(Italian version)
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| Pierre Jan van der Ouderaa (1841-1915), The Temptation Of Eve. Source |
From the Book of the Arkaas Elders
“… the legend of those beings had crossed the generations. No one knew who they were nor from where they came. With the passing of time the details had become blurred. Where they men or demons? Angels or gods? And if they were demons or angels, were they fallen beings or shining entities ? Whatever they were the world changed after them. Or, at least, so it appeared to the minds of the later generations.
As it appeared to them that the world had plunged into darkness ..."
1.1 Sed libera nos a malo
5 May, 2004. Rome
It was past nine in the evening. The night was cloudy, cold despite the season. The two young people, 18 and 14, were warming themselves at the fire of the first flush of youth.
Not far from them, along the Appian Way, stood the few sarcophagi not yet placed in museums whose bas-reliefs showed faces worn by the millennia and seeming to wonder about the destiny of humankind.
In the distance, like placid stars ascending and descending in the heart of the approaching storm, lights of the planes landing and taking off from the nearby Ciampino airport were visible; more lights glimmered from the fringes of the town, bearing the same name as the airport, of almost 40,000 people.
The couple had lingered behind a bush at the foot of a large pine-tree. The park of the Appian Way was now floating in silence, interrupted now and then by the soft sounds of distant thunders and murmuring pine-trees.
The comuni of Ciampino, Marino and Frascati on the Alban hills together with the villas of the rich and famous around the Appian Way were now busy with the rites of friendship, family and of the Roman dinners, endless and festive.
The girl's dog, a big white mongrel, kept whining faintly.
"Please, Giuliano, you know I'm not ready yet."
"Don’t worry, Simona, almost every girl your age has done it."
The young man – green-eyed, with curly walnut-brown hair – was well-known at Ciampino’s central bar and, when not indoors, he was astride his shiny, chromed Ducati just in front of it. Devoted to small trafficking and to the ancient art of seducing women no matter the age, he held the girl with his left hand while slipping her panties off with his right.
Simona, slender but with junoesque breasts, was the cutest girl in the Instituto Tecnico Commerciale Vallauri at Ciampino whose gates were right next to the bar frequented by the young man. She had big beautiful black eyes with shiny hair of the same colour.
Her parents had strongly opposed her liaison with Giuliano but her crush was so strong that they had continued to see each other in secret.
"No, Giuliano, please don't, my love, don’t ...".
The two young bodies joined together. The lovers lost any track of time and space.
ψ
It all happened too fast. Not even the dog perceived anything.
ψ
The gorgeous body of the dancer appeared to be throbbing from within. Jet-black hair fell on her shoulders in a thick mass of slender braids. Her oval face was dominated by elongated, pale-blue eyes that were so disquieting as to induce fear – in her subordinates (who, using an archaic word, called her Domna), and in anyone who met her. She was naked except for a thin thong the color of night. Her muscular, perfectly shaped legs ended with exquisite, equally muscular, feet.
The dancer's toenails (together with her fingernails) were enamelled the same colour as the thong and seemed to possess a life of their own, as tentacles of a malignant polyp that crawled over the young man's naked body whose mouth had been meticulously sealed using first tampons of a synthetic substance interposed between the gums and the lips, then a tape decorated with mysterious hieroglyphics.
The dancer's toenails (together with her fingernails) were enamelled the same colour as the thong and seemed to possess a life of their own, as tentacles of a malignant polyp that crawled over the young man's naked body whose mouth had been meticulously sealed using first tampons of a synthetic substance interposed between the gums and the lips, then a tape decorated with mysterious hieroglyphics.
They crept, the dancer's sharp toenails, tormenting the orifices that
remained open on the face of the young man whose eyes, wide open and
incredulous, expressed horror.
The woman turned to her left dancing and creeping in the same way over the body of the equally naked, sobbing girl, whose mouth was sealed like that of her boyfriend and whose face was bathed in tears.
The woman turned to her left dancing and creeping in the same way over the body of the equally naked, sobbing girl, whose mouth was sealed like that of her boyfriend and whose face was bathed in tears.
The bed on which the young couple lay bound was fully fifteen feet square. The bonds locked each in an identical awkward, obscene posture, one leg fixed to the wall, the other spread high and anchored to the ceiling; the girl’s head facing in the same direction as the young man’s feet, so that they could not even meet each other’s eyes. Between them was a space of nearly seven feet, in which Domna pirouetted and danced at will; a cool, cruel dance which brought her to torment, for long minutes, the private parts of the young man, who emitted muffled screams.
The majestic carved oak bed was placed at the centre of a large room which, like the bed, emanated profusion: fabrics, sofas, strange paintings as well as objects from every land and age were on every side, arranged with aesthetic insight. On the ceiling four large Murano chandeliers completed the furnishings.
Yet the richness of the room did not convey a sensation of life; only of uneasy gloom made more so by some slight damp in the air.
Then at some point the girl could not stand the torture of her lover any longer and burst into rash, foolish struggles. The dancer turned and, her feet joined, smacked her ferociously first on her groin - which made the teen emit a strangled howl – and then on her head. Uttering a strange sound, she lost consciousness and collapsed.
The woman, as agile as a cat, spun around and projecting herself into the air fell elegantly on the floor. Then at a wave of her left hand there appeared ...
510 A.D., early Maius (May). Constantinople
... two men and a woman, clad too with the color of night.
"I, unfortunately, have to leave for an important meeting. You know what you must do” she said with a frightening smile.
"What about the dog?"
"As soon as it wakes it must follow the couple’s fate."
Then she left the huge arcaded place and climbed a narrow staircase known only to her which led to her luxurious apartments. There 6 slaves - three males and three females - greeted her with fearful reverence. They undressed her and took her with heads bowed to a large bath of polychrome marble where they washed her gently with sponges and scents from Syria.
Made up and clothed again with an archaic chiton held at her shoulders with silver fibulae Domna left the place through a vast corridor, and after entering a large hall sat down on an elevated chair where she waited a few minutes.
The man was soon announced.
ψ
"You're late" she said contemptuously.
"The journey was long.” There was fear in his voice. “I had to sail to Italy, my Domna, and from there up to Britannia, beyond the Ocean. Thence I had to come all the way back ...”
"You know what happens to those who do not serve me well …"
The man shuddered. Amongst the deep scars that disfigured his face one could see the sharp and ruthless eyes of the hunter of men. He wore a dark cloak wrapped around his body with a large hood pulled off over his shoulders.
"Now tell me what you know."
"They're about to arrive. One has already landed and his friends want to locate him and perhaps bring him back to Italy. My informers are trustworthy."
"Good. We have to make sure that they get lost in Hades or in the Christians’ Hell. As regards the one already in Britannia, ‘He Who Is Above’ me has a very special plan. Get all the men and means you need. Money is not a problem. Should you fail I'll take care of you personally."
The man gasped but controlled himself. He uttered, hoarsely:
"It will be done, my Mistress.”
He then left the hall hastily.
"There is no time to lose" he thought.
"I know who to enroll. Those bastards will pay horribly for all I had to suffer."
ψ
Domna returned to her apartments where she had herself clothed against the night. The Maius season was unusually cold and cloudy. She went out on the streets of Constantinople, the Capital of the Eastern Roman Empire, escorted by three male slaves bearing torches. The streets were almost deserted. The looming sky above was striated with lighting.
She entered the web of cobbled alleys in the direction of the theatre where ten-year-old Theodora and her older sisters, Komito and Anastasia, were about to entertain the spectators.
ψ
6 May, 2004. Rome
After a night of lightning and storms a pink rose dawn was placidly rising behind the hills that had given birth to the progeny of Rome, Rome the sacred, the great, the superb.
A mellow light was gradually spreading throughout the streets, the churches and the fountains of Marino, Castel Gandolfo and Frascati. A tepid heat was enveloping humans, animals and plants seeming to bring peace to the sufferings of life.
An illusory peace, in truth, since it was mixed with horror.
ψ
The three bodies, tortured and crucified, silhouetted against a sky striped with red. Their backs turned to the West, their faces to the East, they had been fastened with dark nails on freshly cut and squared tree trunks dripping with blood that had been driven in the ground and placed along the Appian Way.
"Maria santissima!" Carmelo Caruso exclaimed, paling. A special officer from the via Appia Nuova police station, he grimaced and added:
"In 20 years of service I've never seen anything like that …"
The lights of four squad cars and the croaking diffused by the police radios made a routine counterpoint to the ghastly scene.
"Caruso!" Ispettore [Sergeant] Alfredo Santagata shouted. "Check the enclosure and don’t let anybody come near!"
Despite the early hour several onlookers were already encircling the three crosses, which stood out too distinctly along the Appian Way to go unnoticed among the commuters driving from South Latium and Campania and directed to the Capital along the parallel via Appia Nuova
Some cars and high-powered motorcycles had stopped by the roadside and the curious were looking, horrified, at the three corpses on wretched display.
The Commissario Carlo D'Agostino was a tall, sturdy man with thoughtful eyes and a determined chin. He had just finished questioning Adi Putra Wijaya, an Indonesian young man who had first come across the teenagers’ and the dog’s bodies. Adi Putra Wijaya worked as a gardener at the villa of Prof. Giordano Gardini, a well known plastic surgeon at the Gemelli Hospital in Rome.
"I always walk Professor's two Laverack Setters very early in the morning - he had told the Commissario with a frightened face. I stumbled upon … them a short distance from the usual path I take in the Appian Way park. Those poor teens, with that big white dog crucified in-between."
The Commissario dismissed the gardener after telling him that they might still need his help. He then took his cell phone and called Franco Cardini, at the Polizia Scientifica.
"Franco, this thing is insane. Come here before hell is unleashed."
5 May, 2004. Rione Monti, 10 am. Rome
At thirty-five people said that Massimo resembled the soccer player Fabio Cannavaro. One could also say that he resembled himself since he too had been a famous footballer; six feet tall, athletic, with dark hair and green eyes.
Emerging from the alley where his building’s main door opened, headphones and sneakers on, he turned down via degli Zingari, then to via Leonina to stretch his legs. His shoes flew on the sampietrini, the pebbles of downtown Rome, made of volcanic flint from the Alban Hills – the same stone used by the Romans of two thousand years earlier to pave their roads.
He had never loved sampietrini but now he could move nimbly on them. The terrible accident, fifteen years past, had crushed his brilliant career as a footballer; had caused the divorce from his wife Marta and the parting, terribly painful, from Giulia, his daughter. All that life was now gone, even though the wounds of the soul do not heal easily. And he could still run.
He caught sight of good old Dave coming hesitatingly down the steep stairs of the Salita dei Borgia, wearing an eccentric cream-coloured jacket in the perfect casual style of Anglo-Saxons of two generations earlier.
Dave's hair was pure white, his skin almost transparent. Massimo had met him four years before, in front of a book stall by Castel Sant’Angelo. Dave had been buying some of Plutarch's and Cicero's works on the ancient gods, in the original Greek and Latin – an interest that Massimo shared. Shortly afterwards, they were tete a tete at an outdoor café in Via Panico. They still saw each other now and then, since Dave lived in a beautiful penthouse close to Santa Maria Maggiore, not far from Monti.
