Senator Anicius belonged to the gens Anicia, one of the oldest, wealthiest, and most corrupt patrician families in Roman history. His private villa in Ravenna was a fortress of marble, guarded by two dozen expensive Greek mercenaries.
He had ignored the boy Emperor’s new tax edicts. He believed his bloodline made him untouchable.
At midnight, the heavy oak doors of his villa were violently kicked off their iron hinges.
Senator Anicius stumbled out of his silk bedsheets, wrapping a toga around his waist as the sound of screaming and shattering pottery echoed from the courtyard. He grabbed a jeweled dagger from his nightstand and rushed to the indoor balcony overlooking the main atrium.
Down below, his elite Greek mercenaries were being slaughtered.
The attackers were not wearing the traditional, shining armor of the Palatini guards. They wore dark leather, blackened chainmail, and carried heavy Roman scuta (shields) paired with brutal Heruli war-axes. They fought like demons—locking their shields to absorb the mercenaries' spear thrusts, then instantly breaking formation to hack their enemies apart with terrifying, savage efficiency.
Walking calmly through the bloodbath was a man named Varro.
Varro was the newly appointed Praefectus of the Ravenna branch of the Inquisitores Fisci—the Emperor’s new financial inquisitors. Before Romulus's mass hiring decree, Varro had been a pit-fighter, a man who survived the slums by breaking bones. He had been personally trained in the mud by Magister Felix and the Heruli chieftain Hrothgar.
Now, he was the Emperor's lead enforcer. He was a man with a mind for numbers and the soul of a butcher.
Varro looked up at the balcony, his cold eyes locking onto the Senator. "Senator Anicius! You owe the Fiscus four hundred pounds of silver and two thousand modii of grain. The grace period ended at sunset."
"You filthy dog!" Anicius screamed, his face purple with patrician rage. "I am of the Anicia line! I will have you crucified! Guards, kill him!"
The last three Greek mercenaries charged Varro.
Varro didn't even flinch. He raised his heavy Roman shield, bashed the first mercenary in the teeth, and drove his Heruli long-axe through the chest of the second. His men swarmed the third, dragging him to the floor.
Varro casually wiped the blood from his axe and walked up the marble stairs.
Senator Anicius panicked and lunged, thrusting his jeweled dagger at Varro's throat. It was a pathetic, untrained strike. Varro casually stepped inside the guard, grabbed the Senator by the throat, and slammed him down onto a marble table.
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"The Emperor's ledgers must balance, Senator," Varro whispered, raising his heavy axe. "Cassiodorus said you used your right hand to sign the forged grain manifests."
"Wait! I have gold! I have—"
Varro brought the axe down.
The sickening crunch of bone echoed through the villa. Senator Anicius shrieked in absolute agony, his eyes rolling back in his head. His severed right hand, still wearing the heavy gold signet ring of his family, lay on the marble floor.
Varro motioned to one of his medics. "Cauterize the stump with a hot iron. The Augustus wants him alive to tell the others. Strip the vault. Take the grain. Burn everything else."
The raid on the Anicia villa was not an isolated incident.
Inside the Palatium, Romulus and Lady Valeria stood before a massive map of Italy spread across the war table. Cassiodorus was moving small, painted wooden wolves across the map, placing them in major cities.
"Varro has secured Ravenna," Cassiodorus reported, updating his wax tablet. "He seized enough hoarded silver to fund the new iron forges for six months."
"And the other cities?" Romulus asked, his eyes scanning the map.
This was his new power system. He had bypassed the corrupt Senate entirely by creating independent branches of the Inquisitores Fisci in every major city, each led by a hand-picked Captain trained in the brutal hybrid camps. They were loyal only to the Emperor.
"Captain Drusus has taken control of the Neapolis branch," Cassiodorus noted, placing a wolf in the south. Drusus was a former Roman centurion known for his terrifyingly cold, methodical cruelty. "He has already liquidated the assets of three treasonous shipping merchants."
"And in Mediolanum?" Valeria asked, tracing her finger over the wealthy northern city.
"Captain Silas," Cassiodorus replied, a faint shiver in his voice. Silas was a half-Germanic tracker who used hunting dogs to find buried gold. "He reports that the northern patricians are terrified. They are paying their taxes weeks in advance just to keep him away from their estates."
Romulus smiled, a cold, dangerous expression. "Good. The Hounds are eating. Let the Senate complain to empty rooms."
Two weeks later, the terrifying reality of Romulus’s new cartel crashed into the Eastern Roman Empire.
Inside the glittering Great Palace of Constantinople, Emperor Zeno was holding court with the wealthiest nobles of the East. The massive throne room was filled with laughter, wine, and the rustling of expensive silks.
Suddenly, the heavy bronze doors burst open.
The laughter died instantly.
Standing in the doorway, supported by two terrified Eastern guards, was Senator Anicius. His expensive toga was stained dark with dried blood, mud, and seawater. He looked like a walking corpse.
But it was his right arm that made the entire Eastern Senate gasp in horror. Where his hand should have been, there was only a blackened, violently cauterized stump wrapped in dirty linen.
"Divine Augustus," Anicius croaked, falling to his knees on the mosaic floor, weeping openly. "You must send the legions. The boy... the boy in the West is a demon."
Emperor Zeno slowly stood from his golden throne, his face turning pale. He looked at the mutilated Senator, then looked out at his own court.
The Eastern nobles—men who had spent their entire lives dodging taxes, hoarding wealth, and bribing officials—were staring at Anicius’s severed arm with absolute, visceral terror. Subconsciously, dozens of the wealthiest men in Constantinople reached over and grabbed their own right wrists.
The West was no longer a joke. The puppet Emperor had cut his strings, and he was coming for the gold.
Zeno turned to his spymaster, his voice trembling with a mixture of fury and fear.
"Find General Orestes in the Alps," Zeno whispered. "Kidnap the boy's father. Bring him to me. We need a hostage, or this madman will burn the whole world down