Lucius Sergius Catiline (108 – 62 B.C.) Roman patrician of very noble birth, opposed oligarchic power to embrace the cause of the plebs, without repudiating his tie with the tradition and moral values of ancient republican nobility. Rome in his day was dominated by a corrupt ruling class, which protected its own interests, leaving it to be believed that it was protecting the common good.
He tried the legal way of the consulate, but he found it obstructed with tricks and intrigues. He decided then to take up arms against that ruling class that had trampled on all lawfulness. Heading a large group of conspirators, he planned a real coup d’état, perhaps the first revolution in history.
The consul Marcus Tullius Cicero, invested with full powers by the Senate, exposed the conspiracy, pronouncing theFirst Oration against Catiline. Lucius Sergius Catiline fled to Etruria, where Gaius Manlius, his deputy, had organised an army. In Rome, Lentulus, Caetegus, Statilius and other conspirators were arrested and executed in the Mamertine Prison, following a summary trial. Catiline was declared enemy of Rome.
Two armies marched against the rebel: the first, coming from the South, commanded by Antonius Ibrida, the second from Cisalpine Gaul, led by Quintus Metellus Celere.
Catiline was caught up with by the Ibrida’s army near Pistoia and took up fighting, lifting the eagle of Gaius Marius. He gave its left wing to Manlius and the right wing to an anonymous soldier remembered as “Faesulanus”.
The battle was uneven, but Catiline’s conspirators, only just three thousand of them, fought with extreme courage, without falling back nor deserting. Gaius Manlius and “Faesulanus” were the first to fall in battle. On the point of surrendering, Catiline threw himself in the thick of the fray, seeking death.
Sallust narrates that “… he was found far from his supporters among the bodies of the enemies; he was still breathing a little but on his face could be read the same expression of indomitable pride that he had when alive.”
Uchronia
English translation by Tasmeen Monie
I – Lucius Licatani
One January morning: a dark and empty asphalted straight road, whitened on the borders by the frost and an icy wind that blew gusts, right in the line of march of the motorcar, so much so that every now and then it almost seemed to want to lift it off the ground.
You couldn’t see the end of that grey strip, vomited by the low clouds joining the horizon. Perhaps that road was the magic of a sneering genie who amused himself by creating the present, inventing a road from nothing…
“…A road to nowhere,” whispered Lucius while the thin layer of beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead dried: “The usual neurovegetative disorders. I have to pretend nothing has happened… and stay present. Present… And then I have to stop sleeping for only three hours a night… Damn that blasted dream that plagues me!”
He again saw passing before his eyes the ghastly sequences which every night, for almost a year, had been haunting him: men who fought with swords in hand, heaps of bodies covered in blood. He felt the iron stench of blood imbuing his lungs and an intense and unbearable pain on his right side. And that menacing man, covered with a leather lorica, also stained with blood, who would raise his sword against him to sever his head from is neck. Then nothing more. The dream would break off and he would wake up with a start, drenched in sweat, his heart seeming to come out of his sternum.
He landed a punch on the steering-wheel and the skidded. He got a lump in his throat, but he didn’t lose control of the car, which he felt he controlled more than his tachycardiac heart.
“Why does nobody ever pass along this road? They’ve wasted billions for the usual white elephant! Who knows how many bribes a metre it cost?!”
His attention was caught by a sinister rumble that increased in intensity, until from the clouds the form appeared of a huge military aviation cargo plane with its landing gear already out, ready for landing on the runway of the nearby airport.
The dark mass of the aircraft was so close above that Lucius felt its pressure wave and instinctively lowered his head.
At that moment he felt a sudden vibration by his heart. He shuddered: “Here’s the heart attack! But no, damn, it was the vibracall of his cellphone. There’s not once when it doesn’t give me a shock, this freak!”
He pressed the button of the viva voce: “Dr. Licatani?” It was his secretary.
“What’s the matter Melania’”
“Somebody from the Department wanted you.”
“Who wanted me?”