Massimo waved to Dave, and they went together to a table at the central cafe in the piazzetta, the meeting point of the district. Dave ordered a cappuccino, scrambled eggs and a Guinness extra stout. Massimo ordered ‘cappuccino e cornetto,’ as Italians do, then thought better of it and also asked for a Harp Strong.
After the night-time storm, a ray of sunshine lifted everyone’s spirits, already plagued by the bad weather and by the economic crisis. The two chatted, alternating between English and Italian. Massimo's English was a little American, since, at the end of his teenage years, in one of several acts of rebellion against his father, he had lived for almost a year in Trastevere with an American woman a decade older, a San Franciscan born to an Irish father and a Mexican mother.At thirty-five people said that Massimo resembled the soccer player Fabio Cannavaro. One could also say that he resembled himself since he too had been a famous footballer; six feet tall, athletic, with dark hair and green eyes.
Emerging from the alley where his building’s main door opened, headphones and sneakers on, he turned down via degli Zingari, then to via Leonina to stretch his legs. His shoes flew on the sampietrini, the pebbles of downtown Rome, made of volcanic flint from the Alban Hills – the same stone used by the Romans of two thousand years earlier to pave their roads.
He had never loved sampietrini but now he could move nimbly on them. The terrible accident, fifteen years past, had crushed his brilliant career as a footballer; had caused the divorce from his wife Marta and the parting, terribly painful, from Giulia, his daughter. All that life was now gone, even though the wounds of the soul do not heal easily. And he could still run.
He caught sight of good old Dave coming hesitatingly down the steep stairs of the Salita dei Borgia, wearing an eccentric cream-coloured jacket in the perfect casual style of Anglo-Saxons of two generations earlier.
Dave's hair was pure white, his skin almost transparent. Massimo had met him four years before, in front of a book stall by Castel Sant’Angelo. Dave had been buying some of Plutarch's and Cicero's works on the ancient gods, in the original Greek and Latin – an interest that Massimo shared. Shortly afterwards, they were tete a tete at an outdoor café in Via Panico. They still saw each other now and then, since Dave lived in a beautiful penthouse close to Santa Maria Maggiore, not far from Monti.
Massimo waved to Dave, and they went together to a table at the central cafe in the piazzetta, the meeting point of the district. Dave ordered a cappuccino, scrambled eggs and a Guinness extra stout. Massimo ordered ‘cappuccino e cornetto,’ as Italians do, then thought better of it and also asked for a Harp Strong.
At some point, sipping his Guinness with evident pleasure, the old man reflected:
"Had I not undertaken a diplomatic career and gone around the world, I would be a rude New Zealander like so many of my countrymen, consumed with looking after their acres of land, scanning the sky in the evening to interrogate the mercy of weather.”
"It seems like a dream to me, New Zealand," said Massimo. “Peace, untouched nature. A cousin of mine wanted to sell his house and buy some land down there, then he didn’t. A fleeting moment of escapism, I guess." He sampled his Harp. “But, among the numerous places where you have lived, why did you end up right in Rome? Aren’t you pissed by chaos, by the couldn’t-care-less attitude of her inhabitants?”
Dave shook his head. “Yours is a vital chaos, Massimo, and Rome is unique in her beauty, her history. You Italians, in spite of your flaws, and you have many, believe me …” – he said it with conviction, staring Massimo straight in the eyes -- “are yet still among the best, if not the best, peoples. New Zealand, …” – another meditative pause, his pale-blue eyes lost in memories – “... New Zealand is fine for those who love to fish in rivers and want the solitude of a depopulated world. Depopulated and terribly boring.”
Dave looked away as if to ward off a bad memory. The morning had become sunny now and passers-by seemed more cheerful. The Harp was beginning to have its effect on Massimo.
"The only thing I miss,” the New Zealander continued, “are those magnificent beaches – endless, solitary, with the ocean filling the horizon. The ocean - you can’t understand if you haven’t lived it.”
He got up as if in trance and started to walk away. He then turned and added, his eyes glistening as if about to shed tears:
"And I think I do not only miss those beaches … “
"Where are you going?" Massimo asked, struck by Dave's expression. "Today is Tuesday, my rest day. I want to be here and talk with you."
"I absolutely have to go," the New Zealander replied, resuming his typical good-natured detachment. “I forgot to say,” he added, "that I’ve passed by the antiquarian's. He told me that he has evaluated your painting and that he will buy it for a good price, considering the crisis."
Good old Dave, his white beard always well kept, walked away. He was almost eighty, but nobody would have guessed that.
Massimo entered the bar, meaning only to pay the bill, but Dave’s eggs had provoked his appetite. He ordered a pizza romana with mozzarella and Tuscan salami, then crossed to the other end of the bar and sat down not far from a TV. A pretty waitress brought him the pizza. The news was up and a few customers near him were talking about blood and things that had never happened before. He took no notice and began to eat.
Then he looked up and saw them.
The three corpses were silhouetted, a red-streaked, abnormal, almost unbearable sky at their backs. He looked around and noticed the uneasiness of the customers in the place. Crime had become barbaric in these years of crisis, he thought with a shudder. He put the pizza back on the plate. His appetite was gone.
He left the cafe and ran up to the Opium Hill, the park on top of the Domus Aurea, the foolish villa that Emperor Nero had built in the city's heart.
There he sat on a bench on the small asphalted path that goes downhill, ending at the Coliseum – a lovely scene which calmed him and allowed him to reflect. What was the meaning of that act? He remembered the words of the TV journalist, who had spoken of teenagers, and felt pity for them. But, he said to himself, why place the dog between them? The work of a psychopath, for sure. If those bodies, and their death, were absurd, they were also somewhat familiar.
Struck by a sudden intuition, he took out his mobile phone and called the person who, in the darkest years of his life, had been his guide, his mentor, his Master.
ψ
6 May, 2014. Not far from Campo de' Fiori. 6:15 am.
Rome
Giorgio Guardalunga heard his wife’s voice from the semi-dark bedroom. Flavia loved to keep the window ajar; the faint light of dawn filtered through the place. He drew near the bed and sensed her anxiety.
Lying down beside her, he stroked her beautiful, black hair that was just beginning to whiten.
"I heard a night bird that woke me up at dawn," she said. "Its screech was sinister, almost human. Like a sneer.
“The same cry that I heard in a dream” – she continued, with a slight shortness of breath. “I was on a beautiful grassy plain, rich with flowers, uninhabited. Then I saw a forest, I ventured into it, I lost the trail that I was following. The foliage took away all the light and enveloped me threateningly. Then that horrible sneering cry thrust me awake..."
Giorgio tenderly caressed her forehead and found that it was beaded with sweat. He put his arm around her shoulder. She cuddled up against him, protected by his robust body.
He felt her calm down and, after a while, she slept again. His queen, – he reflected, - the queen of seas and lands, scared by a night bird. An alarming thought flashed into his mind and seized his heart. Then the sweetness of his sleeping partner soothed any fear and almost made him doze off next to the woman he loved so deeply. He remained there for half an hour; longer perhaps. Then he rose softly, in order not to wake her, and left the room.
A few hours later he was reading carefully some ancient Orphic texts, on the small terrace of his tiny apartment perched on the roofs of Rome. His cell phone rang: young Massimo.
"Master, a terrible and weird thing has just happened. Two teenagers and a dog were found… crucified on the Appian Way. The dog was placed between the two kids. The three of them had their upper and lower limbs nailed to freshly cut and squared logs."
"Freshly cut and squared?" asked Giorgio.
"So it seems, according to the television reporter and from what I read on my phone's browser," Massimo replied. "And the dawn behind the Colli Albani had an unnatural light, like nothing I’ve seen before. Maybe the cameraman used special filters to impress the TV viewers. But I think I’ve got a… sort of idea."
Giorgio was silent a long moment, till his disciple wondered whether he was still there.
"We'll talk in the afternoon, Massimo. At five o'clock, at the usual place. Not earlier. I am busy. "
After ending the call he was silent for several minutes. Flavia entered the terrace to water the plants and noticed her husband's worried look. A wrinkle creased her forehead.
Perhaps, the Master thought, what he had been waiting for so long – Jesus, was he sixty-five? – was about to happen, though years ahead of time. Which, if true, was very bad news. Not just bad news. It was a disaster.
He certainly had the tools to do a few checks. He said goodbye to his wife and dashed out.
End of Februarius [February], 510 AD. East coast of Britannia
Maius [May], Augusta Taurinorum [Turin]. 510 AD
Gwenn regarded her dear and loyal friends – Briec, Hoel, and Adalbert – while sipping a delicious drink based on local beer, Ligurian lemons and Iberian spices. The four companions were seated at a table between two wooden Doric columns, in the rectangular forum of Augusta Taurinorum.
"Hoel, you look like a pelican this morning," Adalbert said.
"And you a cross between a partridge and a German elephant. If it is true that you have Gothic blood, how many beers will you guzzle before lunch?”
“I too must have Gothic blood in my veins then,” Briec said. “And, I'll tell you,” he added, shoving his elbow in Hoel's ribs while winking at the others, "I will go with Gwenn to inspect the large wine cellar just around the corner. Out of educated interest in the reputation of the local wines, of course.”
“Boys!” Gwenn exclaimed, “stop playing the fool! Take a look at the square now that it's filled with people. Isn't it exciting?”
The forum was filled with people of all kinds: elegant ladies in their litters enjoying the spring sunshine; society men and youths; lawyers and judges carrying out their daily work; middlemen and beggars mixed with farmers, merchants, vendors and prostitutes. There were also foreigners from beyond the Alps, soldiers, platforms for the sale of slaves. Everyone had something to offer, everyone bargained for what he needed.
Julia Augusta Taurinorum, founded by Julius Caesar more than five centuries earlier as a military camp, was not as important as Mediolanum [Milan], although a great many activities converged in her forum from a region made relatively prosperous by the proximity of the Cottian Alps' passes and by the hard-working nature of its inhabitants – Celtic and Ligurian, mixed with Latins and Goths.
The friends were waiting for a letter from Quintus, now living in Gaul on the coast facing Britannia. Their jokes were, actually, a way of laughing away concern for their friend Manius' fate, since he had completely vanished after learning about Delia’s marriage. A few weeks after Manius had disappeared, a letter from Marcia, Manius' mother, had informed them that her son had visited her in Rome and had then left for Britannia in the company of one Marcus. Since then only Quintus seemed to have news of him.
"Marcia,” Adalbert said, suddenly turning serious, “must not have been of much comfort to her son. She was out of her mind when I went to Rome with Manius. She lived secluded, smoking opium with her female slaves, and didn’t want to see anyone, apart from us.”
Two years earlier, in fact, Marcia's husband, Atilius, a stern man from the local puritanical milieu – who strongly disliked his wife's free mores and predilection for a young female slave called Kleio – had caused a public scandal by sending her back to her family in Rome, on the Aventine.
My father never really loved my mother," Manius had confided to his friends. "All he cared for was respectability. For my mother, respectability was not enough. Not that dad is a bad man, quite the contrary, but the truth is, when people do not reach real wisdom, there are milieus which do not mix: Roman society, refined and a bit decadent, where my mother’s sincere and impulsive soul flourished, and the closer societies with stricter customs, such as the people born here at the foot of the mountains."
