tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84162953306171071652024-02-02T05:29:11.701+01:00Misce stultitiam consiliisManiushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14545094229192176272noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8416295330617107165.post-5830034014691754972019-10-14T18:47:00.000+02:002019-10-14T18:47:04.951+02:00Prossimo dopo taberna<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"20 minutes only and Deirdre would reach home" …<br />
<br />
Enough to read Giorgio’s mail so Massimo pushed the get mail button with L3 enforced. He was more than eager to know what the heck was going on in 256 CE Britannia.<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span>L3. His mentor had adviced 7 customized data exchange security levels. L3 was their daily common use.<span style="font-size: small;"><b><br />
</b></span><br />
<blockquote>
"Just for fun" Giorgio once told Massimo " since who is interested in sniffing our data packets let's face it." </blockquote>
Email L3 implied a VPN encrypted tunnel (like a metal pipe across the Internet) up to a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anonymous_remailer">remailer</a> (<a href="http://anonymouse.org/anonemail.html">anonEmail</a> for ex., to anonymize the sender). The mail was then resent in tunnel mode again up to the recipient (Massimo in this case). <br />
<br />
<blockquote>
<a href="http://ezinearticles.com/?VPN-Explained---The-Basics-of-VPN-Simplified&id=624480">"Virtual Private Network</a> (VPN) connections - Massimo was thus lecturing his students 2 weeks earlier - are cheap <i>private secure</i> links between remote locations smart enough to remain secure while utilizing <i>public insecure</i> Internet. Thence the attributive 'virtual private'."</blockquote>
<br />
A light whisper dispersed in the classroom. <br />
<br />
"A blessing for small companies since <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leased_line">leased</a> non-Internet lines are expensive and a VPN is sophisticated enough to allow not only data encryption (the iron pipe) but also authentication - as if a personal smart card were requested at both ends of a telephone conversation."<br />
<br />
A malicious student, his head totally shaved, raised his massive tattooed arm and asked:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>
"The iron pipe ... how long it takes to hack it."</blockquote>
<br />
Massimo: "A VPN tunnel like <i>this</i> (a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/IPSec#Tunnel_mode">IPSec one</a> would be different) is adequate to keep <i>most morons</i> off", which was said by Massimo while allusively looking at THAT tattooed imbecile directly in the eyes.<br />
<br />
The classroom roared with laughter.<br />
<br />
Massimo hated these methods but Luca - a jackass with some charisma disturbing his classes since the beginning - had to be given a lesson or his IT class would go down the drain.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;">ψ</span></span></div>
<br />
'Get Mail!'. For inexplicable reasons this not pro proof <i>Livello 3</i> made Massimo nervous this time. He drove away such feeling with impatience.<br />
<br />
Giorgio's anonymized e-mail appeared on the Linux screen.<br />
<br />
====================<br />
<br />
<br />
Qui devo mettere una ridicola danza. con ridicola filastrocca. E musica. Pavlos ha con se una lira, le siriane due flauti e si esibiscono in danze lascive. Le ragazze danzano ma più compostamente.<br />
<br />
Chaerie, Geraldine, Jenny and other women of the group, their sturdy beauty glowing, furono attratte da una vecchia signora circondata che stava come su una sedia d'onore ed era attorniata dai suoi servi. Molto vecchia, germanica, i suoi gioielli cc.<br />
<br />
Sono tutti pitagorici. A Roma erano allievi di un pitagorico. Giamblico è il loro testo. Due monaci neri nascosti tra la folla li guardano con odio ... il pubblico è sia pagano che cristiano.<br />
<br />
After laughing and dancing with one another - the peasants who first didn't dare to join them, social distance you know ma poi; as a side note, this dancing aberration ... but let's not digress - they started a night-long conversation over <i>Homeric</i> pots of beer and what is left from Greek Pavlos' retsina.<br />
<br />
Massimo ha un dubbio. Perché il suo mentor ... aberrazione della musca e danza ... invece, se lui ha ben capito ... essendo pitagorici ... <br />
<br />
By the way, also the two Syrian courtesans are with them (their intellectual stature is remarkable, together with their loose behaviour) plus a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Picts">pictus</a> from a strange island in the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dalriada">Dalriada</a> kingdom of the west-North area of Britannia, today's Scotland.<br />
<br />
The girls from the group who had accepted the Syrian women because of their intelligence had instead refused "this savage to accompany with us!" but <span style="font-size: small;">MacBin (I so </span>translate his unpronounceable name) <span style="font-size: small;">proved to be such an interesting plu</span>s Pavlos' charm did the rest.<br />
<br />
Among laughter and fun reconstructions and flashbacks emerged which allow me to summarize what happened to the bunch and why they now are in this place."<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>A distressing journey</b></div>
</div>
Maniushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14545094229192176272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8416295330617107165.post-9419770853136790842014-07-09T00:29:00.002+02:002014-10-13T13:24:10.682+02:001. Three Sides Of The Coin<br />
(<a href="http://maniuslentulus.blogspot.com/p/blog-page.html" target="_blank">Italian version</a>)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjIfvP6s1p1tBA-CUp7CocntZqgeO9VuwwTzkExd0VeSS4ug2cAD15MLrFF0-4vvq0IZMasZQ1KmCRtmpjznotli82E7uSfu6wSpZT_BYWms5YihqXhzwt4BiTkTzbHJYcEOBwXwfTKSk/s1600/the_temptation_of_eve-large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjIfvP6s1p1tBA-CUp7CocntZqgeO9VuwwTzkExd0VeSS4ug2cAD15MLrFF0-4vvq0IZMasZQ1KmCRtmpjznotli82E7uSfu6wSpZT_BYWms5YihqXhzwt4BiTkTzbHJYcEOBwXwfTKSk/s1600/the_temptation_of_eve-large.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pierre Jan van der Ouderaa (1841-1915), The Temptation Of Eve. <a href="http://www.artrenewal.org/pages/artwork.php?artworkid=17800">Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span>
<br />
<br />
<div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<i>From the Book of the Arkaas Elders </i></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br />
“… 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 <span style="font-family: '';">fallen</span><span style="font-family: '';"> </span><span style="font-family: '';">beings or </span><span style="font-family: '';">shining </span><span style="font-family: '';">entities ? Whatever they were the world changed after them. Or, at least, so it appeared to the minds of the later generations.</span><br />
As it appeared to them that the world had plunged into darkness ..."</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<b><br />1.1 Sed libera nos a malo</b></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<i><br /></i>
<i>5 May, 2004. Rome</i></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br />
It was past nine in the evening. The night was <span style="font-family: '';">cloudy,</span><span style="font-family: '';"> </span><span style="font-family: '';">cold despite the season. The two young people, 18 and 14, were warming themselves at the fire of the first flush of youth.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br />
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.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br />
In the distance, like placid stars<span style="font-family: '';"> </span><span style="font-family: '';">ascending and descending in the heart of the approaching storm,</span><span style="font-family: '';"> lights of the planes landing and taking off from the nearby Ciampino airport were visible; more lights glimmered</span><span style="font-family: '';"> from the fringes of the town, bearing the same name as the airport, of almost 40,000 people.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br />
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.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br />
The <i>comuni </i>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.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br />
The girl's dog, a big white mongrel, kept whining faintly.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br />
"Please, Giuliano, you know I'm not ready yet."<br />
"Don’t worry, Simona, almost every girl your age has done it."</div>
<div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
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.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
Simona, <span style="font-family: '';">slender</span><span style="font-family: '';"> but </span><span style="font-family: '';">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.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
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.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
"No, Giuliano, please don't, my love, don’t ...".</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
The two young bodies joined together. The lovers lost any track of time and space.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: ''; text-align: center;">
ψ</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
It all happened too fast. Not even the dog perceived anything.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: ''; text-align: center;">
ψ</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div>
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.<br />
<br />
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.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
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. </div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
The <span style="font-family: '';">majestic</span><span style="font-family: '';"> </span><span style="font-family: '';">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.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
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.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<span style="font-family: '';">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.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
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 ...</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<i>510 A.D., early Maius (May). </i><i style="font-family: '';">Constantinople</i></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
... two men and a woman, clad too with the color of night.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
"I, unfortunately, have to leave for an important meeting. You know what you must do” she said with a frightening smile.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br />
"What about the dog?"</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br />
"As soon as it wakes it must follow the couple’s fate."</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
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.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
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.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
The man was soon announced.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: ''; text-align: center;">
ψ</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
"You're late" she said contemptuously.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br />
"The journey was long.” <span style="font-family: '';">There was fear in his voice. </span><span style="font-family: '';">“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 ...”</span></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br />
"You know what happens to those who do not serve me well …"</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
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.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
"Now tell me what you know."</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br />
"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."</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br />
"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."</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
The man gasped but controlled himself. He uttered, hoarsely:</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
"It will be done, my Mistress.”</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
He then left the hall hastily.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
"There is no time to lose" he thought.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
"I know who to enroll. Those bastards will pay horribly for all I had to suffer."</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: ''; text-align: center;">
ψ</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
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.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br />
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.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: ''; text-align: center;">
ψ</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<i>6 May, 2004. Rome</i></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
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.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
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.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
An illusory peace, in truth, since it was mixed with horror.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: ''; text-align: center;">
ψ</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
"Maria santissima!" Carmelo Caruso exclaimed, paling. A special officer from the via Appia Nuova police station, he grimaced and added:</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br />
"In 20 years of service I've never seen anything like that …"</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
The lights of four squad cars and the croaking diffused by the police radios made a routine counterpoint to the ghastly scene.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
"Caruso!" Ispettore [Sergeant] Alfredo Santagata shouted. <span style="font-family: '';">"Check the enclosure and don’t let anybody come near!"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
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</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
Some cars and high-powered motorcycles had stopped by the roadside and the curious were looking, horrified, at the three corpses on wretched display.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
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.</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
"I always walk Professor's two Laverack Setters v<span style="font-family: '';">ery early in the morning - </span><span style="font-family: '';">he had told the Commissario with a frightened face</span><span style="font-family: '';">. 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."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
The Commissario dismissed the gardener after telling him that they might <span style="font-family: '';">still </span><span style="font-family: '';">need his help. He then took his cell phone and called Franco Cardini, at the Polizia Scientifica.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
"Franco, this thing is insane. Come here before hell is unleashed."</div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<span style="font-family: ''; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>5 May, 2004. Rione Monti, 10 am. </i><i>Rome </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>sampietrini</i>, 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.<br />
<br />
He had never loved <i>sampietrini </i>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.<br />
<br />
He caught sight of <i>good old Dave</i> 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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>tete a tete</i> 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
</div>
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.<br />
<br />
At some point, sipping his Guinness with evident pleasure, the old man reflected:<br />
<br />
"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.”<br />
<br />
"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?”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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.”<br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
"And I think I do not only miss those beaches … “<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
<i>Good old Dave</i>, his white beard always well kept, walked away. He was almost eighty, but nobody would have guessed that.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Then he looked up and saw them.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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ψ</div>
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<div>
<i>6 May, 2014. Not far from Campo de' Fiori. <span style="font-family: '';">6:15 am. </span></i><br />
<i>Rome </i><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Lying down beside her, he stroked her beautiful, black hair that was just beginning to whiten.<br />
<br />
"I heard a night bird that woke me up at dawn," she said. "Its screech was sinister, almost human. Like a sneer.<br />
“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..."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
"Freshly cut and squared?" asked Giorgio.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
Giorgio was silent a long moment, till his disciple wondered whether he was still there.<br />
<br />
"We'll talk in the afternoon, Massimo. At five o'clock, at the usual place. Not earlier. I am busy. "<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
He certainly had the tools to do a few checks. He said goodbye to his wife and dashed out.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>End of Februarius [February], 510 AD. </i><i>East coast of Britannia</i><br />
<br />
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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 <i>solidi</i>, 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.</div>
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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."</div>
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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.</div>
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<br /></div>
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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.</div>
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<br /></div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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<br /></div>
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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ψ</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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 ... </div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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</div>
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Something had gone wrong. They were trapped.</div>
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<i>Maius [May], Augusta Taurinorum [Turin]. 510 AD</i><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Hoel, you look like a pelican this morning," Adalbert said.<br />
<br />
"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?”<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“Boys!” Gwenn exclaimed, “stop playing the fool! Take a look at the square now that it's filled with people. Isn't it exciting?”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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.”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
ψ</div>
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
“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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
ψ</div>
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
At this point Magister thundered: "How do you think this will be possible? Tell me, then, tell me!"<br />
<br />
Briec, Hoel and Gwenn made themselves small on their benches<br />
<br />
"This will be possible only if God will be our model! Yes, God must become our model!<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
Gwenn still remembered with deep emotion these words that were carved into her mind and heart.<br />
<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
ψ</div>
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
ψ</div>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
ψ</div>
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
He dared not speak, and remained looking at her, half frozen with emotion and the agony of unfulfilled desire.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Finally, Magister came. He began softly, announcing he would talk about love. The silence of the audience became absolute.<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
“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."<br />
<br />
His voice became slightly more powerful. His eyes began to glow.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Now Magister's speech became almost a song, which a student accompanied with the sound of a lyre.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
ψ</div>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
ψ</div>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
His words, tragic in tone, reverted to the history of Britannia over the last six decades.<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
ψ</div>
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US"><i>5 May, 2004. Rione Monti, 12:30 am. Rome</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="FR-CA">“Ah, la
France!” Galamberti exclaimed. </span><span lang="EN-US">“Your father would certainly love this serre-papier.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">“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.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">"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."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">Massimo was
about to say his opinion on the matter when the ring of the doorbell
interrupted their conversation. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">"Mrs
Camilla!" Galamberti exclaimed merrily.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">"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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">“Oh, I
forgot, this is Deirdre, Gustavo, an Irish friend of mine just arrived from
Ireland. And an excellent pianist, incidentally, I assure you."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">"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."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">"May