“He did. He himself…”
“Rogne?”
“I think so. He left a message to say there’s a private meeting in two hours and he would like you to attend.”
He was the Minister for National History. The head of one of the four most important departments of the Federal Government. Lucius has been working for him for a couple of years as archaeologist-investigator, engaged in a vast research project, financed with the funds for the Year Two Thousand celebrations.
“Doctor, where are you at the moment?” his secretary asked.
“I’m going past the Military Airport. I’ll get off at the next junction and head immediately for the Department.”
“No. That’s not where you have to go.”
“Not there. Where then?”
“At the Antiquarium of Tarquinia. The appointment is at 11 o’clock sharp!
The Antiquarium of Tarquinia was a squat building with square windows and white front, with peristyle inside and the impluvium was adorned on the sides with golden bronze statues of nymphs.
Lucius immediately noticed the sturdy figure of the minister who, sat on a travertine bench by the impluvium, was talking in a loud voice, while the Superintendent of the Antiquities of Etruria, Randolfo Fabiani, standing before him, nodded without answering.
Toady arse-licker Fabiani: weak with the strong and strong with the weak, Lucius lashed out as he went towards the two men.
Fabiani acted as if hadn’t seen him and continued to nod his head, without ever taking his eyes off the Minister, who, with feline instinct, immediately felt his presence behind his shoulders.
“Lucius. Thanks for coming.” He just turned his square and flat head towards him. “I think you know the Superintendent for Etruria, Professor Fabiani.”
“Of course, we’ve already met once.” He held his hand out to Fabiani.
The man cast him a questioning look: “When?”
“Five years ago, I sent a curriculum vitae for a three-month contract as leader of excavations. You called me, but only to inform me that your staff was complete…”
“Yes, perhaps, I don’t remember well… unfortunately, as you know, our budget doesn’t allow us to recruit.”
“I know, Professor, I was talking about it a few days ago with Belli, the nephew of the undersecretary to the Treasury.”
“You know Dr. Belli?” he asked with ill-concealed surprise.
“Certainly, he had his interview a week after me. And the following month he was employed…”
His words were interrupted by a cough by the Minister, who had realised where the conversation was going and didn’t want to give room to Lucius’ polemical streak: “Well then, introductions over, let’s come to the point.” He got up from the bench and went towards a door with slate posts engraved with heads of acanthus which led into a room in the Antiquarium kept at an even temperature and humidity.
Sat at the head of a long dark walnut table was Professor Lentini, Head of the Department of Native Archaeology of the Ministry. An attractive thirty-five year-old woman of lively intelligence who had shot up the ladder. For this reason it was whispered in several places that she was the Minister’s mistress.
The woman raised her head and placed her carbon fibre glasses on her thin regular nose.
“Hello, Letitia,” said the Minister “is everything ready?”
“Yes, the material is already here, Minister, if you want…”
“Certainly, we want to see it straightaway.”
The woman went up to an armoured cabinet. She put the key in the lock and opened a heavy door. Inside, a glass case containing a scroll.
“The text is almost illegible, but we managed to highlight it with ultraviolet rays.” She handed the three men as many colour enlargements and a typed sheet which contained the transcription.
The Minister sat down at the table and gave quick look: “I must start off by saying that the discovery was made two months ago by one of our special investigative units and it’s for this reason that you, Superintendent, weren’t informed in due time…”
Fabiani shook his head, as if to deny what did in fact appear to be obvious from that text, drawn up in characters used in the first century before Christ.
Lucius was immediately captured by the fluent and pressing rhythm of the prose, enough not to notice that he was reading aloud: “Quo usque tandem abutere, Catilina, patientia nostra? Quam diu etiam furor iste tuus nos eludet? Quem ad finem sese effrenata iactabit audacia? Nihilne te nocturnum praesidium Palati...”*
“There’s no doubt,” Letitia interrupted him, almost disturbed by the silence that had grown around him, “it’s…”
“… the First Oration against Catiline!” the Minister concluded.