Adalbert bit into the salted lake fish which he loved to accompany with beer. He came from the military aristocracy of Vindobona [Vienna] which had always fought bravely against the barbarians along the Danube border. Vindobona was a Celtic town, but Adalbert's mother was a Goth, so Adalbert looked, and was in many ways, a perfect German: blonde, massive, with thoughtful deep-blue eyes. He was the friend with whom Manius most loved to get lost in the abstractions of mathematics and music, to the extent that the friends jokingly called them sodales platonici.
Briec and Hoel were slender but robust, with honest open faces. More inclined to the vagaries of poetry accompanied by the harp and kithara, they were routinely mistaken for brothers owing to their almost identical features and similar dark-blonde hair. Actually they were cousins, members of the same aristocratic Northern-British clan. Like Adalbert, they wore togas with complicated folds. Provincial noblemen had to take special care of their appearance in order to be accepted by local society.
In truth, they didn't much care about conventions. Educated by their Master to comprehend the customs of diverse peoples - their educational journeys had been numerous – they adapted themselves to the culture they happened to be in, so avoiding problems, "like the fish that rests in the flow of the current,” their Master said, “and thus proceeds further."
Gwenn was their childhood companion. Auburn-haired and blue-eyed, today she wore an elegant stola, covered with red and blue embroidery, made for her in Mediolanum [Milan]. Over another glass of the spicy drink, she reflected on her childhood and adolescence with her two friends in Banna [Birdoswald], a fort in Northern Britain. In those radiant years of youth her love for Hoel was an unripe fruit. Now it had become a sturdy plant.
Gwenn, Briec and Hoel were scions of the military aristocracy in that remote place located at the western part of Hadrian's Wall. That Wall, together with the Antonine Wall to the north, was the dual defensive cordon that separated the Romano-Britons from the free and painted barbarians of the north. During the golden age of the Roman empire, Hadrian's Wall had been strengthened with nearly twenty forts. That structure had later collapsed, although around some forts like Banna, more than a generation earlier, a large community of Britons had gathered, seeking support against the barbarians that pillaged and wreaked havoc from all sides.
The prestige of Banna's military aristocracy for the local population was absolute, since it could boast a direct descent from the Roman garrison of auxiliaries and Romans from the time of the empire, and a Roman military tradition that had not completely disappeared.
The four friends, along with Quintus, Manius and the younger Delia, had been inseparable for a long time, and in spite of Quintus’ frequent travels, at least once a year he returned to Augusta of the Taurini.
Sipping her drink, Gwenn remembered the day of her departure for Italy, with her anxious parents saying goodbye to her from the top of a hill crowned by majestic oaks. Her mother Eavan's beautiful blue eyes were wet with tears, while her father, Caedmon, the bravest warrior of the community known for his imperturbability, could not hide his sorrow for the departure of his beloved daughter.
The three young people's parents had decided to send them away to Italy, through secure channels, in order to protect them from a situation that was deteriorating and to provide them, for the future, with knowledge of sacred things beyond the barbarism that was advancing in the land of Albion and throughout the continent.
The three youths, therefore, had been solemnly summoned to a large hall lit by bronze torches where Caedmon, in the presence of all the community leaders dressed in arms, had uttered words that the adolescents had found obscure:
“The old order or cosmos is disintegrating. Very unhappy times are approaching, full of dark forces; the new cosmos is not yet formed. We should prepare ourselves for the most severe adversities. To this end, you, the best of what we are and our future, will be sent to a place where the light is not yet extinguished."
Then Gwenn remembered her first encounter with Magister, in a small, hidden valley on the mountains above Augusta. The wagon had left them in front of a mountain villa comprising a set of buildings surrounded by fields and orchards. The place could only be reached through a narrow road that didn't draw the attention of the highlanders, winding through the woods. As soon as they reached the main building’s columned portico, they were greeted by three young men who led them, through the peristyle, into the atrium of the large house where Apollonide, the Master, waited for them.
A young slave, his forehead adorned with a purple band, was taking Magister’s dictation. The atrium, a large reception room and study, was frescoed in a way that left the young people speechless. The celestial bodies' faces - the moon, the sun, the other planets, with the stars and the Milky Way above - were painted as if they were alive and intelligent, moving all around in a wonderful dance. The artist had been able to communicate not only the sensation of the dance but also that of music, as if the whole universe sang and danced rhythmically and harmoniously.
Apollonide dismissed the slave and motioned to the young people to come closer. They drew near, fascinated and fearful. The Master’s expression was both a good-natured and stern. His piercing brown eyes were framed by black, protruding eyebrows, not yet touched by white, though his thick hair was graying – divided into two bands, held in place by rings of gold, framing an impressively composed face. In his imposing stature, although he was on the threshold of old age, one sensed strength and agility.
But it was the complex look in Apollonidis' eyes which made an indelible impression on the demanding mind of the girl: a wise look, hard at times, which reminded her of her father, but also intensely mystical, as if he, like those sublime paintings, sailed in higher and purer spheres of the cosmos and human nature.
Apollonidis was, in fact, one of the last propagators of an ancient wisdom based on a rational and integrated vision of man and the universe.
"Thanks to his journeys all over the known world,” he told them in the introductory lesson, which took place in the vast peristyle from which one could admire the starry sky, “Pythagoras learned and bore witness to all men and women that the essence of the human soul is divine, that it comes from the stars, and that we are masters of our own destiny. It is what has been told, after all, in one way or another, by all the philosophies and religions of the world. It is what is has been hidden in the mysteries. Man, for all his shortcomings, is a god who lost his way and fell into the low heaven of earth, but who can take back his rightful place. In order to achieve that, a general physical and moral cleansing is necessary to return to saintliness."
At this point Magister thundered: "How do you think this will be possible? Tell me, then, tell me!"
Briec, Hoel and Gwenn made themselves small on their benches
"This will be possible only if God will be our model! Yes, God must become our model!
"In this school,” he continued, walking among pupils of both genders, “we have a vision and a connected living standard that empowers us, in the higher souls, to create miracles: that is, the creation of Homo Pythagoricus, of the third reasonable being beside God and Man."
Gwenn still remembered with deep emotion these words that were carved into her mind and heart.
"A being not only concerned with the bliss of the afterlife, but also perfected to fully experience life on this earth, fighting the dark forces of evil, in whatever form and wherever they may hide.
"Such a man needs to develop, to the highest degree, the faculties of his mind – but not disparage his body, as the Christian ascetics do, and, before them, the pagan Neo-Platonists.
"On the contrary, we must care for our body, make it more beautiful, strong and harmonious, so that it may not only become a work of art, but develop into a perfect athlete, a perfect fighter, just like Pythagorean Milo who won all the Olympics and defeated phalanxes. Women must also achieve all that. Within the order of things both the feminine and the masculine are necessary, and in this I disagree with Pythagoras and his followers, who deemed that women were fit only for the external level of teaching."
As Gwenn remembered this speech clouds gathered in the sky over Augusta. The atmosphere became more oppressive; frequenters of the forum, it being almost lunchtime, began slowly to go home.
Then the sun, radiant, returned, suffusing the four young people with its powerful light. And their bodies shone. Harmonious, perfectly coordinated, solidly trained, their bright eyes expressing with joy the corresponding harmony of their souls and minds.
After their first encounter with Magister in the atrium, there had been a real test conducted in a smaller room with no windows. The young Britons were questioned by Apollonidis himself, and by two assistants, for five days and five nights, with some small breaks for frugal meals of cheese, olives and water. This gave an initial assessment of their intellectual and moral faculties. On an intellectual level, their aptitude for the arts of the Pythagorean quadrivium was assessed: arithmetic, geometry, astronomy and music. On the moral plane, they were evaluated, via ancient techniques, for honesty, strength of character and resilience to stress.
All three were accepted to the school as exoteric [external] learners for a trial period of three years. Gwenn's memory of those terrible three years was uncomfortable. Kept aside and almost neglected, they were obliged to be almost entirely silent, learning the basics of an enormous scientific and religious corpus, the culmination of a spiritual travail that had lasted millennia. They took in the wisdom of Egypt, Palestine (Jewish and Christian), Persia, Chaldea, India especially, and then China and, of course, Greece and Rome, without neglecting elements of Druidism and of Norse mythology. It was an almost unbearable task, not lacking in severe punishments meant to correct shortcomings in pupils' character. The hard work, they realized only later, aimed at winnowing out all but the superior souls.
Once admitted to the esoteric [internal] courses, everything suddenly became easier, also because they understood exactly where the Master was leading them with his firm hand. These courses had lasted seventeen years and now, as they sat at the tavern in the forum, they were all in their thirty-fourth year.
They missed Manius, only a year older, whom his friends had met in the school together with Adalbert. Clelia was younger and her studies were interrupted by the inflexible will of her father. She had been only 28 on the day of her return to her home town, Mantua.
When Delia entered the school she too was only fifteen. It was Manius who noticed her most, because of her beautiful red hair and her green-blue eyed with that peculiar form of strabismus called strabismus of Venus. Before Delia was permanently assigned to the external courses, his group of friends were able to see her from time to time. She was often seen with a certain Faustus, from the internal courses, and with Amatia, a novice like her. One morning Manius was reading the life of Apollonius of Tyana, alone, in one of the school gardens, when she appeared in a simple blue tunic, her copper-red hair loose in the fresh wind from the snow-peaked mountains.
How beautiful Delia was, so terribly beautiful, her face slightly sprinkled with freckles and her look so candid, expressing such an exotic blend of the mystical, the sensual and the innocent: he was defenseless.
He dared not speak, and remained looking at her, half frozen with emotion and the agony of unfulfilled desire.
A long period passed in which he saw her only sporadically. Internal and external students were deployed respectively in the right and the left wings around the peristyle, so that they could meet only now and then. Moreover, the secret nature of the esoteric courses did not allow the youths to mix easily.
Then, one night, they gathered again in the peristyle, and sat on benches arranged among the fountains representing mermaids and tritons. The lesson touched upon various topics, with several teachers alternating. Manius managed to beat Faustus, who often hovered around her, and sit next to Delia.
Finally, Magister came. He began softly, announcing he would talk about love. The silence of the audience became absolute.
"At the risk of misrepresenting a few great truths, we will use simple language and no numbers, geometry or astronomy, so as to be understood even by the novices.
“There is a Dionysian power that sinks into the ground and in the lower layers of sub-lunar space, instead of rising into the light of the sun and the stars. Such power lives in consonance with evil demons and men of low soul, who are the most numerous, which is why Dionysus is the most represented among the gods. We find him in mosaics, in pottery and in tombs. We find him everywhere. But with Dionysus positive divinity disappears and what we get is only the intoxication produced by artificial means, may it be wine or drugs of whatever sort, which favour destructive carnality."
His voice became slightly more powerful. His eyes began to glow.
"Let us not forget that our eternal destiny depends upon our behavior on earth. We strive for a clear, pure and honest love, which may lift us up towards the highest spheres of the universe, far from any earthly misery."
Manius was so close to Delia that their bodies touched slightly. This sent waves of heat so intense that his rational faculties were numbed. When he took her hand - and to his surprise she did not reject him and even pressed her body against him - his temples began to pound and his heart surged.