we try it?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">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." </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">"I do
not like trolls – she said looking at Camilla as if to apologize. "I
prefer the elves of my country."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">A slight
embarassment followed. The antiquarian broke in and asked Camilla: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">"Did
you like the piano, then?" </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">The eyes of
the Norwegian expressed assent. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">"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. "</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US">And there
they were, at the intersection with Via Cavour, sitting inside a taxi that left
at full speed.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: '';">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<i>End of Februarius [February], 510 AD. East coast of Britannia</i><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
<i>Non ergo essem</i><br />
<i>non omnino essem,</i><br />
<i>nisi essetis in me...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I would not exist,</i><br />
<i>I would not exist at all,</i><br />
<i>If you weren’t in me …</i><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Then a powerful voice echoed in the clearing:<br />
<br />
"Let no one touch the Roman!"<br />
<br />
The Angles remained silent, and the <span style="font-family: '';">running</span><span style="font-family: '';"> </span>warriors came to a halt. A man of enormous size advanced to the centre of the circle, his armor adorned with grisly trophies.<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
Manius didn't understand the chieftain's words but sensed that his life had been spared.<br />
<br />
Then the giant came to Manius and beat his breast, saying:<br />
<br />
"Ic Wulf, Aenglisc."<br />
<br />
Manius did the same, and said:<br />
<br />
"Manius, Romanus."<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>6 May 2014. 16:30 am. Rome</i><br />
<br />
"I cannot come over for dinner tonight, Gloria," said the Commissario Carlo D'Agostino.<br />
<br />
"But Carlo, I have bringoli of Anghiari pulled by hand, with a good wild boar sauce ...." The woman’s voice sounded disappointed.<br />
<br />
Then she added, in a worried tone: "The case of the dead bodies in the Appian Way?"<br />
<br />
"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. "<br />
<br />
He pressed the button that connected to the other line. Franco Cardini’s voice was heard, from the Polizia Scientifica.<br />
<br />
"Hi Franco, any news?"<br />
<br />
"We’ll have a complete analysis in two days.”<br />
<br />
"In two days? The media are in a frenzy. The Vice Questor has just called me. “<br />
<br />
"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. "<br />
<br />
Cardini paused as if to collect his thoughts.<br />
<br />
"Death occurred shortly before your arrival. Or perhaps during your arrival."<br />
<br />
"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. "<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
"Another thing, Carlo. A quite unusual one, actually."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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 ... "<br />
<br />
"So it's time to make a good call ..."<br />
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. "<br />
<br />
He rang off. Cardini was still there. “One last thing, Carlo. The corpses bore traces of wine; that, we are analyzing.”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Maniushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14545094229192176272noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8416295330617107165.post-66380041149869494522011-09-10T13:00:00.009+02:002011-09-13T16:57:37.257+02:00Sacrifice<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibr3Mun6H5sWUPzgb_e5hnSbKjPULPyifRR1H6ktR9JICcMX39HtoEt5ur3dgSu30C-yVjRD0X3d9m7HAIOGM_IuRUj31wrw9ixuEW1Hn0Y4JaDj7fv11q_w4d8T5khvkSrFsoe2DxR4w/s1600/The_Lady_of_ShallotOPT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibr3Mun6H5sWUPzgb_e5hnSbKjPULPyifRR1H6ktR9JICcMX39HtoEt5ur3dgSu30C-yVjRD0X3d9m7HAIOGM_IuRUj31wrw9ixuEW1Hn0Y4JaDj7fv11q_w4d8T5khvkSrFsoe2DxR4w/s1600/The_Lady_of_ShallotOPT.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"A raven-haired lady appeared ...". Detail from <i>The Lady of Shalott <br />
Looking at Lancelot</i> (1894) by J. W. Waterhouse </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">[This is the last part of Manius's letter to Quintus - see the <a href="http://maniuslentulus.blogspot.com/2011/05/witch2b-cretan-dance-creature.html">previous part</a>. As readers might remember Manius had first fought with the witch in the forest and later he had met lascivious Fauna, a pantheistic deity who had gripped him with such violence that he had lost consciousness.]</span><br />
<br />
[Italian <a href="http://maniuslentulus.blogspot.com/p/sacrificio.html">original</a>]<br />
<br />
I wake up lying on a beach, Quintus. I don’t know how long I have been lying there nor why. The murmur of the waves mixes with the rustling of the surrounding trees.<br />
<br />
Night is falling. Stupefied, I move closer to the shore-line.<br />
<br />
The moon is rising from the sea and showing her full, benign disk. I immerse my head seven times into the sea water in order to purify myself.<br />
<br />
I then invoke the name of the goddess who rules the universe:<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfcvgVBuEVud8YEGXSSGDilQ1W9veSlS1CQA6trnNoZiAuoxz6XBhntF1YrBhT4JlJ7p0ENRZdruUZ_LURszxmdfNFLCutpOznbmVJMsqy1_wiqn3wEeftgXs3niHTxv1Xn59TXsBt-RI/s1600/Moon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfcvgVBuEVud8YEGXSSGDilQ1W9veSlS1CQA6trnNoZiAuoxz6XBhntF1YrBhT4JlJ7p0ENRZdruUZ_LURszxmdfNFLCutpOznbmVJMsqy1_wiqn3wEeftgXs3niHTxv1Xn59TXsBt-RI/s1600/Moon.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Full moon rising from the ocean. Click for <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/vsanderson/5016380415/sizes/o/in/photostream/">credits</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<blockquote><b><span style="color: #660000;">Tu Luna,</span><br style="color: #660000;" /><span style="color: #660000;">luce feminea conlustrans cuncta terrarum,</span><br style="color: #660000;" /><span style="color: #660000;">iam nunc extremis subsiste,</span><br style="color: #660000;" /><span style="color: #660000;">et pausam pacem, Regina, tribue.</span></b><br />
<br />
You Moon,<br />
Who with your female light illuminate all lands,<br />
Please help me in this time of adversity<br />
And grant me, Queen, peace and rest.</blockquote><br />
<br />
And here the incipient night appears to reveal for an instant its silent secrets.<br />
<br />
In the distance I see young people approaching. As soon as I distinguish them better I realize that they are Romans, wearing Roman sandals and tunics! My heart exults, Quintus! After months spent among the savages I am at last in an area controlled by the British! They are not too different from us and especially from our classmates from Albien, although they are now rather Italianized.<br />
<br />
They are escorting a young man, hooded and blindfolded, whose face I cannot discern. I can tell he’s an Angle from his woollen tunic and tight leggings. His arms are tied behind his back.<br />
<br />
<br />
Two nice-looking girls whose fair tresses are dressed upon their forehead come up to me and take me by the hand. Their aspect, nordic, misty almost and yet pure and inspired, gives me a feeling of peace.<br />
<br />
<br />
The sound of a horn echoes in the night. Everyone turns and begins to walk towards a wood that is visible in the distance on a rise overlooking the beach.<br />
<br />
As we are moving behind the high ground and proceeding along a narrow path I gradually realize that we are approaching a large Roman property, with orderly, cultivated fields, although its splendour now seems a thing of the past.<br />
<br />
The property is fortified by a wooden palisade and a rampart. Armed guards patrol its perimeter.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEQGkXQDIhPWI00RRvPWwzHoiPlpoljPuIJz8q0bRJbFFRsAcUyiT6v47ib4zF7Ji0BPe2M7iZdiFSgl4BrZXwwmEjA9oZITbYDbt_qfbycy3GjECLONhZ4xsNUZ9ke7Uq5tY9zMX-u-c/s1600/Weeping+WillowsOPT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEQGkXQDIhPWI00RRvPWwzHoiPlpoljPuIJz8q0bRJbFFRsAcUyiT6v47ib4zF7Ji0BPe2M7iZdiFSgl4BrZXwwmEjA9oZITbYDbt_qfbycy3GjECLONhZ4xsNUZ9ke7Uq5tY9zMX-u-c/s1600/Weeping+WillowsOPT.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"A path between a double row of willows...". Click for <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/clementsevan/3647230205/sizes/l/in/photostream/">credits</a> and to enlarge</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
We are let into the property and walk down a path between a double row of willows until we come to the main building, made of solid blocks of stone. The construction had partially fallen down and its missing parts have been replaced with solid logs. Stone and mortar seem forgotten arts in this isle at the end of the world. <br />
<br />
The high two-leaf carved-bronze door opens creaking on its hinges. Once past the <i>vestibulum</i> we enter a majestic square <i>peristylium</i> around which the rooms of the main building are arranged.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqDSkt90haScJNGzwnuCIMtAJNaY0w5ekkLY6faMd7d75YDw2S6i86oGUZ4Xz-cUCC6U4LvlXPGcxSRSNg7CanpY7RJyOimo2A5yglwXl_DEuKtTofZytCDS4A0zGy2UbXNPU0C6VSSfY/s1600/PeristyleOPT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqDSkt90haScJNGzwnuCIMtAJNaY0w5ekkLY6faMd7d75YDw2S6i86oGUZ4Xz-cUCC6U4LvlXPGcxSRSNg7CanpY7RJyOimo2A5yglwXl_DEuKtTofZytCDS4A0zGy2UbXNPU0C6VSSfY/s1600/PeristyleOPT.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A peristylium, again from a painting by <a href="http://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_William_Waterhouse" title="John William Waterhouse">John William Waterhouse</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
I notice the signs of time here as well. Many columns and the portico roof have been rebuilt in wood even though the overall appearance is pleasant, showing care, love. The far side of the peristylium opens onto a wood - a birch, rowan, willow and ash tree grove - that I had already discerned from the beach and from where one can enjoy a magnificent view over the sea.<br />
<br />
At the heart of the grove an altar rises, not quadragular, like ours, but circular, in the Celtic way [see below].<br />
<br />
Everyone forms a circle around the altar in front of which, in the direction of the sea, a weird wooden structure has been placed, like a throne. And here comes a procession of people of both sexes wearing immaculate linen tunics. They advance among chants, melodious sounds of flutes and acute clinking of sistras.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-X-a7Unmiz6rkVJJwhY_jcT3TtPtRxIr9W8r3Us9X_Zch6eusr7aydBM4FxRqMKyxslUdz7DMv-1maxBfTUJFR9Xn0ENOBuoREIem3Lxjcj5gmhmpsrzxSM_lhmR6RyFbhsVlrn0q3eo/s1600/Opferstein_Maria_Taferl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-X-a7Unmiz6rkVJJwhY_jcT3TtPtRxIr9W8r3Us9X_Zch6eusr7aydBM4FxRqMKyxslUdz7DMv-1maxBfTUJFR9Xn0ENOBuoREIem3Lxjcj5gmhmpsrzxSM_lhmR6RyFbhsVlrn0q3eo/s1600/Opferstein_Maria_Taferl.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sacrifice Rock at <a class="extiw" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/en:Maria_Taferl" title="w:en:Maria Taferl">Maria Taferl</a>, Austria. The altar was used <br />
by the ancient Celts to make sacrifices upon. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
They precede a breathtaking raven-haired lady whose face is hidden by a veil. She advances with slow and sacral steps. Besides her hair I can only see her snow-white forehead and shiny sea-green eyes.<br />
<br />
The lady, surely the domina of the house, sits down nobly on the wooden throne. It is the deep of the night. The grove is lit only by the torches and by the rays of the full moon now high in the sky.<br />
<br />
Everyone drinks from ceramic cups placed on inlaid-wood sidetables. The two girls come up and offer wooden cups to me and to the hooded man. One helps the tied man to drink, the other hands me the bowl that I start sipping. It's a strange tasting liquor, not entirely unpleasant.<br />
<br />
<blockquote>"Why are our cups made of wood?" I ask her in Latin.<br />
"There's a reason for everything. Do not ask, Roman" she replies.</blockquote><br />
<br />
The joy of hearing my mother-tongue again is overrun by the doubt about what I am drinking and especially by the perception of a strange tension in the air, as if something were about to happen.<br />
<br />
Now the two maidens do not pay heed to us anymore. Hands joined, they are absorbed in prayer.<br />
<br />
The music falls silent. Everyone is looking at the throne.<br />
<br />
The woman is nobly sitting on it. The thin fabric of her tunic is showing rather than hiding a body with rounded hips and turgid breasts that seem impatient with the constriction of the linen.<br />
<br />
The charm she radiates is ever intensifying.<br />
<br />
<br />
The music, resumed with the addition of percussions, is getting punchy. People infected by it suggest slight rhythmic movements with their bodies.<br />
<br />
Finally the woman stands up and, with a fierce look, lifting her arms toward the night planet, she thus exclaims:<br />
<br />
<blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">O Queen of Heaven,</span></b><br />
<div style="color: #660000;"><b>Who smile at mortals</b></div><div style="color: #660000;"><b>With a benign look;</b></div><div style="color: #660000;"><b>O Goddess,</b></div><div style="color: #660000;"><b>Whom with any rite</b></div><div style="color: #660000;"><b>Or name</b></div><div style="color: #660000;"><b>We are allowed to invoke,</b></div><div style="color: #660000;"><b>Be it Venus, Diana,</b></div><div style="color: #660000;"><b>Isis or Brigantia:</b></div><div style="color: #660000;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #660000;"><b>You the people of green Albien</b></div><div style="color: #660000;"><b>Call in the time of adverse fortune.</b></div><div style="color: #660000;"><b>You who the bright peaks of the sky,</b></div><div style="color: #660000;"><b>Or the desolate silences of hell,</b></div><div style="color: #660000;"><b>Rule with a nod:</b></div><div style="color: #660000;"><b>We invoke you, queen immortal!</b></div><div style="color: #660000;"><b>We call you with our pleading voice!</b></div><div style="color: #660000;"><b>Accept our gifts, lady divine,</b></div><div style="color: #660000;"><b>And guide us, mother of all universes!</b></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: right;"></div><br />
Then the woman removes her veil and wig and shows her real look.<br />
<br />
I feel my heart skipping beats. The matchless lush red hair gushes out, partly loose and partly interwoven with strings and ribbons. The wild redhead and formidable warrior, & the beautiful lady of the house are therefore the same person!<br />
<br />
She looks at me with a mixture of triumph and tenderness. She then unties her tunic and appears naked, her muscular and well proportioned body offered for all to see.<br />
<br />
A whirlwind of feelings prevents me from realizing that strong hands are clutching both me and the hooded man and holding us nailed.<br />
<br />
At this time the sorceress' green eyes flash and her appearance begins to change.<br />
<br />
[I felt so strange, my vision was distorted, Quintus, I do not know if this actually happened]<br />
<br />
... eagle, majestic and proud ... deer with moist eyes ... hound tenacious, nervous ... enigmatic gray-eyed feline.<br />
<br />
And then hound again, and cat, a white cat and black cat, and also a red striped cat with shiny claws and sneaky eyes.<br />
<br />
The woman, once regained human features, finally opens her hands and a frog slipping from her fingers jumps onto her breast. A diamond appears on the creature’s warty head. It is such a bright gem that I cannot but stare at it, mesmerized. And the diamond grows, and grows, and grows and it gets so big and blinding that I lose my senses.<br />
<br />
When I gain consciousness I find myself face down and tightly bound to a wooden scaffold placed on top of the circular altar. A posture rather dishonourable, to tell the truth, since, having had my clothes removed my rear is offered to the sight of everybody.<br />
<br />
Next to me, tied up and exposed much in the same way, is the young man whose hood and blindfold have been removed. His muscular body looks kind of familiar. I take a better look at him and recognizing him immediately I cry astounded:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>“Qwil!! What are you <i>doing</i> here!!”<br />
“Same thing as you: showing my butt up in the air.”<br />
“When did you arrive in Britannia?”<br />
“When did <i>we</i> arrive ... more than one month ago.”<br />
“What? You mean …”<br />
“That the whole crazy bunch is with me, except Quintus. They are British, after all. They wanted to rescue you and at the same time fight for their country in danger."</blockquote><blockquote>"We have been looking for you for weeks. Then thanks to Pavlos, a Greek merchant with a good informers network across the country, we have localized you, although the exact location still eluded us. I found it today thanks to a ploy ... "<br />
<br />
"That's why you were dressed like an Angle?"<br />
<br />
"Well, being of Germanic race and getting along decently with the local dialect I sneaked out of the taberna where we were eating and relaxing (a pretty boring place) and with stolen clothes I started asking questions around. Rumors spread fast. But in a forest not far from your tower .... AHHHH! "</blockquote><br />
Qwil's cry interrupts the story. A red welt is showing across his buttocks.<br />
<br />
I turn around. Behind us three women are standing, bare breasted and holding a bundle of thin birch branches with their right hand. The one who has lashed Qwil first is a virgin. To her right is a mother whose acrid smell of milk penetrates our nostrils. Finally, an old woman with visionary eyes. Another lash falls, this time from the mother, who hits harder. Then it is the old woman's turn, no less vigorous than the other two. Qwil, not taken aback this time and clenching his teeth doesn't emit any groan.<br />
<br />
<blockquote>“I have a faint idea why they are doing this” I say.<br />
“Me too. It's a sacrifice, I’m afraid. And it doesn’t seem difficult to grasp who the chosen victims are."</blockquote><br />
The blows continue to fall upon Qwil’s butt and reach the number of nine. The women always hit in turn and calmly follow the gestures of an ancient rite. It is never possible to predict when the next blow is about to arrive.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQFKjIDgbvAXTetJkf_DXWr40VbnP2n6paGuUeLq6kbU36e9cj7GvQsdeaQQmDF9e1jqN_7zuFYpW7CRPFeC70ZFWiK_5sKsPvm5E7xTt_hHcYbRX9X9CvY7e26ct01DUaYmpKeyfSbxg/s1600/Dolce_far_Niente_John_William_WaterhouseOPT.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQFKjIDgbvAXTetJkf_DXWr40VbnP2n6paGuUeLq6kbU36e9cj7GvQsdeaQQmDF9e1jqN_7zuFYpW7CRPFeC70ZFWiK_5sKsPvm5E7xTt_hHcYbRX9X9CvY7e26ct01DUaYmpKeyfSbxg/s1600/Dolce_far_Niente_John_William_WaterhouseOPT.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dolce far Niente (1880) by John William Waterhouse (Roma, 1849 – Londra, 1917)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
It's my turn now. I grit my teeth. It is again the virgin who strikes first. The pain is excruciating, and I too try not to emit any groan. Turning around to look at the young woman I am stunned since I seem to recognize those green eyes flashes. What hell of a witchcraft is that?<br />
<br />
The lashes continue to fall upon my sensitive rear until they too reach the number of nine. I then hear the witch rustle behind me and whisper into my ear while stroking my hair: "Now you come with me, soldier. It is time we clarify a few issues. "<br />
<br />
Untied but still immobilized by extremely robust hands I am pushed behind the sorceress. Leaving the grove we reach the majestic quadrangular peristyle in whose central garden grass, flowers, fountains and ponds are arranged with elegant symmetry.<br />
<br />
We come to a nice room overlooking the colonnade [see picture above]. Its floor mosaic depicts a woodland scene with Diana the huntress and two nymphs to her sides, three perfectly proportioned figures, with bare legs, arms and breasts and hair loose in the wind. The walls are frescoed with delicate floral motifs that form the backdrop to scenes in which nymphs, satyrs and humans chase one another with Cupids busy to bring the joys & torments of love to everybody. In front, a bed of fine wood inlaid with ivory, tortoiseshell, and gold.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">ψ </div><br />
The <i>cubiculum</i> [ie a Roman bedroom] curtain closes behind us just as I exclaim:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>"Qwil, the young man who was tied next to me, must absolutely be set free. He is not an Angle, but a Roman like me, and, perhaps, you."</blockquote>Maniushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14545094229192176272noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8416295330617107165.post-74141155380460104252011-09-09T19:58:00.006+02:002011-09-19T12:08:33.669+02:00His worst nightmares<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJoyTnFvBZ-2uHiIr6r09DMCOB6r0QXR6U-kOrd5XQH6px7anVASVYZqHS8FEPhN2lqJt59dI9Ihta0DMJwYy9azcuwqyGl4I0aYRrTLXy1Aj1djp0Cd-Fzc-VROJkm41tGHQivTk5DuU/s1600/dragon.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJoyTnFvBZ-2uHiIr6r09DMCOB6r0QXR6U-kOrd5XQH6px7anVASVYZqHS8FEPhN2lqJt59dI9Ihta0DMJwYy9azcuwqyGl4I0aYRrTLXy1Aj1djp0Cd-Fzc-VROJkm41tGHQivTk5DuU/s1600/dragon.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">William Blake's <i>The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with Sun</i> (1805)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<br />
[Italian <a href="http://maniuslentulus.blogspot.com/p/i-suoi-peggiori-incubi.html">original</a>]<br />
<br />
“What a story!” Massimo thought disconcertingly after he had finished reading Giorgio’s e-mail. <br />
<br />
Besides, those strange events seemed to mysteriously intersect with a few instances in Giorgio’s recent life which had occurred before he had been suffering from hallucinations. <br />
<br />
His master's studies on ancient religions, his university teaching activities and especially his contagious passion weren’t liked by everybody, especially in a city like Rome, a big Mediterranean centre; lazy, tolerant (and indifferent) but also the seat of the immense organizational, economic and ideological power of the Vatican.<br />
<br />
