves. If Theodomir finds out, he'll cut off your balls."
The blond man snorted but released her.
"Damn drunk from Pannonia..." he muttered. "One day I'll pay to see him flayed alive."
Drusila stored that information as she continued on her way. The mention of the commander's slaves intrigued her, as did the latent hatred in the Ostrogoth's voice.
Further ahead, in the gloom of an alley near the brothel, she spotted a man wrapped in rags, crouched behind a barrel. His restless eyes watched her for a moment before he averted his gaze and slipped toward the back of the brothel. He didn't seem like a soldier or a client but someone there for another reason.
Drusila, cautiously, changed direction and decided to follow him at a distance.
She slipped through the shadows, trailing the man to another ruin. The crumbling structure barely stood, its walls eaten away by time and its beams blackened by past fires. There, hidden from view, a group of Ostrogoth soldiers whispered among themselves.
"The commander is rotten inside," said one, a tall warrior with a broken nose and braided hair. "He drinks and laughs while we freeze in these streets infested with Romans."
"The Romans have promised to let us go if we give them his head," added another, younger, with his helmet under his arm and a doubtful expression. "But betraying a leader..."
"A leader must be strong," growled the first. "And Theodomir is only strong with a cup in his hand and a whore in his lap."
Some men nodded, but others hesitated. Betrayal was a heavy burden to bear.
It was then that Drusila emerged from the shadows. Her silhouette, wrapped in the dark cloak, blended with the gloom as if the night itself had birthed her. Her eyes gleamed with cold intelligence. When she spoke, her voice was low, melodic, but laden with intent.
"I hear the crows singing over the pleasure house," she said in fluent Ostrogoth but with an unmistakable Latin accent. "They speak of a weak leader, of men dying for his incompetence."
The soldiers started, some reaching for their swords, but she raised a hand with a calm gesture.
"I am not an enemy," she continued, with an enigmatic smile. "I am a woman fallen from grace, a Roman noble now enslaved to Theodomir. I know his excesses, his weaknesses. I know when he lets his guard down."
Her words were like silver threads weaving an invisible spell. She had been born with the ability to enchant with her voice, to bend wills with the precise cadence of her words. One of the soldiers, the one with the broken nose, watched her with narrowed eyes.
"If you know so much," he said, "tell me, why would you want to help us kill him?"
Drusila tilted her head slightly, as if the answer were obvious.
"Because in the blood of the fallen, new destinies are written," she whispered. "And because men like Theodomir do not deserve to live."
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the crackling of distant bonfires and the howling wind. Then the warrior nodded slowly.
"Fine," he said. "Come with us to the brothel. If you're lying, you'll pay with your life."
"If I'm lying," she smiled, "I won't live to see the betrayal fulfilled."
The soldiers regrouped, and Drusila was escorted into the brothel as part of the plan. Betrayal loomed over the pleasure house, and the night promised to be stained with blood.