Now Magister's speech became almost a song, which a student accompanied with the sound of a lyre.
"A pure and honest love. And mad also. Yes, love is a form of madness, and it does not matter whether it is born between man and woman, woman and woman or man and man. Sappho, Socrates and Plato, were they impure perhaps? Impurity is neither in the person whom Venus, Ishtar or Aine bring us to love, nor in flesh, since love is both carnal and spiritual. Impurity is in the soul needing to be mended from those morbid affections that live in each of us. Let us enjoy honest, sincere, loyal, gentle love; and also powerful, mad love, ready for the ultimate sacrifice for the safety of the beloved."
The moon, at first hidden by a thick layer of clouds, began to shine among the trees and the fountains of the peristyle. Manius, inspired by Magister's words, by the music and the benign celestial body that excites the human soul, turned to the girl, held her firmly at the waist and kissed her. She responded to his kiss with the spontaneous love of the earliest years of youth. It was a long, young, pure kiss which took their breath away; it was also a wonderfully sensual kiss. And the gift of that ecstasy bore them across the threshold of infinity.
Manius Papirius Lentulus had spent his childhood and first adolescence with his parents in Rome, and felt himself a true Roman from the city of Rome. Then his family had moved to Augusta, his father, Atilus' town, where Manius had been accepted to the external courses in Apollonidis' school. Quintus was also a Roman from Rome, but the two had met only in the school among the mountains, and had later joined the group of friends whose bond sprung from those ties of first youth not easy to forget.
Equipped with a good sense of humor, a pragmatist, a lover of good food and attractive women, he had soon realized that his calling was not Pythagorean study but international politics, knowledge of peoples and their respective cultures. His frequent trips to northern Gaul had earned him connections at the courts of some powerful Frankish kings where he served as a secretary and counselor.
Quintus' letter arrived two days after the friends had shared their noontime drinks in the square. The sky had changed – bleak, terrible, it looked as if a black light shone beyond the clouds.
His words, tragic in tone, reverted to the history of Britannia over the last six decades.
"You were just children when you left your land and your parents were determined to not completely reveal to you the dreadful situation. Three generations before your birth, the Britons - weakened by plagues, by disunion and by the departure or dissolution of the legions - had defended themselves bravely against the attacks of the barbarians: the Scots [Irish pirates], from the West, and the painted peoples, or Picts, from the North. You, the offspring of Banna, know these things too well. The situation, however, deteriorated when pirates far more formidable appeared on the southern and eastern coasts of the island: the Germanic tribes of the Angles, Saxons and Jutes from the gloomy shores of the northern seas.
"These folks, unlike their cousins, the Goths or Franks, had not known the civilizing power of Rome. This made them merciless against a people that they considered weak and alien. The invasion was first a migration, in Cantium [Kent], opposite Gaul, and then throughout the South-East, the area at that time, and still partly today, the richest and most populated in Albion.
"Once they reached a remarkable number – around 200,000 people, I have heard, warriors and families included - the barbarians were used by the Britons as mercenaries against their enemies. The valour of these Germans was undeniable. Two brothers are especially remembered, Hengist and Horsa, legendary leaders like our Castor and Pollux. Then the barbarians revolted against their masters and began to exterminate the wealthy people of the South. Armies sent against them were annihilated. Amphitheaters, baths and forums were burned to the ground, entire populations reduced to slavery. The wealthy landowners, accustomed to the comfort of their heated villas, fled to the coast but were slaughtered on the beaches together with their wives, children and servants, before they could embark towards salvation.
"The war continues today, fought inch by inch. The West and the North are now in danger. And I believe that disunity, which I have already mentioned, is the greatest risk to your people. As far as I know, the Picts,” Quintus' letter continued, “have repeatedly raided up to the centre of the island. This could not have happened without any inside help. It is as if the peasants never adapted to Roman customs and prefer the Picts or the Scots to the fading Roman-British nobility.
"Finally, my friends, in my letter I have tried to delay the painful topic that touches us all. Manius has been captured by the Angles. He seems to be the only survivor of that crazy expedition. In the land that once belonged to the Iceni and is now occupied by this Germanic folk, where life moves slowly since forests and swamps isolate it with their thick barrier, the capture of a real Roman soldier, one hailing from Rome itself, could not pass unnoticed. This was confirmed to me by some merchants including a Greek, named Pavlos, in whom I put my complete trust."
As he knew about Manius’ fate Adalbert squeezed his ceramic cup so hard that it shattered in his fist. The friends, shocked, looked into each other's eyes. There was a long silence. Quintus’ report seemed to show them their whole world disintegrating before them. They thought about their parents, about the friends in Banna that they had left behind, and their hearts sank. Then they thought about Manius, in the hands of a savage people.
Years of training had not gone in vain though. The deep sorrow soon gave way to a pure, unshakable resolution. Departure was not deferrable; they would set out the very next day. Hands clasped on the table in a solemn covenant. They would have paid with their lives in order to save both their friend and Albion from danger.
A lame beggar had been standing close to their table – dirty, ragged, leaning on a stick. When they had disappeared in the backstreets of Augusta he threw his stick away and ran, hurrying in the opposite direction.
End of Februarius [February], 510 AD. East coast of Britannia
Manius’ head was spinning. There was sharp pain at his nape and left ankle. Images and sounds rose before him: the severe but calm face of his Master, who before his departure had uttered the enigmatic words: "Follow your constellation, Manius – your constellation." The face, marked by sorrow, of his mother, Marcia, and of Delia, who regarded him, weeping, on the banks of the Padus; finally the clash of arms and the laughter of victory of warriors speaking an incomprehensible language.
These sounds shook him into consciousness. He was lying face down. Memory came in a rush. They had been surrounded by warriors from sea and from land, and his companions had been killed one after the other. Marcus had died almost at once, hit in the neck by a throwing ax. Manius had continued to fight, to kill enemies and to create a vacuum around him. He operated in a lucid, rational way, being able to calculate the movements of at least twenty adversaries at the same time, thus predicting their moves. But in the end something had hit him in at the back of his head, a large stone perhaps. The last sensation he had had as he fell was of his left foot stuck in the rocks.
He thought of Marcus. A quick death, his, hence lucky. Then he thought of the Angle pilot, Leofric – who had betrayed them, without a doubt. Someone had probably been sent to inform the Angles a few days before their departure; a perfectly organized trap. He decided that he would bring to Hades with him as many savages as possible. To this end, he needed all the resources of his mind and body.
His mind seemed fine. As for his body, the deep knowledge of anatomy learned at the school of Apollonides allowed him to check every muscle, tendon and bone with imperceptible movements that would not attract the attention of the barbarians, since it was clear that they believed he was dead. He noticed with deep discontent that the ankle pain was not a simple distortion but a serious injury. The pain would make him less lucid, thus delivering him ahead of time into the hands of his enemies. He shook off these thoughts as contemptible and prepared for battle.
The Angles were talking and laughing, and among the voices he distinguished a few women’s tones. He remained motionless and silent, waiting for a favourable opportunity. It arrived when a barbarian’s white leg passed close to his right arm. He grabbed its ankle and the Angle tumbled to the ground. With a leap he was on top of the man, broke his neck by twisting his head, and seized the weapons he carried, a spear and a throwing ax.
Four warriors who were at a distance of ten yards or so turned, surprised, and rushed toward him. Manius levered himself up on the healthy ankle and sprang towards them at an acute angle relative to the line that separated them. But, unable to bear the pain, he had to continue rolling and stopped five yards behind them. The Angles found themselves at a disadvantage since they were forced to turn around. That gave Manius time to dispatch one with an ax which stuck in his back; he struck a second with a large stone on the left side of the head; then killed the third with the spear, piercing his throat. Dark blood spurted on the ground.
The fourth remaining Angle began to charge Manius, then changed his mind and backed away quickly. A companion handed him a bow; he took it and waited to be given arrows.
Meanwhile, the Angles had moved all around them. They formed a very wide circle and encouraged their compatriot with shouts, howls and sounds. Some, however, seemed to judge the fight with the bow unfair; the distance between the two was now considerable, and it was clear that the Roman was lame. The first arrow came hissing, but Manius dodged it. The pain in his ankle had become excruciating and began to cloud his mind. He managed to dodge the second arrow, provoking sounds of approval from a number of barbarians. Most encouraged their companion, and a third group insulted the Roman, glaring hatefully at him and threatening him with their weapons.
Behind a rock not far away, Manius saw a Roman rectangular shield. With immense effort he rolled in that direction, grabbed the shield and jabbed it on the ground; then crouched behind it, shielding himself from the darts that were raining at regular intervals.
The clamour of the warriors became more deafening, in a crescendo without end. They struck their round shields; drink appeared in rough wooden cups; some shouted and blew instruments made of cattle horns. It had now become a warriors’ happy gathering in full style, in which women and children participated. Manius felt his mind all but burst. The pain was unbearable, both at his ankle and neck. All urged him to surrender to his fate, but somehow there came to him words heard in a temple dedicated to the beautiful and sweet Isis. He pronounced them, praying the goddess with all his heart, and invoking his mother and Delia also:
Non ergo essem
non omnino essem,
nisi essetis in me...
I would not exist,
I would not exist at all,
If you weren’t in me …
The prayer calmed him and pressed him to summon all the powers of his mind, body and soul. The survival instinct prevailed. He evaluated in a moment the situation and realized that he still had a faint possibility of saving his life.
Next to him was a nice round stone. He took it up, weighing it and calculating the necessary parabola together with the strength and direction of the wind. The distance was considerable, and the launch seemed impossible also because of the stone’s size. Manius could see skepticism and scorn on the warriors’ faces. He rotated three times, using his healthy ankle as a pivot, and threw the stone forcefully toward the clouds. All eyes rose in the air. The stone flew high and seemed as if suspended in the sky for an interminable length of time. Then it flew down and struck right in the forehead the barbarian, who was off guard because he never would have thought the success of such a launch possible.
There was a roar from the onlookers, and some of them even celebrated the amazing shot with drinking and dances. But a large group of warriors broke away from the circle and began to run towards Manius with the clear intention of slaughtering him.
Then a powerful voice echoed in the clearing:
"Let no one touch the Roman!"
The Angles remained silent, and the running warriors came to a halt. A man of enormous size advanced to the centre of the circle, his armor adorned with grisly trophies.
"He is a valiant warrior," the giant continued. "He should be spared. But as I see some of you disagree, I give him as a gift just his life. He will not receive any food nor clothing, and will live in one of the towers of the fort along the sea. He will be free to come and go in my territory, but not to return to his country."
Manius didn't understand the chieftain's words but sensed that his life had been spared.
Then the giant came to Manius and beat his breast, saying:
"Ic Wulf, Aenglisc."
Manius did the same, and said:
"Manius, Romanus."
6 May 2014. 16:30 am. Rome
"I cannot come over for dinner tonight, Gloria," said the Commissario Carlo D'Agostino.
"But Carlo, I have bringoli of Anghiari pulled by hand, with a good wild boar sauce ...." The woman’s voice sounded disappointed.
Then she added, in a worried tone: "The case of the dead bodies in the Appian Way?"