Such a power acted as a magnet for individuals and organizations among which dark forces escaping control could always take root. What worried Massimo were not a few articles in Spanish that had appeared in odd spiritual journals, in which George's activities were stigmatized as 'corrupting', but rather a series of anonymous letters addressed to his master and containing veiled threats which always ended with the Latin words:<br />
<br />
<blockquote><b style="color: #660000;">Draco rufus</b><br />
<b style="color: #660000;">modicum tempus habet.</b></blockquote><blockquote>[The red dragon <br />
has little time].</blockquote><br />
<br />
What did this sentence mean? Giorgio thought that the 'red dragon' was him so the words meant something like "your days are numbered." However, why was <i>he</i> the 'red dragon'?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBtGS86VFK2pMNLULGy6yQ8d2IKg12-R1hyphenhyphentJz8MfpxdwGB7WmXOt5O7z7okTo8T3fXEuTm0yN5LdNbwyGsoTYsJ5205R4xMsZeW0lM5E2GRSMuRhtZffb9RTU-7AUETx2vWRPzTT2cig/s1600/codex_vaticanus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBtGS86VFK2pMNLULGy6yQ8d2IKg12-R1hyphenhyphentJz8MfpxdwGB7WmXOt5O7z7okTo8T3fXEuTm0yN5LdNbwyGsoTYsJ5205R4xMsZeW0lM5E2GRSMuRhtZffb9RTU-7AUETx2vWRPzTT2cig/s1600/codex_vaticanus.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Vatican codex of the Bible in Greek and in Latin</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
He supposed the phrase to be the result of an assemblage of two passages of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Book_of_Revelation">Book of Revelation</a> (or Apocalypse of John) in the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vulgata_Clementina">Vulgata Clementina</a> translation of the Greek original. More precisely, two words from 12.4 (<i>draco rufus</i>) and three from 12.12 (<i>modicum tempus habet</i>). In most interpretations <i>draco rufus</i>, the red dragon, was the devil. Giorgio, therefore, as a scholar of late antiquity's religions & gods, was a follower of the devil.<br />
<br />
Massimo was perplexed. He knew that to the first Christians, all pagan deities were considered <i>living</i> infernal demons, and those who adored them, followers of the infernal powers. But who supported such notion today? To today's Christians the ancient gods were just non-existent.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTxV7bJx_mtsM9Wcux5snnktsRim4NpSuy9zBia-sQwcQKMFwIxo9iCeRJl1Bpy3f1V1gS_SpAY1RNLeVxv7_lfK76TSxkG-ttejGjjW760sJ0DLv8OQ6USsoY-n8AIy28vUzNl739K-Q/s1600/William_Blake_003Cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTxV7bJx_mtsM9Wcux5snnktsRim4NpSuy9zBia-sQwcQKMFwIxo9iCeRJl1Bpy3f1V1gS_SpAY1RNLeVxv7_lfK76TSxkG-ttejGjjW760sJ0DLv8OQ6USsoY-n8AIy28vUzNl739K-Q/s1600/William_Blake_003Cropped.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another depiction of the Red Dragon by William Blake (1805). Detail</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
Besides, if this was the right interpretation of the sentence in the letters (i.e. that Giorgio’s days were numbered), the biblical passage had different and more complex meanings that were open to multiple interpretations.<br />
<br />
In any case, someone was threatening Giorgio, that much was clear. And perhaps he was using the imaginative language of the ancient revelation to enhance the psychological effects of the threat.<br />
<br />
All this sadly brought Massimo back to Deirdre. The girl had by now reached home and might switch on her PC at any moment.<br />
<br />
Massimo thought about their last date at the pub. At the end of the evening, when they were standing in the street in front of the pub’s entrance and were about to say goodbye, he noticed the beautiful red gold necklace that Deirdre was wearing around her neck.<br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote>"How beautiful! It brings out the red of your hair. The place was so dark I had hardly noticed it. Now though it shines under the light of the lamppost "<br />
"It's a gift from a friend."<br />
"There's a small Greek inscription engraved on it. May I read it? I'm a fan of ancient languages."</blockquote><br />
It was true but it was basically just an excuse to get closer to her and perhaps touch her lightly, if possible. <br />
<br />
<br />
He felt the young woman’s breath on him as he was deciphering the Greek words.<br />
<br />
<blockquote>"It's about a red dragon - she said. I always loved the fantasy genre. But I must rush home now. I always receive late-night emails from my boss that I have to answer before going to bed. He's always travelling around the globe. Now he's in South America. <br />
A la prochaine Massimo."<br />
"A la prochaine Deirdre."</blockquote><br />
The girl smiled at him and walked away with brisk steps. There was something so charming in her ways.<br />
<br />
Which though hurt Massimo this time, since the sentence he had just read on her necklace was now obsessively whirling in his head … the red dragon has little time … the red dragon has little time…<br />
<br />
How was it <i>ever</i> possible? <br />
<br />
The gold necklace bore the Greek original words inscribed:<br />
<br />
<blockquote><div style="color: #660000;"><b>δράκων πυρρὸς ὀλίγον καιρὸν ἔχει</b></div></blockquote><br />
Which corresponded exactly to the Latin words taken from the Vulgata: <i>draco rufus modicum tempus habet.</i><br />
<br />
From that night the thought of <i>who</i> Deirdre really was had haunted Massimo. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsFPN3QdoCasJfFDYx2lr_CIY_Q0hLkQRRftU-cMmnXAV-A29bdS3mqlK1wQL3WQmUEXyaVX0uLrP4OIizupux7NDHy2s-GuL88hOajq5DhPr2xLUaXFp5KnK4lbk4RZbhILmDjFi8jUM/s1600/Backtrack.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsFPN3QdoCasJfFDYx2lr_CIY_Q0hLkQRRftU-cMmnXAV-A29bdS3mqlK1wQL3WQmUEXyaVX0uLrP4OIizupux7NDHy2s-GuL88hOajq5DhPr2xLUaXFp5KnK4lbk4RZbhILmDjFi8jUM/s1600/Backtrack.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Massimo is waiting at his BackTrack Linux box for Deirdre to reach home</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The girl, for some strange alchemy of the human heart, was a bit like a glimmer of hope in the darkest phase of his life - save for his early childhood, when he tragically lost his father.<br />
<br />
But now that sentence … It was very unlikely that words from different passages in the Apocalypse of John had been assembled in exactly the same way in both the letters sent to George and in the inscription carved on the girl's necklace. <br />
<br />
Yes, Massimo thought, the odds in favour of mere chance were definitely low.<br />
<br />
A 'received mail' ding brought him back to reality. Deirdre must have switched on her computer as Massimo had received a reply to the e-mail he had sent her.<br />
<br />
<blockquote>“Hi Massimo. <br />
I would love to see you again soon as well. I am leaving for a few days, but I’ll be back at the beginning of the next week. Call me. <br />
Deirdre.”</blockquote><br />
Massimo already knew Deirdre’s IP address from their previous chatting sessions. He activated his powerful <a href="http://www.backtrack-linux.org/">Backtrack Linux</a> tools. In less than a minute he knew all he needed to know: the number of vulnerable ports, domain name, operating system’s, firewall’s and antivirus’ types & versions (versions have well-known vulnerabilities so they are a key element in any attack), the diagram of the network she was on and so forth.<br />
<br />
After acquiring the administrator privileges in her machine he sent her a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trojan_horse_%28computing%29">trojan</a> horse that was invisible to any anti-virus software for the simple reason that it had been created by him and his students in the security labs of the training company he worked for. They had just modified the old and (in)glorious <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/NetBus">Netbus</a> created by Carl-Fredrik Neikter, a Swedish programmer. He then connected to the Trojan server with its client software. The magic was done. Deirdre's desktop appeared on his screen.<br />
<br />
Deirdre seemed artistically very gifted. Her desktop wallpaper was a splendid collage of images with an intriguing Nordic flavour: a fireplace with burning logs, a small white cottage on a sea coast swept by the ocean wind, a pair of white birds walking on the foam of a rough sea … images from a misty world deprived of sun and so far away from his but for this same reason terribly fascinating.<br />
<br />
<br />
One thing though made him start. Three small red dragons were at the sides of her screen - the top, the right-hand side and the left-hand side - and were joined by three thin lines so as to form the vertices of a triangle that was aesthetically pleasing but also rather disquieting.<br />
<br />
He did not have time to watch any longer since a sound from his Linux box alerted him that Deirdre’s PC was being checked remotely by someone or something. He had to act quickly so he started to capture and analyse the incoming traffic into her system. Yes, someone (or an automatic script) was actually remotely executing commands on her PC. And there, among the mass of data captured, he found what he feared:<br />
<br />
<blockquote style="color: #660000;"><b>netstat –an | find "12345"</b></blockquote><br />
The command meant that someone (or something) was checking the 12345 port, from where trojans of the Netbus kind - exactly like the Trojan horse of the myth which opened the city's gate to the enemy - usually allow the conquering of the machines that host them.<br />
<br />
He had been caught. Connecting the trojan to its default port had been a mistake.<br />
<br />
Fortunately Massimo’s IP address was concealed behind the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tor_%28anonymity_network%29">Tor</a> anonymity network. It was therefore very unlikely that they would get to him. But what kind of organization did Deirdre belong to? She had mentioned only two people, her and her boss. Only two people? Utilizing a costly <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Intrusion_detection_system">IDS</a> (Intrusion Detection System) that only medium- or large-sized corporations implemented? <br />
<br />
In fact what he was expecting at any moment occurred. Deirdre's desktop vanished from his screen. The trojan had been identified and destroyed.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">ψ </div><br />
Massimo slumped into his chair. He knew he could counter attack with a much higher level of sophistication. <br />
<br />
But as of now it seemed his worst nightmares were coming true.Maniushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14545094229192176272noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8416295330617107165.post-81622820270302817882011-09-08T16:55:00.001+02:002011-09-08T17:14:39.416+02:00Expedition<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsMx7DTA40sMpthzjXqnoO1YD7gx6Z_l-6iNAEODoC2WVJWW6ASMRQmCaBfYJqLljoS89dzEU6SvhmB9aWD0XPOw1AvPNRgEVgTCcuyOyoqP5AcBhBxpgxtqbexW8UpSJWyWhWlhZXv0Q/s1600/as_iron_axe-hammer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsMx7DTA40sMpthzjXqnoO1YD7gx6Z_l-6iNAEODoC2WVJWW6ASMRQmCaBfYJqLljoS89dzEU6SvhmB9aWD0XPOw1AvPNRgEVgTCcuyOyoqP5AcBhBxpgxtqbexW8UpSJWyWhWlhZXv0Q/s400/as_iron_axe-hammer.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An old Anglo-Saxon weapon, called an axe-hammer. Click for <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/schools/primaryhistory/anglo_saxons/anglo-saxons_at_war/">credits</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
[<a href="http://maniuslentulus.blogspot.com/p/old-anglo-saxon-weapon-called-axe.html">Original</a> in Italian]<br />
<br />
As soon as he pulled out his sword Wulf turned towards his men and stopped them with a single glance. He then called Coalan, his Romano-British slave, and related the message to be translated to the foreigners to him. The square-faced, rodent-grey-eyed little man began to speak in the British [Brythonic] language. His words were articulated in a slow and firm way:<br />
<br />
"Wulf, the chief of the **** clan greets Manius Papirius Lentulus' friends. He is a great friend of Manius. Therefore Manius' friends are also his friends. My master says he knows where the Roman lives: in a tower next to the sea not far from here. Some hunters however saw him leave two days ago in the direction of the Red Spectre's house. It is a mysterious place that the Germanic population avoid like cats avoid water. It is said to be inhabited by a dangerous witch living amidst Britons who are hostile to the Germanic population.<br />
Wulf therefore proposes to form a group of brave people who do not fear spectres and who should set out immediately in search of our common Roman friend before it's too late.”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoQi_MMd9MOPUkZ51WGZ4i-MnO0q8yBlWBJK5aYFJ_Sxz7qFJzs7L4tRxv0WDps1cv5JwXcImQL9K3pJ_5z28wGxOiQv1KN-srimgrbR5W1qFVV_OqkNfIKhMAEkP8pQDpqGiU45v_4f4/s1600/as_recon_village.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoQi_MMd9MOPUkZ51WGZ4i-MnO0q8yBlWBJK5aYFJ_Sxz7qFJzs7L4tRxv0WDps1cv5JwXcImQL9K3pJ_5z28wGxOiQv1KN-srimgrbR5W1qFVV_OqkNfIKhMAEkP8pQDpqGiU45v_4f4/s1600/as_recon_village.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An early Anglo-Saxon house. Click for <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/schools/primaryhistory/anglo_saxons/anglo-saxon_life/">credits</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The buddies looked at one another.<br />
<br />
"This story of the Red Spectre seems like a whopper" someone said.<br />
"I think we can trust him" Philippus observed.<br />
"Also because I don't think we have many other alternatives" said Pavlos taking a look at the dozens of Germans ready to tear them apart.<br />
<br />
"Okay," said Richardus, sheathing his gladius, soon imitated by the others.<br />
"We will do as Wulf says. The men in our group will join Wulf and his men in this expedition. The women will remain with the Germans and will wait for us. Wulf, who seems to be the chief here, will fully guarantee their safety."<br />
Whispers and voices of protest arose from the group of the women. Then Jenny, Daphne, Rosarie and Geraldine nodded to Cherie, who spoke for all of them.<br />
<br />
"You won't think you’re leaving us here alone" she said furiously.<br />
"It would be much more dangerous for us to stay here than going to the house of these ... spectres, who we don’t believe much in anyway. And you know better than us that we were trained by our common Master as effectively as you were. Finally, the presence of women is always an element of peace. No way! We're joining too. It’s up to the Syrians ladies whether they stay or go."<br />
<br />
Wulf, with his blood friends Ogden and Kaelan now on his side, found no objection to the women's participation in the expedition, since according to German custom women follow men everywhere, often in war too.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"> ψ </div><br />
The group then left the taberna and found fresh horses outside, ready to be mounted. The buddies’ baggage had been sent by Pavlos previously to a secure place in the town of Venta-Northwic, where he had trusted contacts.<br />
<br />
So the group, formed by Wulf, Ogden, Kaelan, Coalan (and four additional German men) plus the colorful bunch of friends (the Syrian women had decided to stay), departed in the direction of the dark forest.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">ψ </div><br />
Standing just outside the taberna’s heavy door two monks dressed in black were watching them leave. Then, at a nod from the man with a hawk-like face, they headed for their steeds.Maniushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14545094229192176272noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8416295330617107165.post-76800285911001522772011-06-28T15:07:00.031+02:002011-09-15T14:50:28.332+02:00Massimo, Deirdre & Pombal. The buddies encounter Wulf<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0.21cm;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAK908qSLvQEGFWvC3U8v7KKRNB_C2lceSsolZb47MVqhqXJYcmH3tHec9dKy_Icfrnz4M0PbJColKgZuwvZFXogH0tv0TQIvY_q7pAsBoZhPjfEl8I8fLHzMmhqCcJITDnrFNh5Zt4xQ/s1600/rokeby+venus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAK908qSLvQEGFWvC3U8v7KKRNB_C2lceSsolZb47MVqhqXJYcmH3tHec9dKy_Icfrnz4M0PbJColKgZuwvZFXogH0tv0TQIvY_q7pAsBoZhPjfEl8I8fLHzMmhqCcJITDnrFNh5Zt4xQ/s1600/rokeby+venus.jpg" /></a><br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:AS_Roma.png"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La Venus del espejo (Toilet of Venus) by the Spanish Golden-Age painter Diego Velázquez (1599–1660). Was she a real redhead? Click the link (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:RokebyVenus.jpg">Wikipedia</a>) for attribution</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Massimo [read the <a href="http://maniuslentulus.blogspot.com/p/ultima-25-giu-11.html">original</a> in Italian] checked the GPS tracking software. “4 minutes and Deirdre would reach home” he thought.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLBsoKlH8cnCZAApxwtvig2-1ahvFu8ok86i7UiQ-x12d7bKr6ysH3-KZVGvP602NPdD05cstu8Fdkw2HblgscJu5M5kwFoZp8KINeDb8L483akw3kiTIIJvq3Gzm5mof1-j4hFd3F4SU/s1600/German.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLBsoKlH8cnCZAApxwtvig2-1ahvFu8ok86i7UiQ-x12d7bKr6ysH3-KZVGvP602NPdD05cstu8Fdkw2HblgscJu5M5kwFoZp8KINeDb8L483akw3kiTIIJvq3Gzm5mof1-j4hFd3F4SU/s320/German.gif" width="163" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.hermetics.org/secretfire1.html">Attribution</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Pure or impure goddess?<br />
<br />
How would the mystery of the beautiful Irish girl be solved?<br />
<br />
Massimo was extremely tense. He needed <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hermeticism">the Hermetics</a> (whose profound words usually brought him peace) but reading them would require time. And God knows where his Alhambra was. He loved to caress its strings, its rich textured sound so well suiting the temperament of a dreamer.<br />
<br />
That damn Russian Ukrainian, Pombal, - in honour of whose genius he had given away a room of his apartment for a ridiculously low rent - must have taken it to <a href="http://www.panoramio.com/photo/14274400">the <i>Piazzetta</i></a> with him or put it back in the late 18th century wardrobe that uncle Carlo had left him before he died.<br />
<br />
Fortunately long-time meditation on ancient texts allowed him to improvise and <i>vibrate</i> with words now dead.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihmK00AJX335o2EdJyz7V2dvCxHlXphUUP6LJMpSIy2Y0k2x71ETkKWw7EaCM4sBSYUK48FsMvR68eUYkE-reLD8qdWpfwtQXLY1KMWpSCHQzSoQW4XzD9t4zr4-l3_SdCfJENXt9-TmM/s1600/Classical+Guitar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihmK00AJX335o2EdJyz7V2dvCxHlXphUUP6LJMpSIy2Y0k2x71ETkKWw7EaCM4sBSYUK48FsMvR68eUYkE-reLD8qdWpfwtQXLY1KMWpSCHQzSoQW4XzD9t4zr4-l3_SdCfJENXt9-TmM/s1600/Classical+Guitar.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Classical Guitar. Click for <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/reducer/3773211259/sizes/z/">attribution</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<blockquote><b style="color: #660000;">Deirdre, Deirdre,<br />
num nec tecum <br />
possum vivere<br />
nec sine te? </b><br />
<br />
<br />
[Deirdre, Deirdre,<br />
perhaps can I live<br />
neither with you<br />
nor without you?]</blockquote></blockquote></div><div style="margin: 0px 0px 0cm;"><div style="margin: 0px 0px 0.21cm;"><br />
</div><br />
Eyes of a thoughtful green blue, long and perfect legs, sensual hips ... and what about her pale skin? Oh that face, her thriving breasts, and whitest arms and hands that, he sensed, knew how to give happiness in silence clinging … <br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0.21cm;"><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmP2ru2e1Qrmv-Qs67NJIKJyhyphenhyphensgfRyai3xNDXtsafe-PtScG-OeRFozPIflm8FxXFG7vbIvKtNJq7iKTT8cdyIQrqScc7SGexPyVyxUdtBz_hTUT41NbgDCbBTao9uEQEUW2EKxk6vNs/s1600/redheadOPT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmP2ru2e1Qrmv-Qs67NJIKJyhyphenhyphensgfRyai3xNDXtsafe-PtScG-OeRFozPIflm8FxXFG7vbIvKtNJq7iKTT8cdyIQrqScc7SGexPyVyxUdtBz_hTUT41NbgDCbBTao9uEQEUW2EKxk6vNs/s400/redheadOPT.jpg" width="160" /></a></div>Deirdre, splendid and crimson-haired creature, who seemed as if carved first and then polished <i>for</i> <i>years</i> by an ancient sculptor gone mad ...</div><div style="margin: 0px 0px 0.21cm;">He felt a pang. Weren't the<i> </i><i>rosci</i><i> </i>cursed by the gods?? ['<i>roscio</i> is red-headed in Roman'; note by 'he who is writing']. </div><div style="margin: 0px 0px 0.21cm;">Goddess & mother of all dreams - or filthy whore with a deceitful heart? </div><div style="margin: 0px 0px 0.21cm;">Since - Massimo thought not without anguish - some of her statements during their last date could not be uttered but by those who ... </div><div style="margin: 0px 0px 0.21cm;">He drove his mind ghosts away with anger. The matter could be very serious and demanded lucid force. </div><div style="margin: 0px 0px 0.21cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0px 0px 0.21cm;">He doubled his speed of reading, which is normally between 250 and 350 words per minute in Italian. </div><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYQ8WAS1sTX23YDoDpSeU2mpiRHYvF2CVGmPmofdxNULxqqQAK_dlKBQHsqucje6TDMaEeV7UcY8jpndFe0XOzXnSWTQw34Mbr_lTpjDrJgjKvhD2IFtpCZIoVgCNbgP8xb3I5JJSG1GQ/s1600/Stefano+Bettarini.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYQ8WAS1sTX23YDoDpSeU2mpiRHYvF2CVGmPmofdxNULxqqQAK_dlKBQHsqucje6TDMaEeV7UcY8jpndFe0XOzXnSWTQw34Mbr_lTpjDrJgjKvhD2IFtpCZIoVgCNbgP8xb3I5JJSG1GQ/s1600/Stefano+Bettarini.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Italian ex soccer player Stefano Bettarini. <a href="http://www.direttanews.it/2010/09/29/stefano-bettarini-eva-tremila-mese-lex-calciatore-dichiara-vivo-di-pane-e-calcio/">Attribution</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Giorgio many years earlier, in order to help his pupil with school work, had taught Massimo various <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Speed_reading">speed-reading</a> techniques. And Massimo, once a successful soccer player then badly injured and turned into a flop, was now accustomed to make use of ALL of them alternatively, ie according to texts, to the environment (or to his own whim). Only two of them increased reading speed enormously but greatly reduced text comprehension.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">ψ</div><br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0cm;">The sentences were now taking shape out of the screen fonts (just Pythagorean combinations he reflected). Concepts and images began to flow more rapidly into his mind.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMxp9i6patcUu6KROK21GxaRj7YzPXfPwG_uTQzADV-Wbt7kPYvwhqI2n19LmhmWp76QUoce_I0H-DbrghYmJO05p9XgSNGu5MXksllSH5_7R77AutCvFlmW3yxBLpPvhzTtu2MCqKUVg/s1600/hoo_helmet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMxp9i6patcUu6KROK21GxaRj7YzPXfPwG_uTQzADV-Wbt7kPYvwhqI2n19LmhmWp76QUoce_I0H-DbrghYmJO05p9XgSNGu5MXksllSH5_7R77AutCvFlmW3yxBLpPvhzTtu2MCqKUVg/s200/hoo_helmet.jpg" width="154" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Helmet found in Sutton Hoo, Suffolk, England (6th cent. CE)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
