The Lupanar of Venus was the most exclusive brothel in Ravenna, a place of silk curtains, imported perfumes, and Senatorial secrets.
Tonight, it smelled like wet fur, stale sweat, and cheap ale.
Following the Emperor's shocking decree, the Germanic foederati had not been banished from the city. Instead, they had been given the night to "rest." Tufa and two dozen Heruli chieftains had immediately kicked in the doors of the high-end lupanar, dragging casks of wine inside and violently throwing the wealthy Roman patrons out into the muddy streets.
Standing in the freezing rain across the plaza, a squad of Roman Vigiles watched in absolute disgust.
"Look at them," a veteran guard spat, gripping his spear so hard his knuckles popped. Through the open windows of the brothel, they could hear guttural Germanic chanting, the smashing of priceless amphorae, and the terrified shrieks of the courtesans. "Animals. They are rolling in Patrician silk with mud still on their boots."
Beside the veteran stood the young guard from the market, his right arm bound tightly in a linen sling after Odoacer had dislocated it. The boy’s face was bruised, but his eyes burned with a cold, helpless fury.
"Why did the Magister let them stay?" the young guard asked, his voice trembling with anger. "We have a garrison. We could slaughter them while they are drunk."
"Because the Augustus ordered it, boy," the veteran muttered bitterly, turning away from the sickening sight. "The world has turned upside down. Rome is a whore now, and the barbarians have the coin."
A mile away, inside the candlelit Secretarium of the imperial palace, Romulus Augustulus was discovering that he actually didn't have any coin at all.
Romulus stood at the head of a massive oak table, surrounded by the greatest minds of the Western Empire—five elderly Quaestors (financial officials) draped in heavy, expensive togas.
The atmosphere in the room was suffocating.
"You do not understand, Augustus," an ancient, bald Quaestor named Symmachus said, rubbing his temples in sheer frustration. "The Fiscus is empty. There is no gold to pay these barbarians to march North. We cannot just... make more."
Romulus sighed, wiping sweat from his forehead. He had been trying to explain the concept of fiat currency and state-issued bonds for an hour, but his 5th-century Vulgar Latin was failing him.
"We don't need physical solidi right now," Romulus pleaded, dragging a piece of charcoal across a wax tabula to draw a crude diagram. "We issue a... a paper promise. A writ of debt. We tell the merchants that this writ is backed by the State. They use the writ to trade, which stimulates the... the mercatus... the economy! We use the future tax revenue to secure the current debt!"
The scholars stared at him as if he had just started speaking in demonic tongues.
"A paper promise?" Symmachus repeated, his voice dripping with patrician condescension. "Augustus, with all due respect to your divine wisdom... merchants trade in weight. Silver. Gold. A piece of parchment with ink on it is worth exactly the cost of the parchment! If we try to pay the butchers in ink, they will riot. This violates the sacred laws of Diocletian!"
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Romulus clenched his jaw. He was an MIT graduate surrounded by men who thought bleeding with leeches cured fevers. I can't just force this, he realized with a sinking dread. I don't know their culture well enough. I don't have the vocabulary to change their entire worldview.
"If I may, Augustus."
The voice came from the darkest corner of the room. A man stepped forward into the candlelight. He was in his late thirties, possessing a sharp, hawk-like face, and wore a simple, unadorned white tunic that sharply contrasted with the lavish togas of the older men.
This was Cassiodorus. The head of the administrative records, and widely whispered to be the only man in Ravenna who actually knew how the empire worked.
Cassiodorus walked to the table, looking at Romulus’s charcoal diagram with intense, calculating eyes.
"Symmachus," Cassiodorus said softly, his voice carrying the smooth, dangerous edge of a seasoned politician. "The Augustus is not suggesting we pay the butchers in ink. He is suggesting a Syndicate of Coercion."
Romulus blinked. Wait, what?
Cassiodorus looked up, meeting Romulus's eyes with a look of terrifying, brilliant understanding.
"The merchants will not accept a paper promise from a bankrupt treasury, this is true," Cassiodorus told the elderly scholars, translating Romulus's modern economics into brutal Roman reality. "But what if the parchment is stamped with the seal of Odoacer? What if we tell the merchants that this piece of paper is a 'loan' from the Heruli army?"
The old men at the table suddenly fell dead silent.
Cassiodorus tapped the wax tablet. "If a butcher refuses a coin, he loses a sale. If he refuses a writ backed by ten thousand barbarian swords currently encamped in our city... he loses his head. The Augustus is proposing we use the barbarians' reputation for violence as the backing for a new line of credit."
Symmachus turned pale. "By the Gods... you want to extort our own economy?"
"I want to leverage it," Romulus corrected, catching on instantly to Cassiodorus's brilliant translation. He pointed at the intelligent administrator. "Exactly what he said. We issue Imperial Writs. Odoacer's men enforce their value on the streets. We use that artificial credit to buy the grain we need to march the army North."
The older scholars looked horrified, but they couldn't argue the brutal logic of it. It wasn't economics to them; it was organized crime. And in 475 AD, that was the only language that worked.
"It is ruthlessly pragmatic, Augustus," Cassiodorus murmured, bowing his head slightly, a faint smile of genuine respect on his lips. "I will draft the writs tonight."
As the scholars filed out of the room, whispering furiously to each other, Romulus sank into a heavy wooden chair, letting out a massive breath.
He looked at Cassiodorus, who was gathering the wax tablets. I need this man, Romulus thought. I need to learn their language properly. I need to understand their laws so I can break them without looking like a madman.
"Cassiodorus," Romulus said, his voice echoing in the empty room. "I need a tutor. Not for Greek poetry. I need to know the ledgers. The noble families. I need you to teach me how the shadows of this city work."
Cassiodorus paused, his dark eyes studying the fourteen-year-old Emperor. "It would be my honor, Augustus. Though, if I may offer my first piece of counsel..."
"What is it?"
"You may wish to manage your personal affairs before we manage the State," Cassiodorus said, nodding toward the heavy oak doors. "Lady Valeria has been waiting in the antechamber for two hours. And she is not known for her patience."
Romulus froze. "Lady... Valeria?"
"Your betrothed, Augustus," Cassiodorus said, raising a single eyebrow. "The daughter of Senator Decius. You were scheduled to attend the evening mass with her. She is currently threatening to have your Palatini guards whipped for keeping her waiting."
Romulus felt the blood drain from his face. He was an emperor. He had just negotiated with a warlord and reinvented the economy. But dealing with a wealthy, angry, politically powerful Roman teenage girl he didn't even know?
Pluto take me, Romulus thought, closing his eyes. I'm going to die