"Yes, but don’t worry, everything is fine. I'll call you later as soon as I can, I have a duty phone call now. Put the bringoli in the fridge. We’ll eat them tomorrow evening if you like. "
He pressed the button that connected to the other line. Franco Cardini’s voice was heard, from the Polizia Scientifica.
"Hi Franco, any news?"
"We’ll have a complete analysis in two days.”
"In two days? The media are in a frenzy. The Vice Questor has just called me. “
"Listen, Carlo, we have nearly thirty backlog cases. Tell the Vice Questor to give us the means of Carabinieri’s RIS [Unit of Scientific Investigations] and we will work faster. Okay, tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ve got a little for you – not fully verified yet though. "
Cardini paused as if to collect his thoughts.
"Death occurred shortly before your arrival. Or perhaps during your arrival."
"Are you sure? So at 5:45 am. Let me think. This means that the Indonesian gardener found the victims unconscious but thought they were dead. Then we arrived. "
"Exactly. The victims' blood was still dripping on the crosses when you found them. Now, after death, blood flow stops within a few minutes, because the heart isn’t pumping any more, which means they died just when you arrived or at most a few minutes earlier. Moreover,” Cardini continued, “both the teenagers and the dog died after prolonged sufferings – all show signs that they were tortured cruelly for a long time. This may perhaps help you figure out the time of their kidnapping."
"Parents have told us that they left home in the afternoon. We’re looking for witnesses who might have seen them in Ciampino and in the park in the late afternoon or evening."
"Another thing, Carlo. A quite unusual one, actually."
The commissario waited in silence. He kept a Romeo y Julieta between his teeth, a cigar that did not break any rule since he did not smoke it but kept it like that, unlit.
"The wood used for the crosses is Jichimu, a Chinese or Southeast Asian kind with a veining similar to birds’ wing patterns. We import it as seasoned, already milled boards, for furniture and floorings. Here, however, we have freshly cut logs with metal support – the fresh wood is not robust and can break. So ... "
"So it's time to make a good call ..."
D’Agostino was already making one, on the other line. "Inspector Santagata,” he said, “leave the investigation on the witnesses to others and have your men sift all carpenters’ shops dealing with the Chinese Jichimu wood, especially the fresh, unseasoned kind. Yes, Jichimu, look it up on the Internet. Check a radius of 50 km, and, if necessary, 100 km from the area of the corpses on the Appian Way. "
He rang off. Cardini was still there. “One last thing, Carlo. The corpses bore traces of wine; that, we are analyzing.”
The Commissioner D'Agostino lowered the receiver and continued to ponder, regarding an old photo that showed him with comrades in Arezzo, his native town. He was twelve years old and Franco Cardini, who in those years loved in jest to wear the beret, eleven.
Then he rose up from his desk and went to the window, lost in thought. The Appian Way area, ancient and new, was still oppressed by clouds and rain.
Rome
Giorgio Guardalunga heard his wife’s voice from the semi-dark bedroom. Flavia loved to keep the window ajar; the faint light of dawn filtered through the place. He drew near the bed and sensed her anxiety.
Lying down beside her, he stroked her beautiful, black hair that was just beginning to whiten.
"I heard a night bird that woke me up at dawn," she said. "Its screech was sinister, almost human. Like a sneer.
“The same cry that I heard in a dream” – she continued, with a slight shortness of breath. “I was on a beautiful grassy plain, rich with flowers, uninhabited. Then I saw a forest, I ventured into it, I lost the trail that I was following. The foliage took away all the light and enveloped me threateningly. Then that horrible sneering cry thrust me awake..."
Giorgio tenderly caressed her forehead and found that it was beaded with sweat. He put his arm around her shoulder. She cuddled up against him, protected by his robust body.
He felt her calm down and, after a while, she slept again. His queen, – he reflected, - the queen of seas and lands, scared by a night bird. An alarming thought flashed into his mind and seized his heart. Then the sweetness of his sleeping partner soothed any fear and almost made him doze off next to the woman he loved so deeply. He remained there for half an hour; longer perhaps. Then he rose softly, in order not to wake her, and left the room.
A few hours later he was reading carefully some ancient Orphic texts, on the small terrace of his tiny apartment perched on the roofs of Rome. His cell phone rang: young Massimo.
"Master, a terrible and weird thing has just happened. Two teenagers and a dog were found… crucified on the Appian Way. The dog was placed between the two kids. The three of them had their upper and lower limbs nailed to freshly cut and squared logs."
"Freshly cut and squared?" asked Giorgio.
"So it seems, according to the television reporter and from what I read on my phone's browser," Massimo replied. "And the dawn behind the Colli Albani had an unnatural light, like nothing I’ve seen before. Maybe the cameraman used special filters to impress the TV viewers. But I think I’ve got a… sort of idea."
Giorgio was silent a long moment, till his disciple wondered whether he was still there.
"We'll talk in the afternoon, Massimo. At five o'clock, at the usual place. Not earlier. I am busy. "
After ending the call he was silent for several minutes. Flavia entered the terrace to water the plants and noticed her husband's worried look. A wrinkle creased her forehead.
Perhaps, the Master thought, what he had been waiting for so long – Jesus, was he sixty-five? – was about to happen, though years ahead of time. Which, if true, was very bad news. Not just bad news. It was a disaster.
He certainly had the tools to do a few checks. He said goodbye to his wife and dashed out.
End of Februarius [February], 510 AD. East coast of Britannia
The group of Romans commanded by Marcus and camouflaged by Saxons was sailing along a portion of the Eastern coast of Britain. The ground was low and marshy and seldom rose much above the sea level. Being used to the tideless Mediterranean, they had chosen a pilot, an Angle named Leofric, with long mustache and mocking look, who had accepted to conduct them after an offer of a purse bulging with solidi, money that had also convinced him to sell them his long boat from which Marcus' men had unceremoniously expelled a few German sailors whose gaze the Italians found untrustworthy.
Leofric had dissuaded them from crossing the stretch of sea separating Gaul from Britain in the warmer months. At the end of February there would be less chance of being intercepted by the Anglo-Saxon long boats, he had remarked. "And the risk of a shipwreck is minimal" - he had added with pride. "We Angles are different from the Saxons. We are motivated by adventure and less by the search for new lands, which makes us better sailors."
After crossing the straits and stopping over at Rutupiae [Richborough], where they went unnoticed by the local population, the ship followed the coast from the South-East all the way up to the East of the island, sailing along the Tamesa Aestuarium [Thames Estuary]. Then it coasted the land of the Trinovantes [Essex and Suffolk] and finally arrived at what had once been the land of the Iceni [Norfolk], the people who more than four centuries earlier, led by their queen Boudicca, had rebelled against Rome.
Thanks to the map in their possession they quickly spotted the large clearing surrounded by woods with the skeleton of the shipwrecked merchant ship from Massalia [Marseille] which had been set on fire.
Marcus was the noble, ruined by debts, who had involved Manius on the dangerous expedition. With an aquiline nose and a haughty look in his eyes, he was giving directions to the sailors about where to land according to the information on the map.
The Massalia vessel, loaded with tin, pearls, and slaves, driven by a sea it had no experience with had been thrown back against the shore by an extremely violent storm and was stranded in the middle of the shallow water. Some of the occupants had died in the sea but most had been killed by the islanders or carried into slavery. The goods had been stolen, the slaves had fled or had been captured.
An ex-soldier, however, had hidden himself in the woods thus remaining alive and free. After returning to the ship and noticing that the box of pearls had escaped the eye of the looters, he had hidden it in a cleft of a rock and had oriented a few stones so as to favour its recovery. Six months later, in a tavern in Subura, Rome, the ex-soldier, drunk and sick, had sold Marcus the map together with the information needed to retrieve the treasure.
It was almost evening. A few clouds were gathering over the horizon. Manius had agreed to be part of this crazy expedition not so much for the precious treasure, which did not interest him, but rather to win a bet and for the sake of danger. Life seemed intolerable now that Delia was married to a wealthy, thirty-year older, senator. After leaving the school of human perfection held by the Pythagorean Apollonidis, who delivered courses in a place perched on the Cottian mountains above Augusta Taurinorum [Turin] in order to escape from inspections and especially from the Christian fanatics, he had said farewell to his classmates and lifelong friends.
After saying goodbye in Augusta to his stern father, Atilius, Manius had returned to Rome to visit his mother, Marcia, and to drown his pain in the low pleasures of Dionysus, which too were attended in secret in the countryside of South Latium and elsewhere.
During one of these meetings, in the wild runs through the mountains above Privernum [Priverno] in which the enigmatic god of intoxication was still worshiped with mystic paroxysm, there, among vertigoes of pleasure and pain, in the light of flickering torches, Manius had joined carnally with a strange woman whose body was dripping with wine. In the light of the moon he had noticed that her gaze was sometimes puzzled, as if questioning him. He was then surprised to notice that a part of her left ear was missing. The other times that Manius had come to meet the god, the mysterious woman was present although she seemed not to care about him any more.
On those occasions he had also met Marcus. The two men's dissonant souls had found a consonance for having gone astray, although for different reasons, along the paths of life.
ψ
Manius felt the cold wind of Britain lash his face. "What a strange land, full of mystery in spite of its gloomy weather," he thought. Before departure he had read the reports by Pytheas, the Greek explorer, and of the historian Diodorus Siculus. The Mediterranean peoples, he reflected, had always fantasized about Britain long before the expeditions of Julius Caesar and of emperor Claudius - her pearls, amber and painted warriors, the tin-islands. Virgil then had sung Britannia as the remotest place on earth.
When the sun began to set languidly behind the coast and the clouds started to become tinged with coral, a feeling of melancholy seized Manius and Delia's face appeared in his soul. The last time he saw her they had spent some time together in a park overlooking the Padus river [the Po]. Augusta Taurinorum, the beautiful though provincial town in North West Italy, was sparkling in her autumn sun.
Everything had been so beautiful. Along a path that wound among plants, ponds, flowers and fountains, with the majestic Alpine peaks towering in the background, she came hesitatingly toward him, her shiny red hair flashing under her chaste veil, her blue-green eyes softened as if to ask for pardon. Among kisses, tears and promises of eternal love Delia had told him the terrible news ...
A gull almost slapped his face and woke him from his dream. He looked at the shore. It seemed that no living soul was around. Marcus, Manius and a group of sturdy gladiators recruited by the noble, descended into the sea and headed on foot toward the clearing, to the right of which there must be what they were looking for. They had abandoned their disguise and were in full, Roman combat gear. Once on dry land they began to advance on the clearing. Manius Lentulus noticed the stones shown on the map. They began to follow them and spotted the big rock encrusted with algae and located right on the edge of a lush-green and thick forest.
They continued to advance, with their sandals sinking in the sand and the gulls filling the sky with their powerful cries. Manius wiped the sweat mixed with water that soaked his forehead. The territory, green and depopulated, was remarkable in its wild beauty although he found the misty rain that wetted his clothes annoying, penetrating him to the bone and which had accompanied them throughout the circumnavigation of the South-East part of that weird island.
When they came close to the forest, which almost blocked the sound of the sea with its mass, Manius realized that something was wrong. The forest was too silent while from afar came sounds that he could not decipher also because a small mound prevented them from seeing the portion of the sea where their boat was anchored. He positioned his rectangular shield, drew his gladium with his right hand while with his left held up the javelin. The other Romans did the same.