Giorgio so continued:<br />
<br />
“At some point a giant with noble eagle eyes appeared in the doorway of the taberna.<br />
<br />
Long blondish hair coarsely ringed, beard and moustache, muscular body clad in wolf and deer skin, metal plates that protected his broad chest, the <i>Germanus</i> wore a long sword hanging from a wide belt made of badger's (or boar's) fur.<br />
A true colossus, Massimo, and showing that pride which in those days was (and still is) a mark of command.<br />
<br />
His appearance raised murmurs of approval, respect (and fear).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNjStqW8L4bpWs5A-C_eBF8BPT-LXrVWdO78o7WTskocCo6nxPRnRwsg7tkShnlM9BXltuKPHUWauwh_0XFDijX9pXxIqRVegou6p4-qViGXLchLe7OEklOo9GUShLCwfNlbQiBxy1TA/s1600/Hereward.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNjStqW8L4bpWs5A-C_eBF8BPT-LXrVWdO78o7WTskocCo6nxPRnRwsg7tkShnlM9BXltuKPHUWauwh_0XFDijX9pXxIqRVegou6p4-qViGXLchLe7OEklOo9GUShLCwfNlbQiBxy1TA/s320/Hereward.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Some Angles began to clamour by hitting their weapons unto their shields and shouting "Wulf! Wulf! Wulf."<br />
<br />
Others gathering to the left of the giant, a powerful figure at their centre, looked at him with rancour. The members of a rival clan?<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Wulf checked the room and quickly identified the foreigners, they standing out against the mass of the locals as the most beautiful golden ears stand out against a field of wheat shaken by the evening wind.<br />
<br />
The Roman men were playing dice and discussing Qwil’s bizarre disappearance a few hours earlier (“Absolutely typical of him” Philippus and Chaerie had commented but Jenny had rebuked their Germanic friend from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vindobona">Vindobona</a> <i>in absentia</i> by saying: “What an IDIOTIC thing to get lost in such a dangerous environment!”).<br />
<br />
They all also debated a painful encounter that had occurred in the nearby village prior to their decision to reach the taberna and forget their woes for a bit.<br />
<br />
The women, laughing while betting on dice combinations, their voices so silvery, dear Massimo, as if Beauty, Soul's Nobility & Eros had incarnated in their joyful personae; the Syrian ladies hiding naughtily behind their embroidered veils and at the same time trying to evaluate the wealth of potential customers; and Pavlos, our resourceful Greek merchant, enwrapped in dreams before a mysterious a wax tablet: the figures of his commerce or winged words that made him fly elsewhere?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWKIaPyItISD7mrpKgKHwAfCWY95rb2N2P3rQfLqgFClbXAJaYMfNq9D5zhyphenhyphenGfQkNp9FetbCNo19y0DjHo0marod134z2mRu1cMXZ2v1hF6sLmqQ21-Y9CJ3pldCAXPNx1-4k6YCGoUL0/s1600/Favourite_Poet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWKIaPyItISD7mrpKgKHwAfCWY95rb2N2P3rQfLqgFClbXAJaYMfNq9D5zhyphenhyphenGfQkNp9FetbCNo19y0DjHo0marod134z2mRu1cMXZ2v1hF6sLmqQ21-Y9CJ3pldCAXPNx1-4k6YCGoUL0/s1600/Favourite_Poet.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two Roman women reading their favourite poet as they were imagined in 1888 by Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836–1912). Detail. Click for <a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/91/Favourite_Poet.jpg">attribution</a> and to enlarge</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
You gotta know Massimo that – but don't feel like telling ya why ok? I know I'm getting neurotic ok? - a Romano-British slave, a certain Coalan, square-faced and rodent grey eyed, had noticed the presence of the weird group in the taberna (or <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Longhouse#Europe">longhus</a>,</i> as the Angles call it) and had rushed to inform Ogden and Kaelan, Wulf's sworn friends from the day when the three of them, as children, had drunk their respective blood.<br />
Coalan was the property of the warriors’ clan and part of Wulf's personal network of informers. His father had implored the Germans for mercy in the course of a raid and had obtained life for him and his family (but not freedom).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEIFlKQYDY4B8deMHWFCiAcilacpmMESsgSHGmRLHksUx4qKz78WE6YLT9sQdvKDoszjhQrCtjoD9dnJa75RsgYbQxUuySc1rTST9QScgxxGTzvKwHgafuNrukCW_Nc-ylSnQubLh02ts/s1600/LongHouseExterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEIFlKQYDY4B8deMHWFCiAcilacpmMESsgSHGmRLHksUx4qKz78WE6YLT9sQdvKDoszjhQrCtjoD9dnJa75RsgYbQxUuySc1rTST9QScgxxGTzvKwHgafuNrukCW_Nc-ylSnQubLh02ts/s1600/LongHouseExterior.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A mid-20th century reconstruction of a Danish long house in Hobro, Denmark. Click for <a href="http://www.octavia.net/anglosaxon/earlyEnglishArchitecture.htm">attribution</a> </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
"They are mostly Romano-British in the old way - he had told them - who, in addition to the British language still speak Latin together with an absolutely incomprehensible tongue, and who dance and sing in so unusual a manner that our <i>longhus</i> risked turning into a place of, ehm, absolute revelry.<br />
<br />
To these words a brief description of the group had followed, as a result of which the two friends had looked at each other with a gleam in their eyes (did it correspond to Manius' stories on his far-away friends?) and had quickly sent a fast horseman in the forest where Wulf was hunting.<br />
<br />
This is why Massimo, dear friend and former pupil, such a colossus had rushed into the taberna.<br />
<br />
[“Dear Master - Massimo, this dark-haired and dark-eyed real Roman from Rome, had thought ('what a black-haired clone of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A.S._Roma">A.S. Roma</a>'s player Francesco Tutti you are' Pombal often kidded him), - I know I must be strong also for you now that you've become unsure, and, well, an old fart - let me call a spade a spade.”]<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZpq1iu9iH_4hdTL8WtVnOEGR94uVRBGERay53HC4o-08Oz9noEs3Yi87MYsAAbMTBXsBB_VCeahonmcvVvylD7U1vOqZwXGiHS7gsaPTIFF4r1uafq88uKLSjkre4j5j8nyTIxJtG6w/s1600/AS_Roma.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZpq1iu9iH_4hdTL8WtVnOEGR94uVRBGERay53HC4o-08Oz9noEs3Yi87MYsAAbMTBXsBB_VCeahonmcvVvylD7U1vOqZwXGiHS7gsaPTIFF4r1uafq88uKLSjkre4j5j8nyTIxJtG6w/s200/AS_Roma.png" width="153" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Roma soccer team logo. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:AS_Roma.png">Attribution</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The friends immersed in their dice game & conversation realized only at the last moment that an immense blonde tower had appeared less than a yard from their noses and that, terrifying in its mass, was shouting with a thundering voice incomprehensible words:<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #660000;"><b>"Ic freond, IC FREOOOOND, ond ...”</b></div><br />
The reaction of the men in the group was fast - in those times even a second of distraction could mean death.<br />
<br />
Six Romano-Britons, their <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gladius"><i>gladii</i></a> already in their hands, turned the massive table upside down against the giant (<i>gladii</i> are lethal when used by trained Romans). Pavlos pulled out an inlaid-with-gold throwing dagger he always carried with him (even in bed?). He had already shown his ability to use it with deadly precision. The women were looking at the giant with contempt and challenge. The courtesans were instead screeching like scared gulls, although one of them concealed a stone in her delicate, ringed hand.<br />
<br />
<div style="background-color: white; border: 1px solid rgb(221, 221, 221); font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 10px; margin: 0pt auto 5px; padding: 4px; width: 550px;"><a href="http://www.travelpod.com/travel-photo/wherever/1/1260820403/anglo-saxon-house.jpg/tpod.html"><img alt="Anglo-Saxon House, Bury St. Edmunds, United Kingdom" src="http://images.travelpod.com/users/wherever/1.1260820403.anglo-saxon-house.jpg" /></a><br />
This <a href="http://www.travelpod.com/">travel blog</a> photo's source is TravelPod page: <a href="http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wherever/1/1260820403/tpod.html">Such Fun!</a></div><br />
The sudden action of the Romans was followed by a reaction from the Angles who were in the immediate vicinity. Easy to anger, some began to hurl themselves against the group of strangers. The men would pay with their lives (and the women with a humiliating slavery) for the unspeakable offence to their leader. <br />
<br />
The buddies saw themselves surrounded by some dozens of furious men. Arrows, lances and swords were pointed towards them. Ready to sell their lives dearly they knew that their death was near since the fighters' ratio was of one to four.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">ψ </div><br />
At that moment a <i>roar</i> rent the air.<br />
<br />
The heavy table flew away as if it were made of paper.<br />
<br />
The gigantic man emerged from the floor.<br />
<br />
Looming over the bunch of buddies he unsheathed his huge sword with flashing blue eyes ...<br />
<br />
<div><br />
</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Maniushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14545094229192176272noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8416295330617107165.post-78008744342227396452011-05-30T22:58:00.043+02:002011-06-03T16:17:06.407+02:00Witch 2b. The Cretan dance. Fauna appears<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6BoZUQ9BFug8K1tAWuv9MznQ6qleMc_VNj-o4oe9wz4GSm0T7FX_cSQ_d0KNoWZ2jHZjiUCfXsKuG7Vof3JDA6KDy6Ij3ooyNKZRsYIDGGk5b0AGzeYtAwZsY5EBxpEMXyz_M7yRkU08/s1600/rossetti_venus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6BoZUQ9BFug8K1tAWuv9MznQ6qleMc_VNj-o4oe9wz4GSm0T7FX_cSQ_d0KNoWZ2jHZjiUCfXsKuG7Vof3JDA6KDy6Ij3ooyNKZRsYIDGGk5b0AGzeYtAwZsY5EBxpEMXyz_M7yRkU08/s1600/rossetti_venus.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Venus Verticordia by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dante_Gabriel_Rossetti">Dante Gabriele Rossetti</a> (1828-1882). Wikipedia. <a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Dante_Gabriel_Rossetti_-_Venus_Verticordia.jpg">Attribution</a><br />
Venus was also called <i>Verticordia</i> by the Romans since she was capable of 'changing human hearts'. Worshipped during the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Veneralia">Veneralia</a> festival (April 1) Verticordia had a temple on the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Via_Salaria">Via Salaria</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
[Read the <a href="http://maniuslentulus.blogspot.com/p/witch-2b-italiano.html">Italian original</a>. An Englishman living in Milan, <a href="http://vandainmilan.com/">Andy</a>, is helping me with some editing.] <br />
<br />
Taken aback by the inexorable trajectory - I was always good with the javelin do you recall Quintus? - the lass however succeeded in propelling herself forward with such impetus that the deadly lance missed her abdomen and tore her tunic at the level of her hindquarters without scratching her flesh I believe.<br />
<br />
The force that had driven her forward was so lethal I was thunderstruck.<br />
<br />
I therefore took my bow.<br />
<br />
Arrows whistled in quick succession though wavered on purpose (unpredictability is deadly, remember?). She nevertheless avoided my darts by performing this odd dance on the rump of her horse (of undoubted <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bull-leaping">Cretan origin</a>, Quintus).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEholDjPgzY1Q8qCkXHcVZe_Ry4AvDkNrP2w0XemsOEncy7cGHi6f_XknIex91dH94BNy-LYMyUJ2zts4q53bcYvVTRcMSv7BoQBqDSf5OawKxyzU0McRsLTNWGh502PSuww0IeqoAE7AzU/s1600/Bull-leaping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEholDjPgzY1Q8qCkXHcVZe_Ry4AvDkNrP2w0XemsOEncy7cGHi6f_XknIex91dH94BNy-LYMyUJ2zts4q53bcYvVTRcMSv7BoQBqDSf5OawKxyzU0McRsLTNWGh502PSuww0IeqoAE7AzU/s1600/Bull-leaping.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bull-leaping">Bull leaping</a>. Minoan fresco from palace of Knossos, Crete, currently in the Herakleion museum</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
She circled with elegance, an inhuman melody emitting from her throat - a terrible buzz, deep and acute - her fair legs now concealed now flashing through the cracks of her tunic.<br />
<br />
And I, closer and closer, our steeds' flanks dangerously scraping against each other, my arrows all gone, what happened Quintus was that I became so enchanted and progressively unwarlike due to that mysterious creature.<br />
<br />
Although the worst was yet to come, <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Di_Manes">Di Manes</a>!</i><br />
<br />
After the Cretan dance the girl had assumed a crouched-on-all-fours, feline position on the rump of her stallion, launched at breakneck speed on the forest damp obscure recesses. The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siren">siren</a> of the woods had lowered her shoulders, arched her back and pointed her rear upwards whose perfect roundness was thus offered to my view.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_XowYUg69S8kfcjBeYBl0QXBIw1aGUymskul59UZzC4MYqoHyqj77j_wrSwHo77paB6LYf6F0-57caSQ-ZQBLxaJ70d134IrSyYanMG6yss9wW3j_CPAMF1rWxtJxGhEgTgkL2bUNFlM/s1600/WitchOnHorse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_XowYUg69S8kfcjBeYBl0QXBIw1aGUymskul59UZzC4MYqoHyqj77j_wrSwHo77paB6LYf6F0-57caSQ-ZQBLxaJ70d134IrSyYanMG6yss9wW3j_CPAMF1rWxtJxGhEgTgkL2bUNFlM/s640/WitchOnHorse.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A sculpture from the Norman Lindsay House (see last image below for infos). <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/digika/4159284295/in/photostream/">Attribution</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The sun bursting through the clouds heralding a spectacular sunset, the noise of animals becoming deafening, I was there, those half & symmetrical moons in front of me, so close that I could almost touch them, a pale-skinned double globe with designs of a delicate blue.<br />
<br />
Her garment lacerated by my <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pilum">pilum</a> on her hindquarters did not keep much from sight Quintus! Geometries made sensuality, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plato#Theory_of_Forms">ideas</a><span lang="el"> </span>of beauty made flesh were exposed and stirring deliria of sumptuous pleasures and everlasting feelings of lust & love.<br />
<br />
Well, such unchaste commotion, dear friend of better days, ended up with being fatal to me.<br />
<br />
The flaming haired maiden took advantage of my confusion and making use of the arm hidden from my sight grasped, from her bag, strings to whose ends small brass spheres were attached.<br />
<br />
She then hurled the strange weapon with such vehemence in the direction of Hælend's legs that both horse and rider - that is, us – couldn't but fall to the ground with a loud crash due to the speed of the race. <br />
<br />
The tattooed female's craftiness, however, cost her dearly as well since her stallion (was he confounded also?) stumbled in turn over superficial roots and hurtled down over the mossy weeds & soil with an even louder crash due the beast's bulk.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVjO1XVl3mqfdqVkF48mYuzj0ozv4JcB240Uol9vXAahlahcUgdoU8gqx3-AYTCpO1nwyhMjJ6w0CRJkVM0-oTBI4Muwu4ocFtKAc6CKFoylCw7nahm08LEK5Vv3Eq0vvgzX6VV6mPDhI/s1600/Linsay5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVjO1XVl3mqfdqVkF48mYuzj0ozv4JcB240Uol9vXAahlahcUgdoU8gqx3-AYTCpO1nwyhMjJ6w0CRJkVM0-oTBI4Muwu4ocFtKAc6CKFoylCw7nahm08LEK5Vv3Eq0vvgzX6VV6mPDhI/s1600/Linsay5.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another Lindsay's sculpture. <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/digika/4159284191/sizes/o/in/photostream/">Attribution</a></td></tr>
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I hit my head on the turf and got scratched all over. <br />
<br />
My initial stunned condition prevented me from realizing at first that the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Picti">picta</a> had vanished but her horse was lying down on the ground nearby and was letting out neighs of pain. <br />
<br />
Hælend, up already instead, was calmly approaching the Italian thoroughbred which she coldly executed with three violent (and accurate) kicks in the head.<br />
<br />
Hælend looked at me, a look of revenge in her eyes. The victory of valour over nobility? Well, how could I blame her. Moreover the white stallion was wounded and had to be dispatched. The wolves that haunt the forest would have caused him a horrible death. <br />
<br />
Hælend then walked towards me. The expression of her eyes revealed kindness, concern. She licked my wounds and as if by miracle I immediately felt better. I got up and stretched. Hector, my gladius, was still on me and my helmet I found behind a bush. <br />
Hælend, satisfied, was already in a nearby meadow grazing Albion's emerald grass. <br />
<br />
Well, Quintus, we know too well she isn't as classy as an Italian horse (I can well believe it!) but what a fantastic gift from the Angles and the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Genius_%28mythology%29">Genii</a> protecting our Rome!<br />
Therefore I couldn't but chant:<br />
<br />
<blockquote><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">Non ergo essem<br />
dei Romae mei<br />
Orientisque Aegyptorumque,<br />
non omnino essem,<br />
nisi essetis in me...</span></b></blockquote><blockquote>[I wouldn't exist then<br />
Ye gods of Rome,<br />
Of Egypt & the Orient,<br />
I wouldn't exist<br />
If ye weren't in me ...]</blockquote><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdKUzzaZ4eFzkYLit08V1aYY34JcsqozgTByKYS7jB0nic4bb3s3FZP1T0QsX14cNPrtyIaYex8Qxf0KxVzhUmh5toheMRgPa-c7ChuE0aaC3e0MFYbY35LKxeU0LYFXSVf_KwdlXvcH8/s1600/isis-mothering.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdKUzzaZ4eFzkYLit08V1aYY34JcsqozgTByKYS7jB0nic4bb3s3FZP1T0QsX14cNPrtyIaYex8Qxf0KxVzhUmh5toheMRgPa-c7ChuE0aaC3e0MFYbY35LKxeU0LYFXSVf_KwdlXvcH8/s1600/isis-mothering.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Isis mothering. <a href="http://iside77.splinder.com/post/17673338/iside">Credits</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
This song, performed with Egyptian tones (I'm a decent singer, I'll admit) was followed by a profound growling that left me disconcerted, since the forest animals had fallen silent, frozen. <br />
<br />
I became afraid. Had my psalm been inappropriate? Had the British gods gotten angry at how I had dealt with that red-headed Albion's daughter?<br />
The thing is, lost as I was in my doubts I hadn't noticed the Creature. Who with quiet footsteps was heading toward me.<br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote style="color: #660000;"><b>She,</b><br />
<b>Feral Being, goat goddess</b><br />
<b>By shepherds & peasants loved</b><br />
<b>And horribly feared,</b><br />
<b>Emerged before me.</b></blockquote><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5WpRobMB7yN80GyGTcJfxQH1aLBEglrGzzUrKGaDjPW9ZaIhIlIUUaywKnkJiYantqYuMqLzqhlK6mGnhwR5NUdYobc3tgVLkLgHpqHHC7ySr1IL9MVrlUoFeZkG0b58o-CYhhuqvrGM/s1600/FaunaBigger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5WpRobMB7yN80GyGTcJfxQH1aLBEglrGzzUrKGaDjPW9ZaIhIlIUUaywKnkJiYantqYuMqLzqhlK6mGnhwR5NUdYobc3tgVLkLgHpqHHC7ySr1IL9MVrlUoFeZkG0b58o-CYhhuqvrGM/s1600/FaunaBigger.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><style type="text/css">
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">This is how we imagine <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fauna_%28goddess%29">Fauna</a>. Sculpture from the Norman Lindsay gardens. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norman_Lindsay">Lindsay</a> was an Australian artist, sculptor, writer, editorial cartoonist, scale modeler & boxer (1879-1969). <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/digika/4159284991/sizes/o/in/photostream/">Attribution</a></div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
The Creature, daughter of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hermes">Hermes</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dryope">Dryope</a>, let out a cry and the wood resounded. <br />
<br />
Then she seized me, her body steaming with humours. One cannot escape from a goddess ...<br />
<br />
My surrender to such a beastly pleasure let go from my memory the rumour that those <i>dei inferi</i> were supposed to have died with the advent of Christ ...<br />
<br />
Not that it mattered. A sudden tune played on marsh reeds made the air vibrate together with my senses.<br />
<br />
Too late I realized my foolhardiness. The last beam of sunlight, violent and unexpected, pierced the scene and Pan's cry was heard again, <i>terrifying</i>. <br />
<br />
Uncontrollable panic shook my whole person. <br />
<br />
And <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fauna_%28goddess%29">Fauna</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dionysus">Bacchus</a>' lascivious companion, - arms hands legs and bodies giving and receiving pleasure - gripped with extreme violence what makes me a man. <br />
<br />
My scream, though not <i>panic</i> as hers, ripped through the night that was about to lazily fall upon the wood. <br />
<br />
All then was nothing. Darkness closed in.Maniushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14545094229192176272noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8416295330617107165.post-54375880054228542242011-05-19T19:48:00.028+02:002011-07-08T14:11:14.608+02:00Witch 2a. Striking to kill<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: small;">[I recognized her immediately Quintus. It was that savage now badly disguised as a lady. Disguised as a lady? Ah she really needed a lesson from a civilized Roman!]</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFUWZL_GG98i7pxYpqXKLsn-hnrWQc2k1ay9XLCC1hpXHFW_OAQnT7eZ97VukpfJbBvD3Km9bqcTtPKWZi0m770qaVHloJhLJ0kPjnvCxbWUmePpEngazHziaKHOaINeMBXFtbTz-wnIo/s1600/WhitchSteed.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFUWZL_GG98i7pxYpqXKLsn-hnrWQc2k1ay9XLCC1hpXHFW_OAQnT7eZ97VukpfJbBvD3Km9bqcTtPKWZi0m770qaVHloJhLJ0kPjnvCxbWUmePpEngazHziaKHOaINeMBXFtbTz-wnIo/s400/WhitchSteed.JPG" width="245" /></a></div>I advanced in her direction.<br />
<br />
She had less blue paint on her face now although her beautifully moon-white skin was of course still adorned with blue tattoos all over.<br />
<br />
Her tunic had long ornamental cuts showing glimpses of a muscled and perfectly shaped leg, which confounded me for an instant – you know this weakness I have for long and well-shaped legs (not to mention curves) on the body of a woman.<br />
<br />
She appeared concentrated on three strange trees rich with berries of three different colours - white, red, black - one for each tree.<br />
<br />
From the bag across her horse’s back I caught sight of more berries plus herbs, mushrooms, roots – all of amazing colours.<br />