“Finally the mystery is solved!” cried Lucius.
Looking doubtful the Superintendent passed his hand over the narrow beard that framed his chin: “I have to admit that this hypothesis is likely, even if further examination and in-depth research will be necessary. It could be a fake.”
“No, I don’t believe it’s a fake, even if most would like it.” The minister looked allusively towards Fabiani. “It was in an Etruscan tomb, never violated by thieves and grave-robbers, sealed inside an amphora with three other scrolls which are now at Fiesole, at the Higher Institute for Restoration.”
Lucius didn’t let the opportunity slip to scourge that detestable man: “I think that you will have to go over some of your publications, Superintendent, especially the most famous one.”
Lucius was referring to a weighty study funded by the Ministry and entitled: The Orations against Catiline: a historical fake, which Fabiani had recently published, as a leading researcher of the large group of orthodox academics who denied the historical fact of the four Orations. In fact, there was no reliable news on the four speeches. The historian Sallust was the only one to have quoted several passages from them, though quite debatable, which consequently didn’t get much credit from his successors, especially Suetonius and Plutarch, who had accused Sallust of hating Catiline for family reasons. In his youth Catiline had in fact undergone a trial, from which he was acquitted, in which he had been accused of seducing the vestal Fabia, sister of Terentia, the wife of Cicero, who, following the death of her husband was married a third time to Sallust himself.
“Don’t worry,” Fabiani furiously directed his rattlesnake eyes on Lucius, who felt a shiver down his spine, “I’ve always been an honest researcher and, if I’ve made a mistake, I know how to admit it!”
“No one questions your honesty as a researcher, professor,” the Minister intervened, “in fact I take this opportunity to confirm the Federal Government’s appreciation for your meritorious academic work. In spite of this, what is contained in this scroll is of great importance, because it’s a fragment of our oldest history, and refers to political events that gave rise to the Federation itself. There isn’t in fact any historian in the world who doesn’t judge Catiline’s Revolution as an epoch-making event.”
“Certainly, certainly, I agree.” Fabiani frowned and for a moment looked towards the window, attracted by a ray of light, penetrating beyond the oppressive curtain of clouds. "We must all however pay attention to a detail: Cicero was Catiline’s bitter enemy. He tried by all means, right and wrong, to stop his reformatory policy. Therefore the publication of a document of this importance could reflect badly on the man whom, rightly, we consider to be the founder of the Republic. Catiline’s revenge against is opponents was harsh: Cicero himself was strangled in the Mamertine Prison. The fact of acknowledging the existence of the speeches could create some embarrassment for us, both towards the opposition parties and in the international field.”
“My dear professor, ours is an tested democracy because it’s the oldest in the world; so I don’t believe it has anything to fear from the truth. And secondly this is a problem of another nature. Of a political nature…” The Minister left the comment hanging and threw him a hinting look, as if to say: You mind your job and don’t interfere in things bigger than you.
He therefore started talking again calmly: “Beyond the historic importance of the discovery, which hasn’t yet been revealed to the public, it’s necessary to go into several important aspects. It’s the very investigation of these aspects that I would like to entrust to Dr. Licatani. First of all the tomb. It’s a hypogeum dating back to the first century before Christ, even if the style goes back to older models, inside which the amphora containing the scroll was found. It would be particularly interesting to determine who this tomb belonged to. For this reason I would like Dr. Licatani to examine it, with the help of Dr. Lentini. Of course, Superintendent, you would have to give the necessary technical support.”
“I am at complete disposal, Minister.”
“Well then, I think there’s nothing else to add. In a week I’ll be in touch to arrange another meeting and take stock of the situation.”
____________
* “When, O Catiline, do you mean to cease abusing our patience? How long is that madness of yours still to mock us? When is there to be an end of that unbridled audacity of yours, swaggering about as it does now? Do not the mighty guards placed on the Palatine Hill…”
Lucius’ motorcar turned off the provincial road and got onto a dirt road, which climbed inside a narrow gorge between two tuff walls. Dark cracks in the rock gave the landscape a spectral look.