A huge clamour overwhelmed them. More than three hundred Angles rushed out of the forest shouting and hitting their round shields. They were running the 60 yards that separated them from the Romans with conical helmets, battle-axes and large double-edged swords. The Romans seeing the impossibility of resisting their impetus, rushed back to the sea in an attempt to board their ship. They though saw that their ship had been captured and that six long boats full of armed men were close to shore
Something had gone wrong. They were trapped.
Gwenn regarded her dear and loyal friends – Briec, Hoel, and Adalbert – while sipping a delicious drink based on local beer, Ligurian lemons and Iberian spices. The four companions were seated at a table between two wooden Doric columns, in the rectangular forum of Augusta Taurinorum.
"Hoel, you look like a pelican this morning," Adalbert said.
"And you a cross between a partridge and a German elephant. If it is true that you have Gothic blood, how many beers will you guzzle before lunch?”
“I too must have Gothic blood in my veins then,” Briec said. “And, I'll tell you,” he added, shoving his elbow in Hoel's ribs while winking at the others, "I will go with Gwenn to inspect the large wine cellar just around the corner. Out of educated interest in the reputation of the local wines, of course.”
“Boys!” Gwenn exclaimed, “stop playing the fool! Take a look at the square now that it's filled with people. Isn't it exciting?”
The forum was filled with people of all kinds: elegant ladies in their litters enjoying the spring sunshine; society men and youths; lawyers and judges carrying out their daily work; middlemen and beggars mixed with farmers, merchants, vendors and prostitutes. There were also foreigners from beyond the Alps, soldiers, platforms for the sale of slaves. Everyone had something to offer, everyone bargained for what he needed.
Julia Augusta Taurinorum, founded by Julius Caesar more than five centuries earlier as a military camp, was not as important as Mediolanum [Milan], although a great many activities converged in her forum from a region made relatively prosperous by the proximity of the Cottian Alps' passes and by the hard-working nature of its inhabitants – Celtic and Ligurian, mixed with Latins and Goths.
The friends were waiting for a letter from Quintus, now living in Gaul on the coast facing Britannia. Their jokes were, actually, a way of laughing away concern for their friend Manius' fate, since he had completely vanished after learning about Delia’s marriage. A few weeks after Manius had disappeared, a letter from Marcia, Manius' mother, had informed them that her son had visited her in Rome and had then left for Britannia in the company of one Marcus. Since then only Quintus seemed to have news of him.
"Marcia,” Adalbert said, suddenly turning serious, “must not have been of much comfort to her son. She was out of her mind when I went to Rome with Manius. She lived secluded, smoking opium with her female slaves, and didn’t want to see anyone, apart from us.”
Two years earlier, in fact, Marcia's husband, Atilius, a stern man from the local puritanical milieu – who strongly disliked his wife's free mores and predilection for a young female slave called Kleio – had caused a public scandal by sending her back to her family in Rome, on the Aventine.
My father never really loved my mother," Manius had confided to his friends. "All he cared for was respectability. For my mother, respectability was not enough. Not that dad is a bad man, quite the contrary, but the truth is, when people do not reach real wisdom, there are milieus which do not mix: Roman society, refined and a bit decadent, where my mother’s sincere and impulsive soul flourished, and the closer societies with stricter customs, such as the people born here at the foot of the mountains."
Adalbert bit into the salted lake fish which he loved to accompany with beer. He came from the military aristocracy of Vindobona [Vienna] which had always fought bravely against the barbarians along the Danube border. Vindobona was a Celtic town, but Adalbert's mother was a Goth, so Adalbert looked, and was in many ways, a perfect German: blonde, massive, with thoughtful deep-blue eyes. He was the friend with whom Manius most loved to get lost in the abstractions of mathematics and music, to the extent that the friends jokingly called them sodales platonici.
Briec and Hoel were slender but robust, with honest open faces. More inclined to the vagaries of poetry accompanied by the harp and kithara, they were routinely mistaken for brothers owing to their almost identical features and similar dark-blonde hair. Actually they were cousins, members of the same aristocratic Northern-British clan. Like Adalbert, they wore togas with complicated folds. Provincial noblemen had to take special care of their appearance in order to be accepted by local society.
In truth, they didn't much care about conventions. Educated by their Master to comprehend the customs of diverse peoples - their educational journeys had been numerous – they adapted themselves to the culture they happened to be in, so avoiding problems, "like the fish that rests in the flow of the current,” their Master said, “and thus proceeds further."
Gwenn was their childhood companion. Auburn-haired and blue-eyed, today she wore an elegant stola, covered with red and blue embroidery, made for her in Mediolanum [Milan]. Over another glass of the spicy drink, she reflected on her childhood and adolescence with her two friends in Banna [Birdoswald], a fort in Northern Britain. In those radiant years of youth her love for Hoel was an unripe fruit. Now it had become a sturdy plant.
ψ
Gwenn, Briec and Hoel were scions of the military aristocracy in that remote place located at the western part of Hadrian's Wall. That Wall, together with the Antonine Wall to the north, was the dual defensive cordon that separated the Romano-Britons from the free and painted barbarians of the north. During the golden age of the Roman empire, Hadrian's Wall had been strengthened with nearly twenty forts. That structure had later collapsed, although around some forts like Banna, more than a generation earlier, a large community of Britons had gathered, seeking support against the barbarians that pillaged and wreaked havoc from all sides.
The prestige of Banna's military aristocracy for the local population was absolute, since it could boast a direct descent from the Roman garrison of auxiliaries and Romans from the time of the empire, and a Roman military tradition that had not completely disappeared.
The four friends, along with Quintus, Manius and the younger Delia, had been inseparable for a long time, and in spite of Quintus’ frequent travels, at least once a year he returned to Augusta of the Taurini.
Sipping her drink, Gwenn remembered the day of her departure for Italy, with her anxious parents saying goodbye to her from the top of a hill crowned by majestic oaks. Her mother Eavan's beautiful blue eyes were wet with tears, while her father, Caedmon, the bravest warrior of the community known for his imperturbability, could not hide his sorrow for the departure of his beloved daughter.
The three young people's parents had decided to send them away to Italy, through secure channels, in order to protect them from a situation that was deteriorating and to provide them, for the future, with knowledge of sacred things beyond the barbarism that was advancing in the land of Albion and throughout the continent.
The three youths, therefore, had been solemnly summoned to a large hall lit by bronze torches where Caedmon, in the presence of all the community leaders dressed in arms, had uttered words that the adolescents had found obscure:
“The old order or cosmos is disintegrating. Very unhappy times are approaching, full of dark forces; the new cosmos is not yet formed. We should prepare ourselves for the most severe adversities. To this end, you, the best of what we are and our future, will be sent to a place where the light is not yet extinguished."
Then Gwenn remembered her first encounter with Magister, in a small, hidden valley on the mountains above Augusta. The wagon had left them in front of a mountain villa comprising a set of buildings surrounded by fields and orchards. The place could only be reached through a narrow road that didn't draw the attention of the highlanders, winding through the woods. As soon as they reached the main building’s columned portico, they were greeted by three young men who led them, through the peristyle, into the atrium of the large house where Apollonide, the Master, waited for them.
A young slave, his forehead adorned with a purple band, was taking Magister’s dictation. The atrium, a large reception room and study, was frescoed in a way that left the young people speechless. The celestial bodies' faces - the moon, the sun, the other planets, with the stars and the Milky Way above - were painted as if they were alive and intelligent, moving all around in a wonderful dance. The artist had been able to communicate not only the sensation of the dance but also that of music, as if the whole universe sang and danced rhythmically and harmoniously.
Apollonide dismissed the slave and motioned to the young people to come closer. They drew near, fascinated and fearful. The Master’s expression was both a good-natured and stern. His piercing brown eyes were framed by black, protruding eyebrows, not yet touched by white, though his thick hair was graying – divided into two bands, held in place by rings of gold, framing an impressively composed face. In his imposing stature, although he was on the threshold of old age, one sensed strength and agility.
But it was the complex look in Apollonidis' eyes which made an indelible impression on the demanding mind of the girl: a wise look, hard at times, which reminded her of her father, but also intensely mystical, as if he, like those sublime paintings, sailed in higher and purer spheres of the cosmos and human nature.
ψ
Apollonidis was, in fact, one of the last propagators of an ancient wisdom based on a rational and integrated vision of man and the universe.
"Thanks to his journeys all over the known world,” he told them in the introductory lesson, which took place in the vast peristyle from which one could admire the starry sky, “Pythagoras learned and bore witness to all men and women that the essence of the human soul is divine, that it comes from the stars, and that we are masters of our own destiny. It is what has been told, after all, in one way or another, by all the philosophies and religions of the world. It is what is has been hidden in the mysteries. Man, for all his shortcomings, is a god who lost his way and fell into the low heaven of earth, but who can take back his rightful place. In order to achieve that, a general physical and moral cleansing is necessary to return to saintliness."
At this point Magister thundered: "How do you think this will be possible? Tell me, then, tell me!"
Briec, Hoel and Gwenn made themselves small on their benches
"This will be possible only if God will be our model! Yes, God must become our model!
"In this school,” he continued, walking among pupils of both genders, “we have a vision and a connected living standard that empowers us, in the higher souls, to create miracles: that is, the creation of Homo Pythagoricus, of the third reasonable being beside God and Man."
Gwenn still remembered with deep emotion these words that were carved into her mind and heart.
"A being not only concerned with the bliss of the afterlife, but also perfected to fully experience life on this earth, fighting the dark forces of evil, in whatever form and wherever they may hide.
"Such a man needs to develop, to the highest degree, the faculties of his mind – but not disparage his body, as the Christian ascetics do, and, before them, the pagan Neo-Platonists.
"On the contrary, we must care for our body, make it more beautiful, strong and harmonious, so that it may not only become a work of art, but develop into a perfect athlete, a perfect fighter, just like Pythagorean Milo who won all the Olympics and defeated phalanxes. Women must also achieve all that. Within the order of things both the feminine and the masculine are necessary, and in this I disagree with Pythagoras and his followers, who deemed that women were fit only for the external level of teaching."
As Gwenn remembered this speech clouds gathered in the sky over Augusta. The atmosphere became more oppressive; frequenters of the forum, it being almost lunchtime, began slowly to go home.
ψ
Then the sun, radiant, returned, suffusing the four young people with its powerful light. And their bodies shone. Harmonious, perfectly coordinated, solidly trained, their bright eyes expressing with joy the corresponding harmony of their souls and minds.
ψ
After their first encounter with Magister in the atrium, there had been a real test conducted in a smaller room with no windows. The young Britons were questioned by Apollonidis himself, and by two assistants, for five days and five nights, with some small breaks for frugal meals of cheese, olives and water. This gave an initial assessment of their intellectual and moral faculties. On an intellectual level, their aptitude for the arts of the Pythagorean quadrivium was assessed: arithmetic, geometry, astronomy and music. On the moral plane, they were evaluated, via ancient techniques, for honesty, strength of character and resilience to stress.