"<i>F@%&</i> her suave beauty!" I cursed and gotten off my horse I began to run towards her. <br />
<br />
She was quicker. A phosphorescent glare amidst a halo of red hair and away they vanished - the woman and the stallion - into the deep of the wood.<br />
<br />
I felt Hælend’s snout behind me so I swiftly turned around, jumped unto horseback and the chase began.<br />
<br />
I soon got closer but at the last moment the <i>picta</i> dashed away with her stallion. Got closer again and to my surprise once more they dashed like a shooting star.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSfJeIejmA_vo06I4hl2d56RL7qOEgnb2nh5r38XcBZKIkBXsHfX43EDgnohgJiR9IIf1BQurOc1Hr9enUuPszeHru2zlw7N7OYCNGgDFRTprEBUSZhT3A_4t9HIcuqM9QLxDDQ0rQYWE/s1600/new_cavaliere.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSfJeIejmA_vo06I4hl2d56RL7qOEgnb2nh5r38XcBZKIkBXsHfX43EDgnohgJiR9IIf1BQurOc1Hr9enUuPszeHru2zlw7N7OYCNGgDFRTprEBUSZhT3A_4t9HIcuqM9QLxDDQ0rQYWE/s320/new_cavaliere.jpg" width="188" /></a></div>I realized that the speed of the race was wildly increasing and at every instant both the <i>picta</i> and I had to avoid the low branches that risked hitting us right on the head.<br />
<br />
What sorceries were those? The weird race left me so full of wonder my friend. But right when I was starting to ask myself fanciful questions about the woman she mercurially let me reach her.<br />
<br />
“Now I gotcha <i>picta meretrix!</i>” I bellowed. So I took a long thong of leather from my bag with a running noose Wulf had taught me to use in hunting and tossed it in her direction. But with amazing speed - her blue-green eyes flashing, pulling out a gladius similar to mine though slightly longer - she cut off the thong with abrupt force. <br />
<br />
So here we engaged into this 'attack and defence' fight with quick blows from both sides since she possessed fencing capabilities different from mine but no less effective.<br />
<br />
Talented Hælend had in the meanwhile placed herself very close to the white stallion and had bumped him so violently that the majestic steed had staggered and the picta had almost fallen but rebounding miraculously from the branches she had clung unto she was now landed (an incredible aerial pirouette!) on the horse’s immaculate back.<br />
<br />
And there she was, standing ferociously, her lovely sandalled feet perfectly parallel!<br />
<br />
Then, gotten dangerously close to us again, her horse not being stupid Quintus (I can well believe it, it was a Roman steed!), she clutched as fast as lightning what was left of the cord in my hand and unhorsed me with utmost violence.<br />
<div><br />
</div><i>Spirits of the Underworld! </i>How could I ever<i> </i>imagine a woman could be so terribly brutal, fast and agile, all at the same time!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwW6Ik-hLJS1oWlapiBCobm-YRR1IeCBkNuRec3RTHZ-C_GA0txfIgYLNO-qafI2zth-9MVyQS1Nm4KaV70jAO3y1MkZtedamOWQ7MSfBxLLSirzKBFWwQtbX_Orlay9412CsTvBETXXw/s1600/bulleaping.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwW6Ik-hLJS1oWlapiBCobm-YRR1IeCBkNuRec3RTHZ-C_GA0txfIgYLNO-qafI2zth-9MVyQS1Nm4KaV70jAO3y1MkZtedamOWQ7MSfBxLLSirzKBFWwQtbX_Orlay9412CsTvBETXXw/s1600/bulleaping.gif" /></a></div><br />
She reminded me of some naked-breasted women in the island of Crete where my father took me as a child. They vaulted elegantly (and fiercely) over bulls' backs thus refreshing a tradition today corrupt though still amazing - a performance carried out to stun travellers (and to collect coins or food from them). <br />
<br />
Thus violently drawn to the white & huge stallion's body, my head fell with a thud right between her beautiful legs that smelled of fragrant musk.<br />
<br />
Now a slight confusion arose (which softened me towards her, what a <i>moron</i> I am) but didn't blur though my decision to raise the level of Force up to number Five.<br />
<br />
Do you remember the relationship between numbers and life which our <a href="http://manofroma.wordpress.com/magister/">Magister</a> taught us in Rome with his inspired words? In every normal condition we since then usually place ourselves under the protection of Number Three, the Number of All.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmKl0ux0g-2Iv6junA9AtO1MowygeT_DaKh7GDx5paaMa-zVbivy04SWxrrAA9GWDMZ32ZuLQZBJXCx3AFUoTQHa7YyMPRO6xf9O14CP8HUvyJZF8xI9d_OSq0g4-RgBZn9NZITgcBi5M/s1600/pitagora2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmKl0ux0g-2Iv6junA9AtO1MowygeT_DaKh7GDx5paaMa-zVbivy04SWxrrAA9GWDMZ32ZuLQZBJXCx3AFUoTQHa7YyMPRO6xf9O14CP8HUvyJZF8xI9d_OSq0g4-RgBZn9NZITgcBi5M/s320/pitagora2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The <a class="extiw" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tetractys" title="w:Tetractys">Tetractys</a>, a mathematical & mystical symbol devised by the the <a class="extiw" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pythagoreans" title="w:Pythagoreans">Pythagoreans</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
But, such levels, here in Britain, while being trained by Wulf and his friends, I have aptly extended to field fight during these long months. I've in fact grown into a better soldier thanks to an innate instinct we true Romans possess, but also I'll admit thanks to Wulf's and his two friends' military drilling.<br />
So, after taking that decision – switching to number 5 Force – I proceeded, and bit her calf with my teeth which made her cry out loud.<br />
<br />
So, after taking that decision – of switching to number 5 Force – I proceeded and bit her calf with my teeth which made her cry out loud.<br />
<br />
She reacted and threw me in the air with a tremendous kick and if it weren't for sweet Hælend's promptness, Quintus meus, my soul would now be fluttering along the flaming <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phlegethon">Phlegethon</a> where bad sinners - I am one no doubt - are sent.<br />
<br />
In fact I landed in slow motion on Hælend like a sack of German potatoes. The clash with the <i>picta</i> had become almost aquatic, as if a spell from her had been cast on the scene and we were fighting in the crystal waters of a sacred river.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib1wVV-iNwzKPbphTUzmbNOWWXCIgw1Ec4a6WAPhyphenhyphenuCv_hBJFoZI3if0YEd0c8yPXmnJ8U-i1PobWLUJk53cWDNm1a1mKwTTx_z2TeVQfSYIhKHIi5ui54T3bZJG-WADpq5wJmoxY0OUw/s1600/The+Fens3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib1wVV-iNwzKPbphTUzmbNOWWXCIgw1Ec4a6WAPhyphenhyphenuCv_hBJFoZI3if0YEd0c8yPXmnJ8U-i1PobWLUJk53cWDNm1a1mKwTTx_z2TeVQfSYIhKHIi5ui54T3bZJG-WADpq5wJmoxY0OUw/s1600/The+Fens3.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: xx-small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial,Tahoma,Helvetica,FreeSans,sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"></span></span><br />
<br />
At this point a decision had to be taken.<br />
<br />
The woman was indeed a formidable warrior and a dangerous black magic sorceress the Roman custom didn't tolerate. It grieved me having to kill her but I realized I had to do it for the sake of survival: she lived too close to my tower and could attack me at any time of day or night. <br />
<br />
I was swallowing - the perfume of her body had slightly cracked the impassible will of the warrior - when the level of confrontation was by me brought to the great power of the Seven Number.<br />
<br />
As we school buddies know, Quintus, the notions expressed by the heptad are <i>ALL that is right according to circumstances</i> - there implying fortune, control and what leads things to an end among the rest.<br />
<br />
One of the heptad's deities was also <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mars_%28mythology%29">Mars</a>, the Roman god of war.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtSzqegjw2O7ROJQfpeZ9TaTggSZZ0M3GBP7zMa-9tVplwwW4DcM-xt8ZX2BBnl2EVr0Vtr8IynZ62GJ1jyhoyISnWwiaJqFWWxgkAYmXLhl4LdzIhzmHL9HTzErNMGua4JMHkLZY8j_c/s1600/Pilum2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtSzqegjw2O7ROJQfpeZ9TaTggSZZ0M3GBP7zMa-9tVplwwW4DcM-xt8ZX2BBnl2EVr0Vtr8IynZ62GJ1jyhoyISnWwiaJqFWWxgkAYmXLhl4LdzIhzmHL9HTzErNMGua4JMHkLZY8j_c/s320/Pilum2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I found my spear on the ground. I took it.<br />
<br />
With speed, strength and utmost precision (I know in advance whether a <i>pilum</i>, my favourite weapon, will hit the target or not) I shot the long sharp-pointed lance against the sorceress' abdomen.<br />
<br />
The sun was about to set over a marvellous landscape when the iron point began its deadly flight.Maniushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14545094229192176272noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8416295330617107165.post-26543378480830857352011-05-09T16:19:00.063+02:002011-07-07T16:26:50.060+02:00Witch 1. Introducing Hælend and Wulf. A magic wood and lo, a picta damesel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbZTJpw1X4LtPt_xMlVTUL9p_bbA4RAB2-8_Fncye6ny8wR59R3zqyDy-RT6voTVHuPaE5qfUzo5mcwrkzDdXwTLKqCodnVfuiYS-9vyclegn9omTAbDTIT09RTjTW1zmAfCmTbXQK9eE/s1600/Ophelia_1894.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbZTJpw1X4LtPt_xMlVTUL9p_bbA4RAB2-8_Fncye6ny8wR59R3zqyDy-RT6voTVHuPaE5qfUzo5mcwrkzDdXwTLKqCodnVfuiYS-9vyclegn9omTAbDTIT09RTjTW1zmAfCmTbXQK9eE/s1600/Ophelia_1894.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Celtic witch? One never knows. Ophelia by the Victorian pre-Raphaelite <br />
painter <span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;"><a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/John_William_Waterhouse" style="background-image: none; color: #0645ad; text-decoration: none;" title="John William Waterhouse">John William Waterhouse </a></span></span><a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/John_William_Waterhouse" style="background-image: none; color: #0645ad; text-decoration: none;" title="John William Waterhouse">(1849-1917</a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;"><a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/John_William_Waterhouse" style="background-image: none; color: #0645ad; text-decoration: none;" title="John William Waterhouse">)</a>. <a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Ophelia_1894.jpg">Credits</a></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Manius Quinto sal.<br />
<br />
[…] I can finally tell you my tower is close to the sea, **** miles from Londinium, **** miles from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caistor_St_Edmund">Venta Icenorum</a>, reachable from the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antonine_Itinerary">Antonini Itinerarium</a>. Now you know where I am. Please send me the area maps. […] <br />
<br />
It's not the only reason I am writing. Horrible (and marvellous) things have happened and I do not know where to start. <br />
<br />
I went into the woods with Hælend, my medium sized but powerful steed that Wulf my German friend gave me as a gift to celebrate our friendship - an amazing Angle, Wulf, he's teaching me the Ænglisc ways and his absolute truthfulness of heart has given me <i>animus</i> to rebel against cruel Fortune: being trapped in an alien land, bereft of properties, of slaves (only two I have bought at the Ænglisc market), of real defence and, most of all, of Clelia's deep love and warm presence.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQM9HlHo_1TzlDum4FyUbXY79jFfd4YDp0ypEYsYtxWaGMpeqNjmjd6b4ptHoHsMtIVmTT72Dx6ZWavpT27lmHtuNNkn253TIBhWMoawarpTCJ77sPJDlLcVeVxxeE5tbHr7FtRD2aCqk/s1600/carmina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQM9HlHo_1TzlDum4FyUbXY79jFfd4YDp0ypEYsYtxWaGMpeqNjmjd6b4ptHoHsMtIVmTT72Dx6ZWavpT27lmHtuNNkn253TIBhWMoawarpTCJ77sPJDlLcVeVxxeE5tbHr7FtRD2aCqk/s320/carmina.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">'O Fortuna, velut Luna, statu variabilis ..' <br />
O Fortune, like the moon, you always change ..<br />
Depiction of Fortune at a much later age</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
But as <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seneca_the_Younger">Lucius Annaeus Seneca</a> teaches us: <br />
<br />
<blockquote><div style="color: #660000;"><b>Fortuna opes auferre, non animum, potest</b></div>[Fortune can rob our wealth but not our courage]</blockquote><br />
Boldness, yes. But how can I describe Hælend? Well, at first was I disappointed: our horses look so much better and she appeared even worse than most German steeds (such horrible yellowish colour!) but I was so surprised when I saw how she could endure any strain with ease and could compete with, and often win over, even the nobler Roman breeds (this big German clan I've been kinda absorbed into possesses a dozen beautiful Roman horses btw) and yet she's also so amazingly mild (and weird; should I hide that?)<br />
<br />
I'll tell you. Having received a bad blow by a towering German during a few sword fight exercises - a deep bleeding cut was showing on my left arm -, Hælend came close to me and <i>(<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aesculapius">Aesculapius</a>!) </i>much to the surprise of the onlookers (Wulf was absent) she started to lick my wound with her long (and rough) tongue: <i>sweet Queen of heaven</i> I cried when I saw the wound healed in just two days!! <br />
<br />
I digressed. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIxYTrsAf4WPT0TucykAzmHEvQsEDMPFt4F1HDCfFWQIXYW4u1LHYiw5544l57En0co7GFQt3uM1v2ADJIqNOX6_AlneNO4FmiGnHfX1i9K83lRDdPkrnqkvU_dBGMjxZINH8Vc2i9I44/s1600/Roman_Soldier_03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIxYTrsAf4WPT0TucykAzmHEvQsEDMPFt4F1HDCfFWQIXYW4u1LHYiw5544l57En0co7GFQt3uM1v2ADJIqNOX6_AlneNO4FmiGnHfX1i9K83lRDdPkrnqkvU_dBGMjxZINH8Vc2i9I44/s400/Roman_Soldier_03.jpg" width="282" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roman soldier in colder climates</td></tr>
</tbody></table>So while getting deep into the forest in search of game but armoured in the Roman way like I always do when I explore territory or hunt (one never knows), with Hælend scrutinizing the terrain with her non human senses – were she a woman she'd certainly be a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sibyl">Sibyl</a> but I prefer her as my horse frankly, I had too many domineering sisters.<br />
<br />
I was wearing a Roman helmet with a wolf's skin on top, German bow and arrows, my favourite <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gladius">gladius</a> Hector, a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pilum">pilum</a> (or javelin) in my left hand plus two strange dogs Marius and Caesar (though adorable and surely <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diana_%28mythology%29">Diana</a>'s favourites) which I bought from a very old & rich German woman being carried on her <i>lectica</i>, or litter, by 4 young and good-looking slaves of dubious race.<br />
<br />
By the way - another digression - I was hit by her face, that was so wrinkled I couldn't see her eyes, and by a pair of showy gilded brooches she wore that fastened her embroidered wool tunic, with strings of beads hanging between them - an ornament oh you'll agree Quintus an Italian, Gallic or Romano British woman would <i>never</i> wear but that gave her this, hard to say, 'new look' I found attractive after all, kind of 'new British' you know.<br />
<br />
It's as if this emerald island were perhaps timidly finding her own ...<br />
<br />
Enough. I do hate this place.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgqglxt0ZsG3SDgzz5eFK97e6UULW06aZ-4lPVr-ZTjTjhI_Gl_2T-97y02dn767glXybpxdcY_De745FBFM7WqUEqfh155PBFcwSWDZM7tk-NzlooNeRPNRfuV_9t-JoMsiWmtEYBHrU/s1600/brooches.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgqglxt0ZsG3SDgzz5eFK97e6UULW06aZ-4lPVr-ZTjTjhI_Gl_2T-97y02dn767glXybpxdcY_De745FBFM7WqUEqfh155PBFcwSWDZM7tk-NzlooNeRPNRfuV_9t-JoMsiWmtEYBHrU/s320/brooches.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alglo-Saxon gilded saucer brooches "worn in pairs <br />
at the shoulder to fasten a dress, often with <br />
strings of beads hanging between them." <br />
British museum (<a href="http://www.britishmuseum.org/explore/highlights/highlight_objects/pe_mla/p/pair_of_saucer_brooches.aspx">credits</a> & explanation) </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
As I was saying, it's hard to tell how we got into a very incomprehensible place. <br />
<br />
I mean while advancing forward in such beautiful wetlands rich with birds, eagles and wolves I began to realize the landscape was slowly changing and getting perceptibly moisture-less. It had basically turned into a weird wood which much to my surprise couldn't be too far from where my tower is located.<br />
<br />
Moreover I vaguely felt the place familiar but also odd: shrieks were all around from crazy night birds - but it was day time Quintus! <br />
<br />
And then I felt it. <br />
<br />
["What the hell did you feel" - I'm sure you'll ask.]<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRL70F4oza_UPb7HZrLRcnJweFXOIm4gSmPd0fkqF_rFQCYhVu9eXTkhW19_Rcu8gbmcX3ZKkIHTKFjYLIAJFhkH-oiKxzw0kUBKx-kew8AwniDQ1l3Hs0MbxFB83tScfwSJiHe6EaUHk/s1600/Deep_Forest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRL70F4oza_UPb7HZrLRcnJweFXOIm4gSmPd0fkqF_rFQCYhVu9eXTkhW19_Rcu8gbmcX3ZKkIHTKFjYLIAJFhkH-oiKxzw0kUBKx-kew8AwniDQ1l3Hs0MbxFB83tScfwSJiHe6EaUHk/s1600/Deep_Forest.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deep forest. Click for <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/8069051@N06/5061947766/sizes/l/">attribution</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
OK. I felt the magic of a new world that was familiar and strange as I said since unordered and yet almost invisibly arranged by some crazy intelligence - a bit like what is more evidently displayed in our Italian gardens, that reflect the arrangement of mathematical reason. <br />
<br />
Trees plants flowers of many sorts with their colours and exhilarant perfumes (voluptuous spring was radiating her magic ...) and butterflies, insects, animals flying and jumping about, both night and day creatures <i>all</i> awake as if nature had confused her laws <i>Virgo mea!</i><br />
<br />
But this is not the point, friend. <br />
<br />
["What on earth is the point now", you'll again ask you having always been the stereotyped practical Roman]<br />
<br />
Well, the point being that this area showed, more distinctly than any landscape, to possess a <i>soul</i>. I clearly <i>felt</i> such place's divinity, id est plants, huge trees and living things all formed like a savage, and yet not unordered, world exuding a primeval <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vitalism">anima</a> or vital force that awesome Greek minds identified with the eternal and intoxicating goat-horned, goat-legged numen Πάν (now dead as they said) and old days' rustic Romans with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Faunus">Faunus</a> (dead too).<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHrDM_QZakeMnMBLDTR6PAdsWyLqkA-78sQY5RAhsLGGAKo-ItGwVoXH8D1Q8obhRPq5YpP5HGWmUB1Scz0q-NR1jLjvmTk-DQxfKT21V1bNJ-_nkaxkIpiduqJc5b7B4kvXh_laPvJl4/s1600/PanandDaphnisOPT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHrDM_QZakeMnMBLDTR6PAdsWyLqkA-78sQY5RAhsLGGAKo-ItGwVoXH8D1Q8obhRPq5YpP5HGWmUB1Scz0q-NR1jLjvmTk-DQxfKT21V1bNJ-_nkaxkIpiduqJc5b7B4kvXh_laPvJl4/s640/PanandDaphnisOPT.jpg" width="345" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pan and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daphnis">Daphnis</a>. Goat-horned, goat-legged deities were<br />
many (male, female and unfortunately children). <br />
Very unconventional they were, not far from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Satyr">Satyrs </a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>I then couldn't but kneel down and whisper our Celtic bard <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virgil">Virgil</a>'s sacred verses: <br />
<br />
<div style="color: #660000;"><b>Tu, Tityre, lentus in umbra </b></div><div style="color: #660000;"><b>formosam resonare doces <br />
Amaryllida silvas</b></div><br />
[You sit careless in the shade, o Tityrus, <br />
and 'Amaryllis!'<br />
(woods-wandering enchantress<br />
& flute player), <br />
you bid the woods resound]<br />
<br />
Ah but I had to wake up from my dream since Hælend started to get <i>very</i> nervous. What was the matter?<br />
<br />
We turned around and … the dogs were <i>gone</i>! Such gifted animals, can you believe that? <br />
<br />
Vanished. <br />
<br />
Why these premonitions? Which envious god desired to whack me?<br />
<br />
My life was, is miserable. I live like a savage while I had properties & thousands of slaves. Now I dwell in a lousy tower and possess just two young women I bought from the <i>Germani</i> - not at all bad, right - but the one with exotic almond eyes is so small and half dead I have in truth only one and a half.<br />
<br />
Along the left, longer side of such space - an almost perfect rectangle - there she appeared in my sight:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>A beautiful woman standing on the green grass with glowing red hair, her skin white and so amazingly pale as a moon creature - something so exotic for a Roman.</blockquote><br />
Her flesh colour even paler than the German women's, she was wearing an equally pale wool <i>tunica </i>with a majestic white horse behind her (of Roman breed no doubt), calmly grazing the beautifully green grass, the princely animal's coat having the same incomprehensible pale snow colour.<br />
<br />
I recognized her immediately.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlq_DTTsiJUiRG3Jy-qoNruzeapPSdB12mKxZ5ip9q3VDyTXZ6HjgTAWsJDaOgY4ISCmqvwTqLbmM-ewRdgNqdRwfxw75Tvxr8sJJkK-G-XmZ2WbUSaDp3H8mxj8ssN5V1gcCZqUZyK4w/s1600/Witch2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlq_DTTsiJUiRG3Jy-qoNruzeapPSdB12mKxZ5ip9q3VDyTXZ6HjgTAWsJDaOgY4ISCmqvwTqLbmM-ewRdgNqdRwfxw75Tvxr8sJJkK-G-XmZ2WbUSaDp3H8mxj8ssN5V1gcCZqUZyK4w/s400/Witch2.jpeg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This</i> woman Manius had first met. <br />
Why now she looks like a damsel?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
It was that <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Picts"><i>picta</i></a> who had scared the hell out of me near my tower and was now disguised (very poorly I thought) as a lady.<br />
<br />
Disguised as a lady? The idea railed me and I thought such savage needed a good lesson from a civilized son of Rome.<br />
<br />
Yes, it was time for some revenge and fun why not?<br />
<br />
<style type="text/css">
p { margin-bottom: 0.21cm; }a:link { }
