A readheaded witch disappears in the woods. The Angles. An angel smiling

MANIUS QUINTO SAL.

Dear Quintus, never friendship is so dear as in times of distress.

I have found a big box of codices and scrolls together with a few amphorae of decent Gallic wine in a Romano-British farm set on fire by the barbarians. All had been well concealed under the cellar floor.

Vita hominis sine literis mors est, or, man's life without learning is death.

And yet, when I look at these unclean, uneducated German Angles, I cannot but admire some virtues they have (and we haven't any more). And they were after all often able to rout the Romano-British. Although when they see the huge buildings the Romans built they think we are a people of giants!

Britain in 550 CE. Manius is somewhere with the Angles. Credits

The question Quintus now arises: can man live fully in total ignorance? Or even, nihil scire vita jucundissima? 'Tis the merriest life to know nothing?

Speaking of Celts I met a strange red-head in the woods around my tower full of marshes, bears, wolves and eagles. She was collecting herbs and berries and had a curiously coloured & scanty dress, her pale skin adorned with paint and tattoo motifs all over.

On seeing me she shrieked and disappeared like a night bird but I kept feeling her eyes on me while even my hounds couldn't perceive her presence any more. Hercle! So eerie it was I deemed wiser to get back to my crenellated refuge.

I later wondered if she could speak Latin. It’d be such a joy to hear sentences spoken in our beautiful language, whatever inflection they may have. But she may be dangerous.

I'm trapped with the Angles, Quintus meus, though they are kind enough to me.

They probably see me like a dwarf, or a clown. The giant Romans of their imagination, you know ... They ignore they are the real giants, they being in truth much bigger than the average Roman.

They are blond, blue-eyed, fair-skinned, extremely rude-mannered and, well, stinking. Not that I smell that better. I miss the comfort of our thermal baths!

Pensive and silent they may nonetheless suddenly burst into a sort of Polypheme’s laughter:

AH AH AH AH AH AH AH AH AH AH AH.

Jupiter!

Besides, bibunt ut Gothi, they drink like the Goths, or even more. I swear I’ve never seen people getting THAT drunk.

But I'm beginning to like their silence. Romans are such chatter-boxes (I am, as you know). Think of our Cicero: what a windbag although I’ll admit five of his precious works retrieved in that cellar express in sound old-times Latin so many gems of the sweet Greeks' wisdom.

I am again exercising my body thanks to my new friends. We fight, run, ride and throw arrows, all for the simple joy of being alive. They are kind enough not to break my neck and I feel much better after so many years of sedentary work.

I return to my tower in the evening where I frugally have my dinner and, lost in reading and thought, I sip what is left of my Gallic amphorae.

Unfortunately, vina parant animos Veneri, id est wine prepares our souls for Venus.

I noticed that some Anglia women are looking at me with a bit of curiosity. Some of them are very attractive and sturdy. I guess I appear different to them. And I think I perceived in at least a couple of them that naughty look that is universally unmistakable.

In truth, dear Quintus, alius est amor, alius cupido, love is one thing, lust quite another.

A Roman girl painted by the Victorian Alma Tadema

The latter would void my soul in a moment of loneliness where I feel badly in need of Clelia’s black eyes and tender smile.

Where is she now on earth? Did she forget me?

The last time we met we spent some time in an Augustan garden (in North West Italy) overlooking the Padus river. All was so glorious, beautiful, with scented flowers all over the place and the Alpine peaks towering in the background.

Clelia wore a shining garland on her black hair and a dress that made her look like a Vestal, or a Christian angel ...




Manius tuus.