All three were accepted to the school as exoteric [external] learners for a trial period of three years. Gwenn's memory of those terrible three years was uncomfortable. Kept aside and almost neglected, they were obliged to be almost entirely silent, learning the basics of an enormous scientific and religious corpus, the culmination of a spiritual travail that had lasted millennia. They took in the wisdom of Egypt, Palestine (Jewish and Christian), Persia, Chaldea, India especially, and then China and, of course, Greece and Rome, without neglecting elements of Druidism and of Norse mythology. It was an almost unbearable task, not lacking in severe punishments meant to correct shortcomings in pupils' character. The hard work, they realized only later, aimed at winnowing out all but the superior souls.
Once admitted to the esoteric [internal] courses, everything suddenly became easier, also because they understood exactly where the Master was leading them with his firm hand. These courses had lasted seventeen years and now, as they sat at the tavern in the forum, they were all in their thirty-fourth year.
They missed Manius, only a year older, whom his friends had met in the school together with Adalbert. Clelia was younger and her studies were interrupted by the inflexible will of her father. She had been only 28 on the day of her return to her home town, Mantua.
ψ
When Delia entered the school she too was only fifteen. It was Manius who noticed her most, because of her beautiful red hair and her green-blue eyed with that peculiar form of strabismus called strabismus of Venus. Before Delia was permanently assigned to the external courses, his group of friends were able to see her from time to time. She was often seen with a certain Faustus, from the internal courses, and with Amatia, a novice like her. One morning Manius was reading the life of Apollonius of Tyana, alone, in one of the school gardens, when she appeared in a simple blue tunic, her copper-red hair loose in the fresh wind from the snow-peaked mountains.
How beautiful Delia was, so terribly beautiful, her face slightly sprinkled with freckles and her look so candid, expressing such an exotic blend of the mystical, the sensual and the innocent: he was defenseless.
He dared not speak, and remained looking at her, half frozen with emotion and the agony of unfulfilled desire.
A long period passed in which he saw her only sporadically. Internal and external students were deployed respectively in the right and the left wings around the peristyle, so that they could meet only now and then. Moreover, the secret nature of the esoteric courses did not allow the youths to mix easily.
Then, one night, they gathered again in the peristyle, and sat on benches arranged among the fountains representing mermaids and tritons. The lesson touched upon various topics, with several teachers alternating. Manius managed to beat Faustus, who often hovered around her, and sit next to Delia.
Finally, Magister came. He began softly, announcing he would talk about love. The silence of the audience became absolute.
"At the risk of misrepresenting a few great truths, we will use simple language and no numbers, geometry or astronomy, so as to be understood even by the novices.
“There is a Dionysian power that sinks into the ground and in the lower layers of sub-lunar space, instead of rising into the light of the sun and the stars. Such power lives in consonance with evil demons and men of low soul, who are the most numerous, which is why Dionysus is the most represented among the gods. We find him in mosaics, in pottery and in tombs. We find him everywhere. But with Dionysus positive divinity disappears and what we get is only the intoxication produced by artificial means, may it be wine or drugs of whatever sort, which favour destructive carnality."
His voice became slightly more powerful. His eyes began to glow.
"Let us not forget that our eternal destiny depends upon our behavior on earth. We strive for a clear, pure and honest love, which may lift us up towards the highest spheres of the universe, far from any earthly misery."
Manius was so close to Delia that their bodies touched slightly. This sent waves of heat so intense that his rational faculties were numbed. When he took her hand - and to his surprise she did not reject him and even pressed her body against him - his temples began to pound and his heart surged.
Now Magister's speech became almost a song, which a student accompanied with the sound of a lyre.
"A pure and honest love. And mad also. Yes, love is a form of madness, and it does not matter whether it is born between man and woman, woman and woman or man and man. Sappho, Socrates and Plato, were they impure perhaps? Impurity is neither in the person whom Venus, Ishtar or Aine bring us to love, nor in flesh, since love is both carnal and spiritual. Impurity is in the soul needing to be mended from those morbid affections that live in each of us. Let us enjoy honest, sincere, loyal, gentle love; and also powerful, mad love, ready for the ultimate sacrifice for the safety of the beloved."
The moon, at first hidden by a thick layer of clouds, began to shine among the trees and the fountains of the peristyle. Manius, inspired by Magister's words, by the music and the benign celestial body that excites the human soul, turned to the girl, held her firmly at the waist and kissed her. She responded to his kiss with the spontaneous love of the earliest years of youth. It was a long, young, pure kiss which took their breath away; it was also a wonderfully sensual kiss. And the gift of that ecstasy bore them across the threshold of infinity.
ψ
Manius Papirius Lentulus had spent his childhood and first adolescence with his parents in Rome, and felt himself a true Roman from the city of Rome. Then his family had moved to Augusta, his father, Atilus' town, where Manius had been accepted to the external courses in Apollonidis' school. Quintus was also a Roman from Rome, but the two had met only in the school among the mountains, and had later joined the group of friends whose bond sprung from those ties of first youth not easy to forget.
Equipped with a good sense of humor, a pragmatist, a lover of good food and attractive women, he had soon realized that his calling was not Pythagorean study but international politics, knowledge of peoples and their respective cultures. His frequent trips to northern Gaul had earned him connections at the courts of some powerful Frankish kings where he served as a secretary and counselor.
ψ
Quintus' letter arrived two days after the friends had shared their noontime drinks in the square. The sky had changed – bleak, terrible, it looked as if a black light shone beyond the clouds.
His words, tragic in tone, reverted to the history of Britannia over the last six decades.
"You were just children when you left your land and your parents were determined to not completely reveal to you the dreadful situation. Three generations before your birth, the Britons - weakened by plagues, by disunion and by the departure or dissolution of the legions - had defended themselves bravely against the attacks of the barbarians: the Scots [Irish pirates], from the West, and the painted peoples, or Picts, from the North. You, the offspring of Banna, know these things too well. The situation, however, deteriorated when pirates far more formidable appeared on the southern and eastern coasts of the island: the Germanic tribes of the Angles, Saxons and Jutes from the gloomy shores of the northern seas.
"These folks, unlike their cousins, the Goths or Franks, had not known the civilizing power of Rome. This made them merciless against a people that they considered weak and alien. The invasion was first a migration, in Cantium [Kent], opposite Gaul, and then throughout the South-East, the area at that time, and still partly today, the richest and most populated in Albion.
"Once they reached a remarkable number – around 200,000 people, I have heard, warriors and families included - the barbarians were used by the Britons as mercenaries against their enemies. The valour of these Germans was undeniable. Two brothers are especially remembered, Hengist and Horsa, legendary leaders like our Castor and Pollux. Then the barbarians revolted against their masters and began to exterminate the wealthy people of the South. Armies sent against them were annihilated. Amphitheaters, baths and forums were burned to the ground, entire populations reduced to slavery. The wealthy landowners, accustomed to the comfort of their heated villas, fled to the coast but were slaughtered on the beaches together with their wives, children and servants, before they could embark towards salvation.
"The war continues today, fought inch by inch. The West and the North are now in danger. And I believe that disunity, which I have already mentioned, is the greatest risk to your people. As far as I know, the Picts,” Quintus' letter continued, “have repeatedly raided up to the centre of the island. This could not have happened without any inside help. It is as if the peasants never adapted to Roman customs and prefer the Picts or the Scots to the fading Roman-British nobility.
"Finally, my friends, in my letter I have tried to delay the painful topic that touches us all. Manius has been captured by the Angles. He seems to be the only survivor of that crazy expedition. In the land that once belonged to the Iceni and is now occupied by this Germanic folk, where life moves slowly since forests and swamps isolate it with their thick barrier, the capture of a real Roman soldier, one hailing from Rome itself, could not pass unnoticed. This was confirmed to me by some merchants including a Greek, named Pavlos, in whom I put my complete trust."
As he knew about Manius’ fate Adalbert squeezed his ceramic cup so hard that it shattered in his fist. The friends, shocked, looked into each other's eyes. There was a long silence. Quintus’ report seemed to show them their whole world disintegrating before them. They thought about their parents, about the friends in Banna that they had left behind, and their hearts sank. Then they thought about Manius, in the hands of a savage people.
Years of training had not gone in vain though. The deep sorrow soon gave way to a pure, unshakable resolution. Departure was not deferrable; they would set out the very next day. Hands clasped on the table in a solemn covenant. They would have paid with their lives in order to save both their friend and Albion from danger.
ψ
A lame beggar had been standing close to their table – dirty, ragged, leaning on a stick. When they had disappeared in the backstreets of Augusta he threw his stick away and ran, hurrying in the opposite direction.
5 May, 2004. Rione Monti, 12:30 am. Rome
The
antiquarian's shop was located in via Madonna dei Monti, once the Argiletum or
booksellers road where Horace, Martial and Seneca bought their papyrus scrolls
two thousand years earlier.
The room
was large but so packed with objects that it was almost impossible to move among
them. The owner, a certain Gustavo Galamberti, whose indefinable age was
between forty and fifty, had a distinguished face and hands always perfectly
manicured. He had bought the shop two years earlier and after less than a year
of business he enjoyed the support of a loyal clientele. He was a highly
cultured man and Massimo, whose mind was eager for knowledge, passed by
Galamberti occasionally, browsed the antiques and engaged in conversations with
him.
He entered
the shop in order to sell his painting but above all to forget the events that
had happened in the last few hours. He soon noticed a few newly arrived items:
an imposing, sumptuous Viennese wood heating cast iron stove; and a beautiful
XVIII century French serre-papier.
Massimo
loved France and spoke French fluently. His father was a Waldensian Calvinist
from the area between the Susa Valley and Pineloro, in Piedmont, where the
dialect is closer to French than to Italian.
“Ah, la
France!” Galamberti exclaimed. “Your father would certainly love this serre-papier.”
“Much less
my mother, who is from Trastevere” Massimo answered back. “Their marriage was
very badly matched. Mum didn't stand living in Turin and went back to Rome and
to her people, although true Romans like her have almost disappeared.”
The object
though that struck him most was an antique and perfectly polished grand piano.
On closer inspection he noticed the perfection of its restoration and the
brand: Pleyel.
"Yes,
Massimo," said Galamberti sensing his thoughts. "A magnificent 1840
grand piano by Pleyel restored with such an accuracy as to recreate the texture
of tones loved by Chopin. An example of how science and art, when fused, can
work miracles, although they are one, aren't they, art and science, as it is
was known since thousands of years."
Massimo was
about to say his opinion on the matter when the ring of the doorbell
interrupted their conversation.
"Mrs
Camilla!" Galamberti exclaimed merrily.
Massimo
turned and saw two women enter the shop. One, around 45 years old walked into
the room with a vaguely imperious demeanour [gait?] She was very attractive, with
gray eyes made so elongated with eyeliner as to look like an Egyptian queen.
The other following her was a much younger woman, under thirty. She had gorgeous
red hair, a face with just a few freckles and eyes between green and blue made
sweet and sensual by that strabismus called strabismus of Venus.
"I
came here to see the Pleyel” said the older woman with a strong North-European
accent. “It is that one, I guess.” she added and cast a glance at Massimo who
was though busy contemplating the red-haired young woman.
“Oh, I
forgot, this is Deirdre, Gustavo, an Irish friend of mine just arrived from
Ireland. And an excellent pianist, incidentally, I assure you."