</style> <br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">You know Quintus this ancient grudge that Celtic - how can you know damn, you're 100% Roman - or half Celtic (especially from the West Alps) Romans such as I am - have, vis-à-vis Picts and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caledonians">Caledonii</a> so darn <i>allergic</i> to Romanization.</div><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgc4uDCVqxUIul6Ygfv3qsCBrcVtIQWB9LlnQWebMrFTh5eESf-eZ0RrSPVH6dHGjjCpX-tfi9DUm-_hWCb2L25hN-UJnaocd9K8loxbqz_HbtZfG3HGOL1IyVvvUYAa3zL1lL029areY/s1600/Roman_Slave_Market.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgc4uDCVqxUIul6Ygfv3qsCBrcVtIQWB9LlnQWebMrFTh5eESf-eZ0RrSPVH6dHGjjCpX-tfi9DUm-_hWCb2L25hN-UJnaocd9K8loxbqz_HbtZfG3HGOL1IyVvvUYAa3zL1lL029areY/s1600/Roman_Slave_Market.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Roman slave auction as imagined by Jean Léon Gérome (c.1884). <a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/03/Jean_Leon_Gerome_Selling_Slaves_in_Rome.jpg">Enlarge</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I recall this Caledonian slave locked in a cage at a slave auction in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Augusta_Taurinorum#Roman_times">Augusta Taurinorum</a>: a nice open air square surrounded by our white and monumental peaks all around. Her cage had been placed on a wooden platform, her attractive body all bluish from paint and tattoos.<br />
<br />
Out of curiosity I got closer in order to touch her strange hair but she bit my hand fiercely. <br />
<br />
Her master wanted to flog her publicly to set an example but although I gave him a few coins (to stop that, she was just a savage after all) I seldom forget when people hurt me.<br />
<br />
Did she hurt me deeply? Well, OK, whatever my reasons in any case I definitely felt the beautifully pale lady needed punishment, Quintus, I don't know why.<br />
<br />
Light punishment perhaps, I am not a bad man, all I needed, I now imagine, was just some relief from all the sorrows that plagued my heart.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: x-small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial,Tahoma,Helvetica,FreeSans,sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;">ψ</span></span> </div><br />
I therefore advanced in her direction.Maniushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14545094229192176272noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8416295330617107165.post-87670504096059133662011-04-20T02:12:00.047+02:002011-07-06T23:25:58.244+02:00Chanting in an Ænglisc taberna<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1IKmauR2pfUnVa1apJAUAD3K2_PtpWqXr0SxvjYBqaHEe7Fg8VwIPsYyJn2eudncRIRdIfoCRBlIr5hx-0F0x2WDx2f7nzLNa5RAnfofI4y-wbwSyW9eR-IRNgPIIquVFMesUWhBOfZY/s1600/Massimo+Night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1IKmauR2pfUnVa1apJAUAD3K2_PtpWqXr0SxvjYBqaHEe7Fg8VwIPsYyJn2eudncRIRdIfoCRBlIr5hx-0F0x2WDx2f7nzLNa5RAnfofI4y-wbwSyW9eR-IRNgPIIquVFMesUWhBOfZY/s1600/Massimo+Night.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It is night in Monti (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Subura">Subura</a>). Massimo is at home before his computer screen</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial,Tahoma,Helvetica,FreeSans,sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"></span></span> </div><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><br />
"20 minutes only and Deirdre would reach home" … So Massimo clicked the 'get mail' button on his <a href="http://www.backtrack-linux.org/">Backtrack</a> Linux box.<br />
<br />
Giorgio's e-mail appeared on the screen.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial,Tahoma,Helvetica,FreeSans,sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;">ψ</span></span> </div><br />
"Ciao M,<br />
<br />
The buds and the rest of the group are now in a marshy area the Anglo-Saxons call <i>fani</i> or <i>fenne</i>. I identified it as <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Fens">The Fens</a> in East England, around the coast of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wash">the Wash</a> where <a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norfolk,_England" title="Norfolk, England">Norfolk</a> meets <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lincolnshire">Lincolnshire.</a><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTRNpUOUBQBsT9qIPEQt0GUMcpkA5ZMFSYiRqpu47Bg9rqFJEqmW1c3WpENwQr_g2tU5-f3FaPVaec29FhokDisGTIuzbUkphBZkK9e0lqDVBogOXkF6dfZ_7FO_NL_abl_nFBXlChFgA/s1600/The+Fens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTRNpUOUBQBsT9qIPEQt0GUMcpkA5ZMFSYiRqpu47Bg9rqFJEqmW1c3WpENwQr_g2tU5-f3FaPVaec29FhokDisGTIuzbUkphBZkK9e0lqDVBogOXkF6dfZ_7FO_NL_abl_nFBXlChFgA/s1600/The+Fens.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Fens today. Click for <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/bostonphotosphere/4110070535/sizes/o/">attribution</a> and to enlarge</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The group is eating, drinking (and getting rid of dampness) in a village <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taberna">taberna</a> crammed with local peasants. Their Latin is quite easy once you get used to their strange accent.<br />
<br />
They look happy and finally relieved after a tormented journey.<br />
<br />
As you will learn the ol' schoolmates are scions from Romano-Celtic clans from the West (Cadbury <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cadbury_Hill">Hill</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cadbury_Castle,_Somerset">Castle</a>, Somerset) and from the North (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banna_%28Birdoswald%29">Banna</a>, Birdoswald, at the west end of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hadrian%27s_Wall">Hadrian's Wall)</a>, places where the language of Rome and <i>Romanitas</i> have survived though corrupted (or transfigured).<br />
<br />
Greek is also fluent in many of them, uncommon in those days, together with their native <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brythonic_languages">Brittonic</a> language of course which although terribly fascinating is as yet unintelligible to me.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial,Tahoma,Helvetica,FreeSans,sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"></span></span></div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib1wVV-iNwzKPbphTUzmbNOWWXCIgw1Ec4a6WAPhyphenhyphenuCv_hBJFoZI3if0YEd0c8yPXmnJ8U-i1PobWLUJk53cWDNm1a1mKwTTx_z2TeVQfSYIhKHIi5ui54T3bZJG-WADpq5wJmoxY0OUw/s1600/The+Fens3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib1wVV-iNwzKPbphTUzmbNOWWXCIgw1Ec4a6WAPhyphenhyphenuCv_hBJFoZI3if0YEd0c8yPXmnJ8U-i1PobWLUJk53cWDNm1a1mKwTTx_z2TeVQfSYIhKHIi5ui54T3bZJG-WADpq5wJmoxY0OUw/s1600/The+Fens3.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another landscape from The Fens area. Click for <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/timony/2447870238/sizes/z/">attribution</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Their entrance into the taberna, if I may call it this way, had been unintentionally theatrical.<br />
<br />
Despite their being dirty and exhausted they had appeared such an astonishing, colourful group to the country folks: the noble-breed friends (festive, attractive young men and women), Pavlos the Greek merchant, his mysterious ascendancy following him like a mantle, the refined (and provokingly dressed) Syrian ladies with their train of devoted female slaves and so forth.<br />
<br />
Don't worry M, later I’ll describe all group members one by one (allow me to modernize their names in weird ways at first until my ears get used to their Celtic parlance).<br />
<br />
Therefore, as soon as the taberna heavy main door had been opened for them to get in and while they were crossing its threshold, more than 200 pairs of eyes, ALL at the same time, couldn’t but <i>stare</i> at them totally wide-eyed.<br />
<br />
Not that the group cared much. They were so ecstatic at the view of the large bronze braziers scattered here and there holding their wonderfully burning coals! Ahhh, it was as if blood were flowing again in their young bodies, grown numb by the cold.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEIFlKQYDY4B8deMHWFCiAcilacpmMESsgSHGmRLHksUx4qKz78WE6YLT9sQdvKDoszjhQrCtjoD9dnJa75RsgYbQxUuySc1rTST9QScgxxGTzvKwHgafuNrukCW_Nc-ylSnQubLh02ts/s1600/LongHouseExterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEIFlKQYDY4B8deMHWFCiAcilacpmMESsgSHGmRLHksUx4qKz78WE6YLT9sQdvKDoszjhQrCtjoD9dnJa75RsgYbQxUuySc1rTST9QScgxxGTzvKwHgafuNrukCW_Nc-ylSnQubLh02ts/s1600/LongHouseExterior.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A mid-20th century reconstruction of a Danish great hall and long house in Hobro, Denmark. Click for <a href="http://www.octavia.net/anglosaxon/earlyEnglishArchitecture.htm">attribution</a> and other examples of Anglo-Saxon-like buildings (450 CE to 1066)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Most unusually for a taberna, the place consisted [see image above] of a large <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Long_house">timber long house</a> that, to the local folk - a mixture of Angles and Celts coexisting peacefully? - served as a store house for farm produce, as tribunal, assembly, meeting and fun place (several cooks and servants were more than 'sociable' with generous customers), beer and eating house.<br />
<br />
The powerful structure belonged to an earlier Celtic landlord - I overheard - who had been slaughtered together with all his family 50 years earlier during social unrest.<br />
<br />
I checked in my books. It is time of migrations, M, of social change. Here in the East (but also in the West and the North) slaves revolting against (or refusing to work for) their landlords had caused the progressive decadence of big Roman-style villas and properties. <br />
<br />
But while some scholars believe change had been far from dramatic and all had occurred almost drowsily, generation after generation, others instead, supported by a recent DNA research, think that some ethnic cleansing could have occurred.<br />
<br />
What does that mean?<br />
<br />
Well, it means that the Welsh could be the only true descendants of the Roman British since their genes seem entirely different. And secondly - <br />
I am puzzled (and horrified) - chances are that between 50% and 100% of the Romanised population was totally <i>wiped out</i> Massimo. <br />
<br />
<br />
Yes, it may have been so. <br />
<br />
In any case.<br />
<br />
In the year c. 420 CE - I learn -, a little more than one century before Manius' time (only yesterday I realized that my nightmares suggest Manius is living in 526 CE), there still "were people in Britain who had been born in a world shaped by the Romans", with Romano-Celtic material culture, mentality, Latin language. In 420 there were still "middle aged men and women who had been raised in heated villas" and whose "childhood dinners were served in pewter and glass", which can give an idea, I guess.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ulX_y-YN-KYtyjn7_ycbZKPDmK6T3YowuyfT52iWDeUZyl1xgHPVKus1hakFf0dbjbysDcJliFWYbzE2296-yVeyTKZUFy01a9GYaRvzUHYQDWr2qToa8DEiAKFEIoGKc5qYZWmmYXw/s1600/fishbourne_model.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ulX_y-YN-KYtyjn7_ycbZKPDmK6T3YowuyfT52iWDeUZyl1xgHPVKus1hakFf0dbjbysDcJliFWYbzE2296-yVeyTKZUFy01a9GYaRvzUHYQDWr2qToa8DEiAKFEIoGKc5qYZWmmYXw/s1600/fishbourne_model.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Model of a palatial Romano-British Villa at Fishbourne, West Sussex. Click for <a href="http://www.roman-britain.org/places/fishbourne.htm">attribution</a> and infos. Dug in the early 1960's the villa had ornate gardens, a large bath suite, mosaic floors, tessellated pavements, several guest suites, a spacious entrance-hall and even an audience chamber.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
["15 minutes only and Deirdre would be home" Massimo thought with some nervousness] <br />
<br />
Ah! His mentor had at last deduced the darn year of the strange Britannia events, something Massimo had grasped since the beginning. Giorgio's mind, it seemed clear, was not as sharp as it used to be - Massimo sadly reflected.<br />
<br />
He resumed reading.]<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial,Tahoma,Helvetica,FreeSans,sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;">ψ</span></span> </div><br />
"From c. 420 to c. 470 - Giorgio's narration continued - Germanic immigration in South East Britain had been like water dripping. Between 470 and a bit before 520 it had become a deluge, which was changing things <i>very</i> fast at least in the East of Britannia.<br />
<br />
Soon after having kissed the sacred fatherland's soil the buddies had been progressively shocked by the extent of the cultural change occurring before their eyes. They had lived in Italy too long and their childhood memories of Britain were mainly from places that had retained a bit of the old world.<br />
<br />
What was happening over there now, in the West and the North? And their families? And all their infancy friends? These were the fears that troubled the buddies' sleep since their first arrival in Albion land.<br />
But now - youth smiling celestially, a warmed-up refuge, the food and the drink and the awareness of having escaped Neptune's wrath – both old and new friends drove away their preoccupations and gave vent to all their need to <i>live</i>.<br />
<br />
Always resourceful Pavlos (his newly acquired servants had quick minds like his) making appear all sorts of music instruments - flutes, a Celtic harp, cymbals, a lyre and drums; the girls putting on their best make up (such ladies behaving so freely? You'll later learn why); not to mention the Syrian <span lang="grc">ἑταῖραι (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hetaera">hetaerae</a>) or high class prostitutes if you will, being helped by their female slaves as well in order to appear more seductive then ever - ALL was soon ready for a sublime <i>carousal</i> the local folk would probably never forget. </span><br />
<br />
At the simple tinkling of a couple of gold <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Solidus_%28coin%29">solidi</a> plenty of the 'real good stuff' - the one usually spared for important people - was in the meanwhile being served on their long table: savoury roasted game, an excellent dense ale, vegetables, idromele and fruits. <br />
<br />
After an enchanting musical introduction from the Syrian hetaerae's languid flutes; from the strings of the melodious Celtic harp plucked with purest touch by sweet Chaerie’s delicate fingers; from pensive Pavlos' seven-stringed Greek lyre (a man who had wandered from clime to clime, "λύρα!" he had asked his servants; btw he and Chaerie proved to be excellent virtuosi); and finally with drums and cymbals providing the rhythm for the whole prelude …. <br />
<br />
Now, dear M, read well my words: a ritual choral song among the most sublime ever conceived by man was about to vibrate in the air - something those simple peasants & warriors had probably never heard before.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT4H8VFpMG-7zDCq-fQmY6YHviZxSA9ZsvCQ5SPKc0nZTXRqlmnvOon_Szggj4TvW1JxkmOLsClWgyldOCUGlxhgnat9eySYb-oeCTdwhNOsAQXJ4kqGgbVOjW4eez2tKXpl52dWZF2A8/s1600/Celtic+Harp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT4H8VFpMG-7zDCq-fQmY6YHviZxSA9ZsvCQ5SPKc0nZTXRqlmnvOon_Szggj4TvW1JxkmOLsClWgyldOCUGlxhgnat9eySYb-oeCTdwhNOsAQXJ4kqGgbVOjW4eez2tKXpl52dWZF2A8/s1600/Celtic+Harp.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alicia Cundall playing a Celtic harp and singing. Click to enlarge and for <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/perspective/2456036534/sizes/l/">attribution</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
It was first sung in Brittonic (to make sure a lot of them understood) and then in the Latin original. <br />
<br />
(From the latter I could reconstruct the former, less concise but charming nonetheless) <br />
<br />
At a signal (from Richardus and Qwil) the group's women blessed with the bloom of beauty slowly advanced towards the centre of the hall that had been cleared for the purpose.<br />
<br />
(The Syrian ladies had preferred to remain at their table, busy with their flutes.)<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial,Tahoma,Helvetica,FreeSans,sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;">ψ</span></span></div><br />
Thus the female group began to chant: <br />
<br />
<blockquote style="color: #660000;"><i><b>Of </b></i><b><span style="color: black;">Dian's</span></b><i><b> praises, </b></i><b style="color: black;">tender maidens</b><i><b>, tell;</b></i><br />
<i><b>Well tell, tell well,</b></i><br />
<i><b>Oh tell, OOOOHH TTELLL!</b></i></blockquote><br />
(The last two words M were like a big female mystic cry!)<br />
<br />
Now the men's turn, who had reached the girls (ALL the men except the slaves).<br />
<br />
Exuding integrity the males thus continued the song:<br />
<br />
<blockquote style="color: #660000;"><i><b>Of </b></i><b><span style="color: black;">Apollo’s</span></b><i><b> charm, </b></i><b style="color: black;">young striplings</b><i><b>, sing;</b></i><br />
<i><b>Sing spring, spring sing,</b></i><br />
<i><b>Oh spring, OOOOHH SSIIIING!</b></i></blockquote><br />
(The last two words were this time like a powerful male mystic cry M!)<br />
<br />
<br />
Finally both choirs - the women's and the men's, like fresh crop from the North, South & East combined - chanted in unison:<br />
<br />
<blockquote style="color: #660000;"><i><b>Of </b></i><b><span style="color: black;">Latona</span></b><i><b> their mother, oh sing</b></i><br />
<i><b>So beloved by our Heaven's King.</b></i><br />
<i><b>King, Lightning OOOOHH, FFLIIIING!</b></i></blockquote><br />
Oh God my friend (my words are so poor), this last two-word cry sung by both the men and the women was so majestic and piercing, was so hypnotizing and enchanting that all the audience lost control and stood up in a frenzy.<br />
<br />
They reached such a state of confusion as if too much had been asked of them. They had never seen anything<i> </i>like <i>that</i>. Some began to sing, some to dance, some finally to hug and kiss (and insinuate intimate caresses with one another, the majority of both sexes being totally drunk).<br />
<br />
Everyone, I mean, was so carried away by a madness which reached its climax when the choral song was rehearsed in Latin, a language still sacred to them although I'm sure not quite understood by most of the people who were crowding the huge hall.<br />
<br />
(Btw M, no need to remind you that in the sacred Latin text below Apollo is named <i>Cynthius</i> after <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cynthus" title="Cynthus">Mount Cynthus</a> on the island of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Delos">Delos</a> where he was supposed to be born)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW3RIeVbUieFeHapAJfCebpsT8hhyphenhyphenfiuxjlArpPSv5pPYGR0UwSzyBk8XxWrWmgcXniM9XYfx1REPKWC2QALVCdXnVMiFvLBBrJDRQKvbPkMsJWZ2_VxB6fya9HD0DvSyg6dSAWXo1hKE/s1600/Pueri.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW3RIeVbUieFeHapAJfCebpsT8hhyphenhyphenfiuxjlArpPSv5pPYGR0UwSzyBk8XxWrWmgcXniM9XYfx1REPKWC2QALVCdXnVMiFvLBBrJDRQKvbPkMsJWZ2_VxB6fya9HD0DvSyg6dSAWXo1hKE/s1600/Pueri.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Roman mosaic at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Capua">Capua</a>, Italy, with young kids as part of a <i>sacred choir</i> from the temple of Diana Tifatina. Click for <a href="http://triacorda.blogspot.com/2005/11/capua-recap.html">attribution</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<blockquote>Women (as pure as ever): </blockquote><blockquote><div style="color: #660000;"><b><span style="color: black;">Dianam</span><i> tenerae dicite </i><span style="color: black;">virgines</span></b></div><br />
Men (as ethical as ever): <br />
<div style="color: #660000;"><b><i><br />
intonsum, </i><span style="color: black;">pueri</span><i>, dicite </i><span style="color: black;">Cynthium</span></b></div><br />
<br />
Men and women together (in all their chaste glory): <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><b><span style="color: black;">LATONAMQUE</span></b></span><i style="color: #660000;"><b> SUPREMO</b></i><br />
<div style="color: #660000;"><i><b>DILECTAM PENITUS I-O-V-I-I-I!!</b></i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial,Tahoma,Helvetica,FreeSans,sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;">ψ</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">[Massimo had tried to resist but was now vibrating. The whole scene had totally bewitched him.<br />
<br />
Those Romano-Celtic youths, they were like angels!<br />
<br />
With a pang he suddenly remembered <i>his </i>angel, how could he forget her? But, most of all, was she a <i>real </i>angel? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"8 minutes more and Deirdre should be home" he thought. His anxiety was growing together with the sacred madness in Giorgio's tale] </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial,Tahoma,Helvetica,FreeSans,sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;">ψ</span></span> </div><br />
"The state of wildness reached by the peasants shocked the group of old and new friends - Giorgio's mail continued -. They had been so concentrating on their chant they hadn't realised what was actually happening within the walls of the huge building. <br />
<br />
It all had been such a purification rite of joy, melodious and sober, but the public had interpreted it as <i>excess</i>, as mere intoxication. <br />
<br />
Well, nothing wrong with it, the friends' group liked intoxication as well (I overheard their comments). But they were confused since the reaction both in Italy and in the Britannic areas where they were born would have been quite different <i>for such a rite</i>: soul order, not disorder ...<br />
<br />
This pure <span id="hotword"><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: transparent; cursor: default;">undebased song </span></span>expressed by the words of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horace">Horace</a>, Rome's sacred bard, words so cherished by any Roman pagan and respected at times even by the Christians (Richardus' and Philippus' words) ...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRuJ2ZKmNvRGhjecJnupLtiXs5GtS7zDvQyBHnJtXt4HfwaUgIZpRNFJOBGlgEGC-GkdUYl6zVIvdRkKwPv67Und8b0wFxwubap5DtRJ6mQZUKw0qA_u8UxKj6PncmfAT0ySbZ_HK1ssk/s1600/Map.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRuJ2ZKmNvRGhjecJnupLtiXs5GtS7zDvQyBHnJtXt4HfwaUgIZpRNFJOBGlgEGC-GkdUYl6zVIvdRkKwPv67Und8b0wFxwubap5DtRJ6mQZUKw0qA_u8UxKj6PncmfAT0ySbZ_HK1ssk/s1600/Map.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Germanic Jutes, Saxons and Angles are advancing from South East</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
They didn't mind much the peasants' reaction though. They kind of liked these Ænglisc, who probably needed to evolve, like the Romans, barbarians at first but then creators of the civilization they admired most and to which they felt they belonged.<br />
<br />
The entire old and new friends' group was made of tolerant, open-minded youths who knew that what happened to mortals wasn't entirely controlled by the power of the gods.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7RG9884MGhn3NgZkmv8W3YyRXQcdY-AZa9G3ez304BqwkaPPgkNwJCF2UjQSorsaxI4r2EJrywi5CmNKSxqBHtOHzLw4Ydo3h1yoLe4OuNPIslJrqAK8b-MLYGvHCj7KdiGEHMV10iIU/s1600/Anglo-SaxonsOPT.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7RG9884MGhn3NgZkmv8W3YyRXQcdY-AZa9G3ez304BqwkaPPgkNwJCF2UjQSorsaxI4r2EJrywi5CmNKSxqBHtOHzLw4Ydo3h1yoLe4OuNPIslJrqAK8b-MLYGvHCj7KdiGEHMV10iIU/s1600/Anglo-SaxonsOPT.jpeg" /></a></div><br />
