Less than a year; eleven months
Young Romulus Augustus, on the very last
October day, four seven five AD,
fourteen years old, unripe, miscast,
by his old man’s expedient decree
was crownéd the new Emperor of Rome.
Did he feel bitterness, pleasure or pride?
Or shame, perhaps, for having Julius deposed.
Maybe he squealed with glee; or cried.
Maybe he was remarkably composed
and thought a palace was his rightful home.
I ask this, as I scan the ancient text,
because it interests me to know, in truth,
if prior knowledge of what happened next
would have impacted on the Royal youth:
Is he more blessed or cursed, one who predicts?
Even as that impossible gold wreath
was placed upon his head by scheming hands,
resentment rumbled darkly from beneath.
Rome fell to Odoacer’s rebel bands,
early September of the year four seven six.
A common and sad epilogue; a quirk observed in every empire as it ended:
As Royals scheme over the crown, they leave their walls entirely undefended.