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| Salita Dei Borgia. Subura. Rome. Click here for credits |
Names may change, but basically ...
ψ
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?
(and, what’s more, living in a parallel universe even if almost identical to ours?)
Hey, why the heck do you people think I know.
ψ
Giorgio, he who is writing, has had that horrible dream again last night.
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).
Massimo, dumped by his wife (and not holding together much since then) has moved to a small flat in Monti, Rome, a rione corresponding more or less to ancient Subura, the slum district of ancient Rome, (in)famous for its dubious tabernae, brothels and gangs [more on Subura here].
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 ...
ψ
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.
Giorgio: “Always these horrible dreams! A few nights ago the death of Theodoric the Great, 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.
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.
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.
So you see, my dreams change. Only two elements in them never do."
Massimo: “La roscia and the fricken soldier?”
[roscia = read-headed woman in Roman dialect, pronounced 'rosha'; fricken, you may know already]
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.
Last night la roscia, 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. Hercle! 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.
Massimo: “Ah Prof, sure you're not depressed like me? Since Giulia left my life is shit.”
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.
And then I saw them.”
Massimo: “You saw who.”
Giorgio: “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 credits) leaving the port of Vada Sabatia, not far from today's Genoa, 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.”
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| A Roman merchant vessel |
Massimo: "What?"
Giorgio: "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.
I then called them, called them and kept yelling the same words over and over."
Massimo: "Which words."
Giorgio: "Anglia in orientem spectans! Anglia in orientem spectans!
And also:
Septentrionalis Icenorum regio! Septentrionalis Icenorum regio!
What does all this mean for Chrissake!!"
Massimo: "Easy Prof, it's simple: Anglia gazing towards the East. In the northern area of the land of the Iceni."Giorgio: "That I understood, the question though being: what the hell 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.
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?"
Massimo kept silent for a while.
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| The Wash bay today |
Giorgio: "What I forgot to say, five new passengers joined us 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.
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?)
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:
ANGLIA IN ORIENTEM SPECTANS! ANGLIA IN ORIENTEM SPECTAANS! SEPTENTRIONALIS ICENORUM REGIOOOOOO!
(For God's sake I thought).
Then a few of them started to yell those same words with a weird measured pulse so that they could both sing and dance:
ANG GLI
NORIE NTEM
SPEC TANS
SPEC SPEC TANS TANS
TANS TANS TAANS GLI
TANS TANS ICEE TAAAAAAAAANS!!
(Oh my God I thought).
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 ...)
One last funny (but horrible) detail: when I woke up I was drunk and my legs tired as if I had danced all night!"
Silence for a few moments.
Then Massimo,loweringly, uttered his words:
"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 ...”
Massimo switched off his phone and went out.
He felt angry and depressed. Even his good ex teacher was now giving clear signs of insanity. The final straw, beyond any doubt.
He spent a long time in an Irish pub close by (Finnegan's, at the Salita dei Borgia, see picture at the top of the page) after which he found himself out in the cool of the night.
ψ
Less windows were lit now.
The rione was quieter.
A drunk whore was walking unhurriedly down the dimly lit Salita.
A cat was croaking like a frog behind a trash container.
Strange metamorphoses, in the deep of a night full of chaos (and sorrow).
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| Click for credits and to enlarge |
Lo osservava da tempo
nume dagli occhi impassibili,
le parche, mani rugose,
filando la lana ...
[A numen had since long
Been watching him, eyes impassive.
The Parcae, wrinkled hands,
Spinning their thread ...]