That these Ænglisc were preparing a future for their fatherland, they deemed very unlikely and even the remotest idea of it troubled their heart.<br />
<br />
But, they were disciplined Roman Celts, ready to face what the gods and Fate had preordained - and what the Christian deities eventually had preordained too (the Trinity and the Saints) - with brave hearts, pure souls and all their desire to live <i>this</i> life's joys - not the <i>other</i> life's joys - as much and as long as they could.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial,Tahoma,Helvetica,FreeSans,sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;">ψ</span></span></div><br />
Now it is unfortunately time to relate, dear M, how a dark corner of the huge hall was also revealed to my deranged mind's eyes.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial,Tahoma,Helvetica,FreeSans,sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;">ψ</span></span> </div><br />
Sitting at a table, and drinking plain water, two black-clad monks (one with a hawk-like face) had been watching the whole performance attentively.<br />
<br />
<style type="text/css">
p { margin-bottom: 0.21c
</style>Their dark, circled eyes expressed deep, unquenchable hate.<br />
<br />
</div>Maniushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14545094229192176272noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8416295330617107165.post-54721796563495713252011-03-19T00:20:00.038+01:002011-07-09T15:46:50.755+02:00Lords of Heaven and Hell<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSLeo6j_N_srWNowavH9VINKOZK8-JrMKeSZxJQ4m-HcEUWTRLwXI4hxU1y0alyHjoyWHtZ6SaBE7hOqp5bUQc1G2gkKqze_Lx8s8UY369ta1Ac7NnHTpvVfp_ctz6bQZvZUXx7HKfPbk/s1600/Alma-Tadema_Unconscious_Rivals_1893OPT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSLeo6j_N_srWNowavH9VINKOZK8-JrMKeSZxJQ4m-HcEUWTRLwXI4hxU1y0alyHjoyWHtZ6SaBE7hOqp5bUQc1G2gkKqze_Lx8s8UY369ta1Ac7NnHTpvVfp_ctz6bQZvZUXx7HKfPbk/s1600/Alma-Tadema_Unconscious_Rivals_1893OPT.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two rival ancient Roman women. A Latin (left), a Romano-Celtic (right). Alma Tadema, 1893 </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Giorgio was bewildered. His dreams were turning into hallucinations, clear evidence of cerebral derangement, which hit him not only during sleep but also in the course of his most precious daily rite: his morning shower. <br />
<br />
The bathtub space in his bathroom being too small (57x26 inches) he had opted for a large shower booth (instead of a small tub) which thanks to modern technology afforded a few of the conveniences an ancient Roman thermal bath (see the painting below) offered to those antique folks.<br />
<br />
An ideal place for him to pursue gymnastics and meditation - his shower sessions of course seldom lasting less than 1 hour (to the consternation of his entire family).<br />
<br />
Whatever he did (or wrote) during the day was nothing but the result of such start-of-day thermal occupation, it being well known how solutions pop up when we are relaxed rather than when we're actively striving for them.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn82Foe0rSEEzYtMLqJ_SyYq2_WLRR70D06O7CNiAmApjmZlHMDVn_2jtjHqPMYJrnvzc1tKNqat7sgC3gMNkTTCF6YWs_oLrtBME3AgIEj6B1X8ARhb7_gL2t9D2krOAZsWsfdRwgaxs/s1600/Frigidarium_1890.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn82Foe0rSEEzYtMLqJ_SyYq2_WLRR70D06O7CNiAmApjmZlHMDVn_2jtjHqPMYJrnvzc1tKNqat7sgC3gMNkTTCF6YWs_oLrtBME3AgIEj6B1X8ARhb7_gL2t9D2krOAZsWsfdRwgaxs/s1600/Frigidarium_1890.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A women's Roman thermal bath. Alma Tadema 1890</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Now it turned - during one of the coldest days of 2011, while he naked and wet had just got out of his sacred booth, the heating off (and the bathroom window ajar) - he stopped as if he was struck by paralysis in the middle of the bathroom.<br />
<br />
How long he had remained like that in that weird posture, he couldn't say. All he knew though was that his mind was flying, flying high over that peculiar and almost alien world: 6th century CE Britannia.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPd-chdkQ8XSjGADUUbvs4kDLwOc6y0ATEOud2tBc71iQtvyF8wJDMMCqFRJT_ukTqwpw1xNhE8AZsXsSV_jIpCiWFyxe4XiK7tlIwQVOudAoSlHf70hozS9MMMCh7OQG8RAa6tyziXFw/s1600/MassimosSuburaOPT1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPd-chdkQ8XSjGADUUbvs4kDLwOc6y0ATEOud2tBc71iQtvyF8wJDMMCqFRJT_ukTqwpw1xNhE8AZsXsSV_jIpCiWFyxe4XiK7tlIwQVOudAoSlHf70hozS9MMMCh7OQG8RAa6tyziXFw/s1600/MassimosSuburaOPT1.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Piazza della Suburra in the Monti rione, once the crossroads of Subura</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Two days later he called Massimo late at night. His ex-student was strolling in piazza della Suburra (see a daytime picture above), in ancient times the main crossroads of Rome's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Subura">lower-class district</a>, a role suppressed by the construction of Via Cavour at the end of the 1800s, a noisy arterial road that was like a wound (or a deep welt) on the flesh of the city's ancient heart.<br />
<br />
Giorgio: "It's crazy! I later fell heavily over the washbasin and injured my right eyebrow which caused bleeding over the bathroom floor. If Flavia didn't arrive I would have caught pneumonia. I am brought to distraction Massimo. And as if my eerie night ghosts weren't enough, my head has been spinning in day time as well: at the table, in front of the TV and so on. Like a drunken stupor that scared Flavia to the extent that she called Francesco Ghini, you know, that shrink you also … after she..."<br />
<br />
Massimo snapped: "Got it." <br />
<br />
Giorgio: “Ok. And while glued to the TV following the Japanese nuclear tragedy, the living room started to spin like a merry-go-round and I collapsed on the sofa. Then I <i>saw</i> them again.”<br />
<br />
Massimo's tone was casual: “The bunch of friends?”<br />
<br />
Giorgio: “<i>Them!</i> A lot has happened since I last told you about these ... <i>creatures</i> from my imagination, this being my idea at present. As soon as I got back home from the hospital I sent you a fully-detailed e-mail about these Romano-Celtic - how they finally reached their destination and all. One thing, that Greek you know...”<br />
<br />
Massimo's tone now had some weight: “The Greek called Pavols?”<br />
<br />
Giorgio: “Hey, you're now taking my stuff seriously right when I'm thinking it's all mind chicanery? Yes, Pavlos who was standing on a strange mound towards sunrise, shrouded in the fog with birds trees and marshes all around, looking in the distance as it is his custom as if he had come from the seas and there he was bound to return, well, his Greek <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chlamys">chlamys</a> worn sideways-on with a clasp at the shoulder, he was surrounded by the buddies who seemed like a court around their enchanter.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRwcJtV29K4PqmcKvwWJ6FvFK7f-Dy2wyGucZN7Yc-aSZoJDUklEralc0s0asx7OFpkX4zZ2JnB6UAqNtpM4dOWt4jPyMDlnmqj0HCsL4oVKMTtf-bbN4ZPF2yTn9Og3tsMURz3zX-lzk/s1600/The+WashOPT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRwcJtV29K4PqmcKvwWJ6FvFK7f-Dy2wyGucZN7Yc-aSZoJDUklEralc0s0asx7OFpkX4zZ2JnB6UAqNtpM4dOWt4jPyMDlnmqj0HCsL4oVKMTtf-bbN4ZPF2yTn9Og3tsMURz3zX-lzk/s1600/The+WashOPT.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The writer imagined this to be a sunrise on Britain's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_wash">The Wash</a>. Click for <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ewanrayment/2067631845/sizes/o/">attribution</a> and to enlarge</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
What a beautiful land! The men wore Roman tunics, and the women, I'll hide no detail, wore similar tunics so soaked with rain they adhered to their healthy young bodies.<br />
<br />
The weirdest thing though, Pavlos kept repeating two sentences several times in his melodious language. <i>Several times</i> a Ma' !!"<br />
<br />
Massimo began to shout to rouse some reaction from his Prof, his voice tone having though at the same time become more alert:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>“ARE YOU NUTS PROF? What <i>the hell</i> did your darn Greek say ok? Will you lemme <i>understand</i> ok? Willya?”</blockquote><br />
Taken aback and needing a deep breath Giorgio finally said: “Ok a Ma'. Two sentences, that Pavlos pronounced clearly over and over, the buds repeating them as in a choir, or in a sort of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cabbala#Christian_Kabbalists">Neoplatonic cabbala</a> <i>frenzy</i> [<a href="http://manofroma.wordpress.com/">the writer</a>: I'll draw a veil on their mad dancing this time]."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVe8QriHDQJPHJgaKlZXgId2Gau-qELDMOqixYcf3yg57unxUwj1nEjqLLkfhJnWrg2tFEuDjne96VA2Sxu_MwP2dOEoch0LdMsDfgVbBJJBdWbohbwq_-x_nl2JNLzto1SQeei24Qpaw/s1600/HermesTrismegistusCauc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVe8QriHDQJPHJgaKlZXgId2Gau-qELDMOqixYcf3yg57unxUwj1nEjqLLkfhJnWrg2tFEuDjne96VA2Sxu_MwP2dOEoch0LdMsDfgVbBJJBdWbohbwq_-x_nl2JNLzto1SQeei24Qpaw/s1600/HermesTrismegistusCauc.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hermes Trismegistus, via Wikipedia</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The Greek thus well articulated:<br />
<blockquote><b style="color: #660000;">“ὁ τού σώματος ὓπνοϛ τῆϛ ψυχῆς νῆψιϛ, <br />
<br />
καὶ ἡ κάμμυσιϛ τῶν ὁφθαλμῶν ἀληθινὴ ὃρασις”</b></blockquote>The overall meaning is not entirely clear to me:<br />
<br />
<blockquote><i style="color: #660000;"><b>the sleep</b></i>, ὓπνοϛ, <i style="color: #660000;"><b>of the body</b></i>, τού σώματος, now 'νῆψιϛ', well, escaping me... <i style="color: #660000;"><b>of the soul</b></i>, τῆϛ ψυχῆς, <i style="color: #660000;"><b>and the shutting</b></i>, κάμμυσιϛ, <i style="color: #660000;"><b>of eyes</b></i>, τῶν ὁφθαλμῶν, <i style="color: #660000;"><b>the true</b></i>, ἀληθινὴ, <i style="color: #660000;"><b>sight of the mind</b></i>, ὃρασις”</blockquote>Massimo: "νῆψις is a term used by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poimandres">Poimandres</a>, a sort of intelligence attribute of God - thousands of years old Egyptian wisdom stuff. νῆψις means <i>sobriety</i> but in this context should signify <i>sober watchfulness.</i>" <br />
<br />
Never amazed enough by the way the pupil was getting progressively superior to the master, Giorgio had though an instant of perplexity: why Massimo was now into <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corpus_Hermeticum">Hermetica</a>? All he knew was that Massimo had gotten into the depths of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cybernetics">Cybernetics</a>, and was considering how <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pythagoreanism">Pythagoreanism</a> could enter the equation a bit, but nothing more. He drove away like a mind shadow and exclaimed:<br />
<br />
"Bravo. So what Pavlos said now makes more sense: <br />
<br />
<blockquote style="color: #660000;"><b><i>"The sleep of the body is the sober watchfulness of the soul; </i></b></blockquote><blockquote style="color: #660000;"><b><i>and the shutting of eyes the true Sight of the mind."</i></b></blockquote><br />
And right there he was hit by the same words he'd just said. His anxious silence was more eloquent than any word. <br />
<br />
Then Massimo, his voice colourless, uttered:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>“Yes Prof, Pavlos appears to be warning you that the 'ghosts' you're (day) dreaming about are <i>real people </i>and no mind chicanery. More importantly, although so far totally incomprehensible, you seem to be the <i>trait-d'union</i> between two worlds ...”.</blockquote><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbsMwj5LuvGNxqVsnnsX67tkXXQCZHkXQbADXT_aXEnc5cPaBglP4ljJpXViZiejfdif2KVAxe1H14HoF7Vd7N7GPfdGDJXJsfGqIrlgOW532fS0CqGLNfKOjZmYqs4DEzfNWFFY0B-BI/s1600/200px-Rome_rione_I_monti_logo.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbsMwj5LuvGNxqVsnnsX67tkXXQCZHkXQbADXT_aXEnc5cPaBglP4ljJpXViZiejfdif2KVAxe1H14HoF7Vd7N7GPfdGDJXJsfGqIrlgOW532fS0CqGLNfKOjZmYqs4DEzfNWFFY0B-BI/s1600/200px-Rome_rione_I_monti_logo.png" /></a></div><br />
<br />
A weird pause followed. <br />
<br />
The chatting (and rowdy) Romans filled the Monti streets with the clamour of youth. Roman streets & piazzas offer <i>movida</i> day and night but after 1-2 AM it's mostly the young who crowd bars squares and church steps. <br />
<br />
“I want you to know, - Massimo resumed the conversation - that it is a few days now that I got 'interested' in your … problems. Btw, I saw her again at Finnegan's you know (see picture below), that Welsh-Irish cutie I told you about, her name's Deirdre.”<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeE3VZOcseF6yPodIZ7MNAGFwzvLQcFLRzYD21aYmp6J_uv7PomW08iTe5kIQ08eqkhOhW4PlegElOs9mKvulz8t4kHODpENg3lg3VX5KLD6LoUkeS8-ox8lbl8mlMr88fH66a5FXl5vE/s1600/FinnegansOPT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeE3VZOcseF6yPodIZ7MNAGFwzvLQcFLRzYD21aYmp6J_uv7PomW08iTe5kIQ08eqkhOhW4PlegElOs9mKvulz8t4kHODpENg3lg3VX5KLD6LoUkeS8-ox8lbl8mlMr88fH66a5FXl5vE/s1600/FinnegansOPT.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
"The Nordic wench you met in a chat room? A Celtic? Why are you telling me this right now ..."<br />
<br />
“She unfortunately .... No time to explain! - Massimo snapped - Gotta rush home, Ciao Gio'.”<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">ψ</div><br />
Switching off his phone and hurrying along the via Leonina (see the satellite view below) he reached his apartment on the third floor of the central building in piazza Madonna dei Monti, civic 6 (see picture following the satellite one). After rummaging through his pockets and finally succeeding in opening his apartment door he rushed to his Linux box and switched it on.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisgd2KWdUEznrBwdE7-txY7UGbULX9Gw6X_P87AdilF0vTxD4qXvezMXn4hI-fiFRwKU3FaXQXh3t-U4zvQVMEq0pqfdZ0qrTrhMdPuN8PPJLUk1_FBLoYS_3kNxodaXadobPxQCscKKo/s1600/MassimosSuburaOPT.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisgd2KWdUEznrBwdE7-txY7UGbULX9Gw6X_P87AdilF0vTxD4qXvezMXn4hI-fiFRwKU3FaXQXh3t-U4zvQVMEq0pqfdZ0qrTrhMdPuN8PPJLUk1_FBLoYS_3kNxodaXadobPxQCscKKo/s1600/MassimosSuburaOPT.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Massimo's Suburra. Click to <a href="http://maps.google.it/?ie=UTF8&ll=41.894923,12.491529&spn=0.000673,0.001742&t=h&z=20">zoom</a> into Massimo's world. Disclaimer: Massimo <br />
(and Giorgio) are fictitious characters. Altho the Finnegan exists Massimo being a ghost from MoR's<br />
mind how could he live in the bulding indicated in the Piazza above, in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monti_%28rione_of_Rome%29">rione Monti</a> Google maps?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
He needed his faithful companion, <a href="http://www.backtrack-linux.org/">Backtrack Linux</a>, to make a few checks. He knew what he was doing wasn't right but the stakes were too great. Such a sophisticated weapon, totally free and a real <i>must</i> for top computer jocks, deep in his heart he hoped it wasn't about to uncover what would have aborted the tiny buds of hope in the context of an after all contemptible life.<br />
<br />
When he was with Deirdre at the pub, after an hour of sheer delight and deep emotional exchange, he had been chilled by a couple of sentences she'd said.<br />
<br />
The inner purity of her soul seemed beyond any mendacity, and she was so terribly attractive, her tight jeans showing perfect curves and long, well shaped legs. But it was <i>that</i> angelic face of hers (God and gods!), so pale blue-green-eyed & freckled and expressing like an exotic blend of the mystical, the sensual and the innocent - something he absolutely had no defence against.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiitdFYmulQDWi88Zb4PKdDSouEQ8XwDr1s7YOPRuzSFv1HzAUPWjDcmfpH1XVQMM97CdzUvkKy_p2o3UYNu6cO4d00uMowzz_cpr4lnL8EYsIEMtXhstMsIkNGNcGEGmEaZaX9OfyZxdc/s1600/Massimos_House_OPT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiitdFYmulQDWi88Zb4PKdDSouEQ8XwDr1s7YOPRuzSFv1HzAUPWjDcmfpH1XVQMM97CdzUvkKy_p2o3UYNu6cO4d00uMowzz_cpr4lnL8EYsIEMtXhstMsIkNGNcGEGmEaZaX9OfyZxdc/s1600/Massimos_House_OPT.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Massimo's building is central in piazza Madonna dei Monti</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
All had happened so fast. He had found her in an <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/IRC_chat">IRC chat</a> room a little more than a week ago. She typed very slowly for an English-mother tongue person, he had thought, but her words had an ol' time <i>patina</i>. Soon after they had met twice at Finnegan's, the Irish pub located at the <i>Salita dei Borgia</i> (have a look <a href="http://www.javinavarro.es/blog/archivo/2008/03/">here</a>).<br />
<br />
Like most things in down town Rome the <i>Salita</i> underpassing the so-called Borgia palace corresponded to <i>vicus sceleratus</i> (or 'wicked street') so named since the time (535 BCE) when <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tullia_%28daughter_of_Servius_Tullius%29">Tullia</a> - the Roman king <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Servius_Tullius#Later_life_and_death">Servius Tullius</a>' perfidious daughter and future (and forever cursed!) last Queen of Rome - had driven her chariot right over her father's body <i>on that very road</i>.<br />
<br />
"Lords of Heaven and Hell!" Massimo was now praying (& cursing) in the deep of his soul.<br />
<br />
(Tullia and his ex wife Giulia at one end were now one in his imagination; mysterious - and dangerous? - Deirdre being instead at the other end of that long line that separates / connects good and evil).<br />
<br />
This Subura thing - he thought - and his whole new life since he'd been dumped - all now appeared to him so funereal and gloomy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsFPN3QdoCasJfFDYx2lr_CIY_Q0hLkQRRftU-cMmnXAV-A29bdS3mqlK1wQL3WQmUEXyaVX0uLrP4OIizupux7NDHy2s-GuL88hOajq5DhPr2xLUaXFp5KnK4lbk4RZbhILmDjFi8jUM/s1600/Backtrack.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsFPN3QdoCasJfFDYx2lr_CIY_Q0hLkQRRftU-cMmnXAV-A29bdS3mqlK1wQL3WQmUEXyaVX0uLrP4OIizupux7NDHy2s-GuL88hOajq5DhPr2xLUaXFp5KnK4lbk4RZbhILmDjFi8jUM/s1600/Backtrack.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Linux Backtrack 4 R2. A dark, powerful jewel in the hands of a good hacker</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
He then thought about Giorgio. Once a solid structure he was about to disintegrate to the point that he didn't recognize him any more. Not that Giorgio didn't have reasons to suffer a break down. "Something is brewing" he had once said. But what? He felt a pang in his heart. All he knew was that he owed him <i>so much, </i>he having been like a father after all to him.<br />
<br />
Massimo's ideas had started fermenting the day he had met his Prof lecturing a group of students in the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roman_Forum"><i>Forum Romanum</i></a>.<br />
<br />
It was a rainy day. Rome is so smelly when it rains. Giorgio was younger and Massimo was terribly hit by Giorgio's passion and clarity. After that crucial encounter which happened 15 years ago, the Prof had become his mentor and special friend. He basically passed unto him this love, hard to phrase it, this <i>hedonistic</i> <i>craving</i> for knowledge that had never since abandoned his soul and which comforted him in all his sorrows.<br />
<br />
The thought went again to Giulia, that self-centred, ambitious <i>slut </i>who had dumped him since she deemed him a loser (and probably she was right).<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">ψ </div><br />
<br />
Loser or not, he felt it was high time to help his Prof now that he was sinking. Well, now that they were <i>both </i>sinking.<br />
<br />
A sudden wave of energy pervaded Massimo, once a great soccer player, now a nobody. His name meant 'the greatest' in Latin. Ok, not the greatest of course, but finished, ah not yet, he having not many doubts about it either.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">ψ </div><br />
He started his trace GSM locations software on his Backtrack box and soon realised Deirdre would be home in no less than 20 minutes.<br />
<br />
He had all his good time to calmly read Giorgio's mail on that crazy bunch that had just landed in Albion, the land of faeries (and of rebel queens).<br />
<br />
He began reading, his mind focusing, sharper than ever.</div>Maniushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14545094229192176272noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8416295330617107165.post-2558132737533379142011-03-01T00:11:00.046+01:002011-07-04T10:14:58.251+02:00Manius found. A ship sailing towards Albien. Massimo in the Subura<style type="text/css">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicnnuZu-qdZPzPRv82b-lyVFQ-31Mmm9P-zD6sauOQBRJ9qDnRn9iIVGIxWyyECYwUs_heDMjbLDDlp5Sxo5s1AIk_ahb448zAN3n6zFMn4r4c5dbagjM5pkPzayfc_suG90iz6SRxT4s/s1600/Salita+dei+Borgia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicnnuZu-qdZPzPRv82b-lyVFQ-31Mmm9P-zD6sauOQBRJ9qDnRn9iIVGIxWyyECYwUs_heDMjbLDDlp5Sxo5s1AIk_ahb448zAN3n6zFMn4r4c5dbagjM5pkPzayfc_suG90iz6SRxT4s/s320/Salita+dei+Borgia.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Salita Dei Borgia. Subura. Rome. <br />
Click <a href="http://www.javinavarro.es/blog/archivo/2008/03/">here</a> for credits</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It's time to confess that he who is writing conceals (and shares) within his soul the Genius of Manius Papirius Lentulus. What is a Genius? It is the numinous every ancient Roman harbours in his soul (a woman has the Juno), a bit like a guardian spirit or what the Christians since Manius' time will soon call a guardian angel.<br />
<br />
Names may change, but basically ...<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">ψ</div><br />
Hey, how the heck can a Genius be shared by both a 62-years-old man of today and an ancient Roman soldier of 35 trapped in ancient Britain?<br />
(and, what’s more, living in a parallel universe even if almost identical to ours?)<br />
<br />
Hey, why the heck do you people think I know.<br />
<br />
<div align="CENTER">ψ</div><br />
Giorgio, he who is writing, has had that horrible dream again last night.<br />
<br />
In the subsequent evening he is phoning Massimo, a black-haired 33-year-old athletic Roman, once an excellent soccer player and Giorgio's former pupil (and now friend).<br />
<br />
Massimo, dumped by his wife (and not holding together much since then) has moved to a small flat in Monti, Rome, a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rioni_of_Rome"><i>rione</i></a> corresponding more or less to ancient <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Subura">Subura</a>, the slum district of ancient Rome, (in)famous for its dubious tabernae, brothels and gangs [more on Subura <a href="http://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Gazetteer/Places/Europe/Italy/Lazio/Roma/Rome/_Texts/PLATOP*/Subura.html">here</a>]. <br />