"Nice
to meet you, Deirdre” said Gustavo in English. He then added, with self
satisfaction: "Yes, there it is, an amazing work, with a wonderful sound,
as close as possible to the pianos of its time."
"May
we try it?"
At an
effusive nod of assent, soon followed by Camilla's encouragement, Deirdre came
closer to the piano and gently lifted its lid. Her tapering fingers, pale and
thin, moved briefly upon the slightly yellowed ivory keys. A few notes, deep
and mellow, echoed in the room.
Then the
young woman sat on a swivel stool and after a few seconds of silence there rose
in the place a melancholy song that evoked silent landscapes immersed in the
mist.
Camilla,
almost interrupting her, said, 'Play for me 'In the hall of the Mountain King'
from Peer Gynt by Edvard Grieg, a musician from my country, Norway."
Deirdre
began to play with a reluctance that Massimo did not miss to notice. Peer Gynt
- he thought, intrigued - was a hero of Norwegian folklore who finds himself in
the cave of the troll king Gudbrandsdalen. Trolls attack him and want to kill
him. The composer had striven to recreate their fury.
The music,
a dance, started slowly and well stressed, first, and gradually increased in
speed. The Pleyel emitted sounds very different from those of the modern
pianos and the young Irishwoman seemed to have perfectly understood its
possibilities. Massimo was fascinated by the young woman's qualities and by an
innocence which didn't much correspond with the spirit of the music which
continued to increase in speed until it became frantic and demonic. At that
point Deirdre improvised an abrupt cadenza and ended the piece ahead of time.
"I do
not like trolls – she said looking at Camilla as if to apologize. "I
prefer the elves of my country."
A slight
embarassment followed. The antiquarian broke in and asked Camilla:
"Did
you like the piano, then?"
The eyes of
the Norwegian expressed assent.
"I
will buy it, Gustavo" she said, with detachment. "Here's the deposit
and tomorrow morning, when I settle the payment, you will have it delivered to
my house. Now Deirdre dear, let us go. The price, after all, we had already
agreed upon. "
The two
women left the shop. Massimo quickly mentioned his painting, added that on the
next day, late afternoon, he would drive the bargain, then left the antiques
shop. He wanted to follow the women and see whether they lived in the rione. He
walked hastily along Via Madonna dei Monti but they had gone. Then in a flash
he was in Via dei Serpenti.
And there
they were, at the intersection with Via Cavour, sitting inside a taxi that left
at full speed.
Manius’ head was spinning. There was sharp pain at his nape and left ankle. Images and sounds rose before him: the severe but calm face of his Master, who before his departure had uttered the enigmatic words: "Follow your constellation, Manius – your constellation." The face, marked by sorrow, of his mother, Marcia, and of Delia, who regarded him, weeping, on the banks of the Padus; finally the clash of arms and the laughter of victory of warriors speaking an incomprehensible language.
These sounds shook him into consciousness. He was lying face down. Memory came in a rush. They had been surrounded by warriors from sea and from land, and his companions had been killed one after the other. Marcus had died almost at once, hit in the neck by a throwing ax. Manius had continued to fight, to kill enemies and to create a vacuum around him. He operated in a lucid, rational way, being able to calculate the movements of at least twenty adversaries at the same time, thus predicting their moves. But in the end something had hit him in at the back of his head, a large stone perhaps. The last sensation he had had as he fell was of his left foot stuck in the rocks.
He thought of Marcus. A quick death, his, hence lucky. Then he thought of the Angle pilot, Leofric – who had betrayed them, without a doubt. Someone had probably been sent to inform the Angles a few days before their departure; a perfectly organized trap. He decided that he would bring to Hades with him as many savages as possible. To this end, he needed all the resources of his mind and body.
His mind seemed fine. As for his body, the deep knowledge of anatomy learned at the school of Apollonides allowed him to check every muscle, tendon and bone with imperceptible movements that would not attract the attention of the barbarians, since it was clear that they believed he was dead. He noticed with deep discontent that the ankle pain was not a simple distortion but a serious injury. The pain would make him less lucid, thus delivering him ahead of time into the hands of his enemies. He shook off these thoughts as contemptible and prepared for battle.
The Angles were talking and laughing, and among the voices he distinguished a few women’s tones. He remained motionless and silent, waiting for a favourable opportunity. It arrived when a barbarian’s white leg passed close to his right arm. He grabbed its ankle and the Angle tumbled to the ground. With a leap he was on top of the man, broke his neck by twisting his head, and seized the weapons he carried, a spear and a throwing ax.
Four warriors who were at a distance of ten yards or so turned, surprised, and rushed toward him. Manius levered himself up on the healthy ankle and sprang towards them at an acute angle relative to the line that separated them. But, unable to bear the pain, he had to continue rolling and stopped five yards behind them. The Angles found themselves at a disadvantage since they were forced to turn around. That gave Manius time to dispatch one with an ax which stuck in his back; he struck a second with a large stone on the left side of the head; then killed the third with the spear, piercing his throat. Dark blood spurted on the ground.
The fourth remaining Angle began to charge Manius, then changed his mind and backed away quickly. A companion handed him a bow; he took it and waited to be given arrows.
Meanwhile, the Angles had moved all around them. They formed a very wide circle and encouraged their compatriot with shouts, howls and sounds. Some, however, seemed to judge the fight with the bow unfair; the distance between the two was now considerable, and it was clear that the Roman was lame. The first arrow came hissing, but Manius dodged it. The pain in his ankle had become excruciating and began to cloud his mind. He managed to dodge the second arrow, provoking sounds of approval from a number of barbarians. Most encouraged their companion, and a third group insulted the Roman, glaring hatefully at him and threatening him with their weapons.
Behind a rock not far away, Manius saw a Roman rectangular shield. With immense effort he rolled in that direction, grabbed the shield and jabbed it on the ground; then crouched behind it, shielding himself from the darts that were raining at regular intervals.
The clamour of the warriors became more deafening, in a crescendo without end. They struck their round shields; drink appeared in rough wooden cups; some shouted and blew instruments made of cattle horns. It had now become a warriors’ happy gathering in full style, in which women and children participated. Manius felt his mind all but burst. The pain was unbearable, both at his ankle and neck. All urged him to surrender to his fate, but somehow there came to him words heard in a temple dedicated to the beautiful and sweet Isis. He pronounced them, praying the goddess with all his heart, and invoking his mother and Delia also:
Non ergo essem
non omnino essem,
nisi essetis in me...
I would not exist,
I would not exist at all,
If you weren’t in me …
The prayer calmed him and pressed him to summon all the powers of his mind, body and soul. The survival instinct prevailed. He evaluated in a moment the situation and realized that he still had a faint possibility of saving his life.
Next to him was a nice round stone. He took it up, weighing it and calculating the necessary parabola together with the strength and direction of the wind. The distance was considerable, and the launch seemed impossible also because of the stone’s size. Manius could see skepticism and scorn on the warriors’ faces. He rotated three times, using his healthy ankle as a pivot, and threw the stone forcefully toward the clouds. All eyes rose in the air. The stone flew high and seemed as if suspended in the sky for an interminable length of time. Then it flew down and struck right in the forehead the barbarian, who was off guard because he never would have thought the success of such a launch possible.
There was a roar from the onlookers, and some of them even celebrated the amazing shot with drinking and dances. But a large group of warriors broke away from the circle and began to run towards Manius with the clear intention of slaughtering him.
Then a powerful voice echoed in the clearing:
"Let no one touch the Roman!"
The Angles remained silent, and the running warriors came to a halt. A man of enormous size advanced to the centre of the circle, his armor adorned with grisly trophies.
"He is a valiant warrior," the giant continued. "He should be spared. But as I see some of you disagree, I give him as a gift just his life. He will not receive any food nor clothing, and will live in one of the towers of the fort along the sea. He will be free to come and go in my territory, but not to return to his country."
Manius didn't understand the chieftain's words but sensed that his life had been spared.
Then the giant came to Manius and beat his breast, saying:
"Ic Wulf, Aenglisc."
Manius did the same, and said:
"Manius, Romanus."
6 May 2014. 16:30 am. Rome
"I cannot come over for dinner tonight, Gloria," said the Commissario Carlo D'Agostino.
"But Carlo, I have bringoli of Anghiari pulled by hand, with a good wild boar sauce ...." The woman’s voice sounded disappointed.
Then she added, in a worried tone: "The case of the dead bodies in the Appian Way?"
"Yes, but don’t worry, everything is fine. I'll call you later as soon as I can, I have a duty phone call now. Put the bringoli in the fridge. We’ll eat them tomorrow evening if you like. "
He pressed the button that connected to the other line. Franco Cardini’s voice was heard, from the Polizia Scientifica.
"Hi Franco, any news?"
"We’ll have a complete analysis in two days.”
"In two days? The media are in a frenzy. The Vice Questor has just called me. “
"Listen, Carlo, we have nearly thirty backlog cases. Tell the Vice Questor to give us the means of Carabinieri’s RIS [Unit of Scientific Investigations] and we will work faster. Okay, tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ve got a little for you – not fully verified yet though. "
Cardini paused as if to collect his thoughts.
"Death occurred shortly before your arrival. Or perhaps during your arrival."
"Are you sure? So at 5:45 am. Let me think. This means that the Indonesian gardener found the victims unconscious but thought they were dead. Then we arrived. "
"Exactly. The victims' blood was still dripping on the crosses when you found them. Now, after death, blood flow stops within a few minutes, because the heart isn’t pumping any more, which means they died just when you arrived or at most a few minutes earlier. Moreover,” Cardini continued, “both the teenagers and the dog died after prolonged sufferings – all show signs that they were tortured cruelly for a long time. This may perhaps help you figure out the time of their kidnapping."
"Parents have told us that they left home in the afternoon. We’re looking for witnesses who might have seen them in Ciampino and in the park in the late afternoon or evening."
"Another thing, Carlo. A quite unusual one, actually."
The commissario waited in silence. He kept a Romeo y Julieta between his teeth, a cigar that did not break any rule since he did not smoke it but kept it like that, unlit.
"The wood used for the crosses is Jichimu, a Chinese or Southeast Asian kind with a veining similar to birds’ wing patterns. We import it as seasoned, already milled boards, for furniture and floorings. Here, however, we have freshly cut logs with metal support – the fresh wood is not robust and can break. So ... "
"So it's time to make a good call ..."
D’Agostino was already making one, on the other line. "Inspector Santagata,” he said, “leave the investigation on the witnesses to others and have your men sift all carpenters’ shops dealing with the Chinese Jichimu wood, especially the fresh, unseasoned kind. Yes, Jichimu, look it up on the Internet. Check a radius of 50 km, and, if necessary, 100 km from the area of the corpses on the Appian Way. "
He rang off. Cardini was still there. “One last thing, Carlo. The corpses bore traces of wine; that, we are analyzing.”
The Commissioner D'Agostino lowered the receiver and continued to ponder, regarding an old photo that showed him with comrades in Arezzo, his native town. He was twelve years old and Franco Cardini, who in those years loved in jest to wear the beret, eleven.
Then he rose up from his desk and went to the window, lost in thought. The Appian Way area, ancient and new, was still oppressed by clouds and rain.