<br />
The place, today clean and fashionable, still hides incidentally a few dubious locals and the police mostly turn a blind eye: ancient traditions are hard to die in this country, you know. Out of respect. And out of do-nothingness ...<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">ψ</div><br />
Giorgio has tried quite a lot during the last 6 months to help Massimo move on. But recently it is him that is calling his ex-student for help. <br />
<br />
Giorgio: “Always these horrible dreams! A few nights ago the death of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theodoric_the_Great">Theodoric the Great</a>, this old man, his white hair all over his big chest protected by a plate crammed with jewels, lying on a sumptuous bed placed at the centre of an immensely vivid mosaic.<br />
<br />
With the calm, unwavering voice of the true leader Theodoric was recommending to the weeping Goths that they should love the Roman senate and the Roman people, and that they should appease the Eastern emperor through their deeds and with the help of God.<br />
<br />
Again, two nights ago, I dreamt about the perverse though beautiful face of a woman dancer, then about the whole of her luscious body since she was dancing almost naked all around me and finally ended up morphing into a princess or queen. Aah, she looked shrewd, perfidious wearing her radiant Byzantine attire.<br />
<br />
So you see, my dreams change. Only two elements in them never do."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtc2Ljf9aXQgDXyX9bm6C34YDyWpTfYE1DiBbJMClETR_nYbh0Qbn3h-hqA6xXKSx6ShQT3mj0arfocQUGvBo5vO6oGjlEhJUtAtFMv8wx4GxF7vFO-zV6TIRRaNYGV-BDyszDHAgE6U/s1600/Theodora.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtc2Ljf9aXQgDXyX9bm6C34YDyWpTfYE1DiBbJMClETR_nYbh0Qbn3h-hqA6xXKSx6ShQT3mj0arfocQUGvBo5vO6oGjlEhJUtAtFMv8wx4GxF7vFO-zV6TIRRaNYGV-BDyszDHAgE6U/s320/Theodora.jpg" width="246" /></a></div><br />
Massimo: “La roscia and the fricken soldier?”<br />
<br />
[<i>roscia</i> = read-headed woman in Roman dialect, pronounced 'rosha'; <i>fricken</i>, you may know already] <br />
<br />
Giorgio: “Yes, la roscia and that young ancient Roman living in a tower with marshes infested by wolves and blondish savages all around. I know it's been one month that I've been exhausting you with my nightmares.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlq_DTTsiJUiRG3Jy-qoNruzeapPSdB12mKxZ5ip9q3VDyTXZ6HjgTAWsJDaOgY4ISCmqvwTqLbmM-ewRdgNqdRwfxw75Tvxr8sJJkK-G-XmZ2WbUSaDp3H8mxj8ssN5V1gcCZqUZyK4w/s1600/Witch2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlq_DTTsiJUiRG3Jy-qoNruzeapPSdB12mKxZ5ip9q3VDyTXZ6HjgTAWsJDaOgY4ISCmqvwTqLbmM-ewRdgNqdRwfxw75Tvxr8sJJkK-G-XmZ2WbUSaDp3H8mxj8ssN5V1gcCZqUZyK4w/s320/Witch2.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
Last night <i>la</i> <i>roscia</i>, as blue-skinned as ever, was wearing a strange gray wool dress with a green veil that covered her neck and partly her face, a hunting horn hanging from her belt. She suddenly looked at me with eyes that pierced my soul so violently I felt dizzy and hit my head on a tree. <i>Hercle!</i> I cried I dunno why. Surrounded by hordes of cats she then began to twirl around a trunk with chains fastened to its ends and bronze balls hanging from the chains.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">Massimo:</span> “Ah Prof, sure you're not depressed like me? Since Giulia left my life is shit.”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">Giorgio: "Daje a Ma' … I'm ok, really. In any case I thought the read-head was about to hit me with the bronze balls but my limbs got frozen and I woke up wet from sweat and couldn't get back to sleep until I took some melatonin and was soon snoring like a boar and dreaming again - Flavia told me. </span><br />
<br />
And then I saw them.”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">Massimo:</span> “You saw who.”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">Giorgio: </span>“A small group of people on the deck of a light Roman merchant vessel, "about 100 feet long and 20 feet in the beam" (see image below and <a href="http://paulinespiratesandprivateers.blogspot.com/2010/05/history-ancient-merchants-and-rich.html">credits</a>) leaving the port of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vada_Sabatia">Vada Sabatia</a>, not far from today's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Genoa">Genoa</a>, on the North West Italian coast. Men and women on their 30s dressed in the ancient manner and appearing as long time buddies. The weird part, it's as if I knew them already in some way.”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVcNTICmyrWY20576fnE-oygGowSjgbHfFY1ikv52gsmGZ3zxymUdM9695dTssd6LTkj7rJEmLjXJ40WTZiDsx2fCykoIRp1nLBihTINIUKVCa-flzWrTRvo680Js6xCqxUZMGAPA1kWY/s1600/Roman+MerchantOPT.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVcNTICmyrWY20576fnE-oygGowSjgbHfFY1ikv52gsmGZ3zxymUdM9695dTssd6LTkj7rJEmLjXJ40WTZiDsx2fCykoIRp1nLBihTINIUKVCa-flzWrTRvo680Js6xCqxUZMGAPA1kWY/s320/Roman+MerchantOPT.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Roman merchant vessel</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
Massimo:<i> </i>"What?" <br />
<br />
Giorgio:<i> "</i>Yes, then all changed and we were in a place similar to the north French coast, light rain, wind, silvery water all around. I was on deck too trying to get closer to the buddies' group but again my limbs were frozen. <br />
<br />
I then called them, <i>called</i> them and kept yelling the same words over and over."<br />
<br />
Massimo: "Which words."<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">Giorgio:</span><i> "Anglia in orientem spectans! Anglia in orientem spectans! </i><br />
And also: <br />
<i>Septentrionalis Icenorum regio! Septentrionalis Icenorum regio! </i><br />
<br />
What does all this mean for Chrissake!!"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV6sbCj5fp02TbV8OpHq0eJPzLUPhyphenhyphenhinPxUizh1G1BpAI0gpZ6O9d4IINnrctYR1F1doYbJXfzpxDiSRFY_rg8VUvirYlRVPCWQzBe0IPGzcg0bfOwyeNqoW8J2aE7oXi4kDT56mUgTY/s1600/East+Anglia+and+the+Wash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV6sbCj5fp02TbV8OpHq0eJPzLUPhyphenhyphenhinPxUizh1G1BpAI0gpZ6O9d4IINnrctYR1F1doYbJXfzpxDiSRFY_rg8VUvirYlRVPCWQzBe0IPGzcg0bfOwyeNqoW8J2aE7oXi4kDT56mUgTY/s320/East+Anglia+and+the+Wash.jpg" width="269" /></a><span style="font-style: normal;">Massimo:</span> "Easy Prof, it's simple: Anglia gazing towards the East. In the northern area of the land of the Iceni."<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">Giorgio:</span><i> "</i>That I understood, the question though being: what <i>the hell</i> is this all about. I have checked. It's somewhere in Britain on the eastern coast (near Hunstanton?) where the Wash is located, a square-mouthed bay where Norfolk meets Lincolnshire - I read on the Wiki [see images on the left and below]. I feel like something is brewing.<br />
<br />
I mean, if you have spare time and wanna forget Giulia for a while (it'd do you good) why don't you help me understand?"<br />
<br />
Massimo kept silent for a while.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRCDK9JKfBaZPbEOTSfS-dlNiWEervLQBLCKfayoMvUYaH-zfkjFz8lFk51fqiBlDGNE-OV0LuYNtQjeGZWmY3qD_pXm7jdmKYO1YOQmR5t3e0FaO1pvspBaqDzUxnuVbKqJQiz7nvdvU/s1600/Washmap.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRCDK9JKfBaZPbEOTSfS-dlNiWEervLQBLCKfayoMvUYaH-zfkjFz8lFk51fqiBlDGNE-OV0LuYNtQjeGZWmY3qD_pXm7jdmKYO1YOQmR5t3e0FaO1pvspBaqDzUxnuVbKqJQiz7nvdvU/s320/Washmap.png" width="309" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Wash bay today</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">Giorgio: "What I forgot to say, five new passengers joined us</span> when we were leaving France, I think, ie Gaul. Two elegant women (two Syrian courtesans I heard), two men clad in black and red, a bit vicious looking and speaking to nobody (one with a hawk-like face), and a blue-eyed good natured Greek merchant in his 30s as well who was bound to South East Britannia to sell his goods (olives, olive oil & resinated wine) to the Romano-Celtic population.<br />
<br />
Because of the wind I heard only fragments of their names: Ch’ae…Rich..., Phi, ...Jen....L..And...Ze...Dou...Daf....An...Cyb...etc. Very confusing. But Pavlos, that name I heard clearly (the Greek perhaps?)<br />
<br />
And when I was shouting those words one of the buddies suddenly brightened up (Rich?), looked at me in astonishment and began to shout back even louder, at the top of his lungs: <br />
<br />
ANGLIA IN ORIENTEM SPECTANS! ANGLIA IN ORIENTEM SPECTAANS! SEPTENTRIONALIS ICENORUM REGIOOOOOO!<br />
<br />
(For God's<i> sake</i> I thought). <br />
<br />
Then a few of them started to yell those same words with a weird measured pulse so that they could both sing and dance: <br />
<br />
ANG GLI <br />
NORIE NTEM<br />
SPEC TANS<br />
SPEC SPEC TANS TANS<br />
TANS TANS TAANS GLI<br />
TANS TANS ICEE TAAAAAAAAANS!!<br />
<br />
(Oh my<i> God</i> I thought). <br />
<br />
But after a while we were all dancing like mad and drinking idromele - the girls being not at all bad and a big amphora of that honey wine having soon appeared as if by magic (the Greek merchant? As soon as he had joined the journey, his pensive eyes always looking in the distance, he had appeared like the eternally resourceful Ulysses ...)<br />
<br />
One last funny (but horrible) detail: when I woke up I was <i>drunk</i> and my legs tired <i>as if I had danced all night</i>!"<br />
<br />
Silence for a few moments.<br />
<br />
Then Massimo,<span class="redirectedfrom" style="margin-left: 7px;">loweringly,</span> uttered his words:<br />
<br />
"Prof, you are nuts like me or even worse ... Yesterday I saw Giulia in via del Corso with that motherfucker. They were shopping - Armani, Gucci, you name it, the jackass is filthy rich. I was about to reach them and squash that bastard's face like a pumpkin but instead headed home and got drunk. I can't go on like that for long I suppose ...”<br />
<br />
Massimo switched off his phone and went out.<br />
<br />
He felt angry and depressed. Even his good ex teacher was now giving clear signs of insanity. The final straw, beyond any doubt.<br />
<br />
He spent a long time in an Irish pub close by (Finnegan's, at the <i>Salita dei Borgia</i>, see picture at the top of the page) after which he found himself out in the cool of the night.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">ψ </div><br />
Less windows were lit now.<br />
<br />
The rione was quieter. <br />
<br />
A drunk whore was walking unhurriedly down the dimly lit <i>Salita</i>. <br />
<br />
A cat was croaking like a frog behind a trash container.<br />
<div align="CENTER"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT">Strange metamorphoses, in the deep of a night full of chaos (and sorrow).</div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtXsY2n3aB6STO4CR3azJLlXXLMYm74hCeNGMXegoFknqO5wipN1wX5wwB1czV4I8dfCBTg8CY6EuSIfM5eYreBEU9FAOtG8VBpIrFaOt5WSlxFqy4fur-IKsrxfBARLDrAwBXfVgPBU/s1600/NotteNumen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtXsY2n3aB6STO4CR3azJLlXXLMYm74hCeNGMXegoFknqO5wipN1wX5wwB1czV4I8dfCBTg8CY6EuSIfM5eYreBEU9FAOtG8VBpIrFaOt5WSlxFqy4fur-IKsrxfBARLDrAwBXfVgPBU/s320/NotteNumen.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click for <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/burningmax/2137444674/sizes/o/in/photostream/">credits</a> and to enlarge</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<i>Lo osservava da tempo<br />
nume dagli occhi impassibili,<br />
le parche, mani rugose,<br />
filando la lana ...</i><br />
<br />
[A numen had since long<br />
Been watching him, eyes impassive. <br />
The Parcae, wrinkled hands,<br />
Spinning their thread ...]<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div>Maniushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14545094229192176272noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8416295330617107165.post-50347378123762991952011-02-15T00:51:00.017+01:002011-07-09T14:40:20.294+02:00A readheaded witch disappears in the woods. The Angles. An angel smiling<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7RG9884MGhn3NgZkmv8W3YyRXQcdY-AZa9G3ez304BqwkaPPgkNwJCF2UjQSorsaxI4r2EJrywi5CmNKSxqBHtOHzLw4Ydo3h1yoLe4OuNPIslJrqAK8b-MLYGvHCj7KdiGEHMV10iIU/s1600/Anglo-SaxonsOPT.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7RG9884MGhn3NgZkmv8W3YyRXQcdY-AZa9G3ez304BqwkaPPgkNwJCF2UjQSorsaxI4r2EJrywi5CmNKSxqBHtOHzLw4Ydo3h1yoLe4OuNPIslJrqAK8b-MLYGvHCj7KdiGEHMV10iIU/s1600/Anglo-SaxonsOPT.jpeg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
MANIUS QUINTO SAL.<br />
<br />
Dear Quintus, never friendship is so dear as in times of distress.<br />
<br />
I have found a big box of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Codex#History">codices</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scroll">scrolls</a> together with a few amphorae of decent Gallic wine in a Romano-British farm set on fire by the barbarians. All had been well concealed under the cellar floor.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;"><i>Vita hominis sine literis mors est</i>, </span>or, man's life without learning is death.<br />
<br />
And yet, when I look at these unclean, uneducated German Angles, I cannot but admire some virtues they have (and we haven't any more). And they were after all often able to rout the Romano-British. Although when they see the huge buildings the Romans built they think we are a people of giants!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRuJ2ZKmNvRGhjecJnupLtiXs5GtS7zDvQyBHnJtXt4HfwaUgIZpRNFJOBGlgEGC-GkdUYl6zVIvdRkKwPv67Und8b0wFxwubap5DtRJ6mQZUKw0qA_u8UxKj6PncmfAT0ySbZ_HK1ssk/s1600/Map.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRuJ2ZKmNvRGhjecJnupLtiXs5GtS7zDvQyBHnJtXt4HfwaUgIZpRNFJOBGlgEGC-GkdUYl6zVIvdRkKwPv67Und8b0wFxwubap5DtRJ6mQZUKw0qA_u8UxKj6PncmfAT0ySbZ_HK1ssk/s1600/Map.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Britain in 550 CE. Manius is somewhere with the Angles. <a href="http://www.timeref.com/saxons1.htm">Credits</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The question Quintus now arises: can man live fully in total ignorance? Or even, <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">nihil scire vita jucundissima?</span></i> 'Tis the merriest life to know nothing?<br />
<br />
Speaking of Celts I met a strange red-head in the woods around my tower full of marshes, bears, wolves and eagles. She was collecting herbs and berries and had a curiously coloured & scanty dress, her pale skin adorned with paint and tattoo motifs all over.<br />
<br />
On seeing me she shrieked and disappeared like a night bird but I kept feeling her eyes on me while even my hounds couldn't perceive her presence any more. <i>Hercle!</i> So eerie it was I deemed wiser to get back to my crenellated refuge.<br />
<br />
I later wondered if she could speak Latin. It’d be such a joy to hear sentences spoken in our beautiful language, whatever inflection they may have. But she may be dangerous.<br />
<br />
I'm trapped with the Angles, <i>Quintus meus</i>, though they are kind enough to me.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNjStqW8L4bpWs5A-C_eBF8BPT-LXrVWdO78o7WTskocCo6nxPRnRwsg7tkShnlM9BXltuKPHUWauwh_0XFDijX9pXxIqRVegou6p4-qViGXLchLe7OEklOo9GUShLCwfNlbQiBxy1TA/s1600/Hereward.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNjStqW8L4bpWs5A-C_eBF8BPT-LXrVWdO78o7WTskocCo6nxPRnRwsg7tkShnlM9BXltuKPHUWauwh_0XFDijX9pXxIqRVegou6p4-qViGXLchLe7OEklOo9GUShLCwfNlbQiBxy1TA/s320/Hereward.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>They probably see me like a dwarf, or a clown. The giant Romans of their imagination, you know ... They ignore <i>they</i> are the real giants, they being in truth much bigger than the average Roman.<br />
<br />
They are blond, blue-eyed, fair-skinned, extremely rude-mannered and, well, stinking. Not that I smell that better. I miss the comfort of our thermal baths!<br />
<br />
Pensive and silent they may nonetheless suddenly burst into a sort of Polypheme’s laughter:<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #660000;">AH AH AH AH AH AH AH AH AH AH AH.</div><br />
Jupiter! <br />
<br />
Besides, <i>bibunt ut Gothi</i>, they drink like the Goths, or even more. I swear I’ve never seen people getting THAT drunk.<br />
<br />
But I'm beginning to like their silence. Romans are such chatter-boxes (I am, as you know). Think of our Cicero: what a windbag although I’ll admit five of his precious works retrieved in that cellar express in sound old-times Latin so many gems of the sweet Greeks' wisdom. <br />
<br />
I am again exercising my body thanks to my new friends. We fight, run, ride and throw arrows, all for the simple joy of being alive. They are kind enough not to break my neck and I feel much better after so many years of sedentary work.<br />
<br />
I return to my tower in the evening where I frugally have my dinner and, lost in reading and thought, I sip what is left of my Gallic amphorae.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">vina parant animos Veneri</span></i>, id est wine prepares our souls for Venus.<br />
<br />
I noticed that some Anglia women are looking at me with a bit of curiosity. Some of them are very attractive and sturdy. I guess I appear different to them. And I think I perceived in at least a couple of them that naughty look that is universally unmistakable.<br />
<br />
In truth, dear Quintus, <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">alius est amor, alius cupido</span></i>, love is one thing, lust quite another.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmugCcjAGQri75GmCD6SyOxL4C-uMTuEk-oirzluryY4E8dBlS4EDRwzWShQ_O2cHja8MBIR36LNkPllSN6_yahQAKE_d0earwF7OSmx4giVgrWnTeewLGNeOhn5w-zeBhI2xJfPGChqI/s1600/Clelia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmugCcjAGQri75GmCD6SyOxL4C-uMTuEk-oirzluryY4E8dBlS4EDRwzWShQ_O2cHja8MBIR36LNkPllSN6_yahQAKE_d0earwF7OSmx4giVgrWnTeewLGNeOhn5w-zeBhI2xJfPGChqI/s320/Clelia.jpg" width="318" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Roman girl painted by the Victorian Alma Tadema</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">The latter would void my soul in a moment of loneliness where I feel badly in need of Clelia’s black eyes and tender smile.</div><br />
Where is she now on earth? Did she forget me? <br />
<br />
The last time we met we spent some time in an <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turin#Roman_times"><u>Augustan</u></a> garden (in North West Italy) overlooking the <u><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Padus">Padus</a></u> river. All was so glorious, beautiful, with scented flowers all over the place and the Alpine peaks towering in the background.<br />
<br />
Clelia wore a shining garland on her black hair and a dress that made her look like a Vestal, or a Christian angel ...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Manius tuus.<br />
<div><br />
</div>Maniushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14545094229192176272noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8416295330617107165.post-3644680798348237152011-02-11T23:12:00.005+01:002011-06-21T11:46:01.264+02:00The seven wives legend is not true<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4bJqfsMTNXrN9zwiJBjWGbZOXmXO-WJ2lR1Yjc5EyMM2ubM3-nrYKbQ1wcuDuMFhVfdKwq10IzdToOfYpVwdCZChCXE3EdaLpiqOG5P-RMZpYkHyi6l7W8z_Fj3hjiMy8nEJyWZ00oAY/s1600/Sutton.hoo.helmet.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4bJqfsMTNXrN9zwiJBjWGbZOXmXO-WJ2lR1Yjc5EyMM2ubM3-nrYKbQ1wcuDuMFhVfdKwq10IzdToOfYpVwdCZChCXE3EdaLpiqOG5P-RMZpYkHyi6l7W8z_Fj3hjiMy8nEJyWZ00oAY/s640/Sutton.hoo.helmet.png" width="425" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;">[Britannia, 526 CE, in a parallel (and almost identical) universe]</span><br />
<br />
Manius Quinto sal.<br />
<br />
[...] As soon as I can, dear Quintus, I will tell you exactly where my tower is located here in Britannia - all I know it is somewhere in the East of the island - so that you can send me all possible information about the area.<br />
<br />
Since you’re living in Northern Gaul I remember you saying you know quite a lot about Britannia and that you also possess detailed maps that can be copied and sent to me as soon as I tell you where I am.<br />
<br />
The Franks – you told me - show mercy unto you because of your knowledge and writing skills. They will not object to your sending a parcel to an old friend.<br />
<br />
One more thing. That weird legend about a certain Manius Papirius Lentulus, whom you say to be the talk of your village ...ahhh, <i>hercle</i>, a clear case of homonymy! Or a stupid mistake! <br />
<br />
Our clan, the Papirii, is very large. Besides people write (and mispronounce) so horribly in our days.<br />
<br />
I swear to our gods that I haven't married seven Anglia women.<br />
<br />
Oh oh oh, I wish I had, but how? I've been here for only a few months. The sad truth is that I am terribly alone in my tower and that I badly miss the warm body of a woman in my bed.<br />
<br />
This <u><a href="http://manofroma.wordpress.com/2010/05/30/the-strange-story-of-the-last-roman-soldier-in-britannia/">attached papyrus</a></u> informs you about the local version of that legend. Please do not propagate such stupidities.<br />
<br />
[…]<br />
<div><br />
</div>Maniushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14545094229192176272noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8416295330617107165.post-4048333567076828412011-02-09T16:09:00.006+01:002011-07-01T17:48:57.037+02:00Manius Papirius Lentulus<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr22Q1wiqER4EwRo_6djkAblsUyr7p1dlovpW-DeIQCiM0GMprv95Ggn6Uo8QdXtNnCXylyekN_yHSXCWyU5Hqp_3k3mDDSELt2e28lnLo4QsRWbqQVU23v8SpcOY5lbhF3jMbt2xct24/s1600/sheep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr22Q1wiqER4EwRo_6djkAblsUyr7p1dlovpW-DeIQCiM0GMprv95Ggn6Uo8QdXtNnCXylyekN_yHSXCWyU5Hqp_3k3mDDSELt2e28lnLo4QsRWbqQVU23v8SpcOY5lbhF3jMbt2xct24/s1600/sheep.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sheep in the English countryside. <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/mattu4/4596153109/sizes/l/">Credits</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Britannia, 526 CE, in a parallel (and almost identical) universe.<br />
<br />
Angles, Saxons and Jutes are invading the Roman province of Britannia from the South-East. All continental Roman soldiers have left – but the Romano-Celtic in the West are resisting bravely. Only Manius Papirius Lentulus from Roma has stayed. He’s with the barbarians but he risks nothing because he's considered innocuous by the Angles (or <i>Angli</i> as he says in his language.)<br />
<br />
In such a green but rainy land he doesn't only meet the locals but also strange people from other nations.<br />
<br />
Manius being reserved (and living in a tower) prefers to communicate via wax tablets that he sends to every corner of Britannia and of the big world.<br />
<br />
This blog will present the content of Manius' letters (along with other fun stuff).</div>Maniushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14545094229192176272noreply@blogger.com12