“It seems like Hades’ antechamber,” remarked Lucius.
“Perhaps it really is that,” replied Letitia, while she stroked her red hair which fell over her face. “Pull up, here… you don’t mind if we are on first-name terms, do you?”
“No, not at all, I think it makes communication easier.”
Letitia smiled, then pointed to a sign: “Right there in front.”
Lucius had a quick look at the notice: “S.P.Q.R. – Federal Property – armed Surveillance. Hot stuff!”
“It’s the entrance to the Hades,” joked Letitia, “it couldn’t be otherwise.”
“Here there isn’t a living soul. Now what shall we do?”
“Don’t worry, I think they’ve been watching us already for some time: we only have to wait for someone to turn up. Meanwhile take out your identification card.”
Letitia was right. Not even a couple minutes later two security officers appeared in plain clothes with dark leather jackets. They checked the documents and accompanied them close to a cave used as a store for excavation tools.
“Let’s hope that Clementi isn’t late.” Letitia had a quick look at her watch.
“Who’s Clementi?”
“He’s in charge of the investigative team which made the discovery. He will take us to the place.”
“I usually don’t keep people waiting. Hi Letitia!” Clementi appeared from behind a heap of metal scaffolding inside the cave.
“So you were back there eavesdropping…”
“No, I was back there doing the work of a team of workers… that doesn’t exist!”
“Come on, don’t be polemical, this year you have cost us more than the restoration of Capitol.”
“Here money is never enough. It’s a bottomless pit. In any case I don’t think the Minister can say he’s unhappy with the results.”
“He isn’t unhappy at all, that’s why he has sent me and… him.”
“And who’s he?” he said abruptly pointing to Lucius.
“This is Lucius Licatani, from the Special Programme for the Year Two Thousand, he’s here to examine the tomb and to…”
“… to make up a plausible version to reassure people and not shake them out of their torpor.”
“Here crops up the anarchic and stubborn revolutionary again. No, we haven’t come to pose censure, but to understand.”
“You might be in good faith, but who sent you…”
“I don’t think the Minister has called us to cover up the whole affair. He knows that I don’t agree to these games. Otherwise he would have sent Fabiani,” retorted Lucius.
“Fabiani has been shamed, you haven’t. You’ve got the face of an honest person and surely you are. Those people use people just like you, to cover up their intrigues better. Anyway, no more idle talk and let’s get to the point. Do you want to see the tomb? Right, put the overalls and boots on and follow me.”
They climbed up a sheer path along the coast of the gully until they reached a small clearing at the top of a rocky spur onto which the entrance of a cave opened. Inside there was a narrow flight of steps for about ten metres dug into the tuff, which went down to the entrance of a hypogeum.
“I’ll go ahead,” said Clementi. “Don’t be afraid, the tomb is perfectly illuminated and the air is tepid. There’s nothing hazardous. Everything is provided for, as in the best thrillers…”
Clementi was right. The tomb didn’t have a sinister aspect. In fact it was quite normal, except for its wealth of relief decorations, and made up of just one room in which the unknown person had been placed. Of the body just a few fragments of bone remained and its vague outline, impressed on the surface of the bed dug into the tuff.
“The amphora containing the scroll was placed right at the foot of the corpse,” Clementi pointed out.
“What can you tell me about the alto-rilievos on the back wall?” asked Letitia.
“They are Etruscan divinities of the Hades: Vanth and Charun, two disturbing characters to say the least, placed at the sides of what seems to be the door of Hades. Vanth with his big wings and long robes, with one hand brandishes a torch and with the other a bundle of snakes, while Charun, with his brutish face and headdress like a wolf’s head, grasps a hammer. Beyond the emotionality their sight could arouse, I would say that they are quite stereotypical images.”
“What’s hat relief above the door?”
“It may be a simple decoration, but it’s too damaged to allow us to formulate a hypothesis. The tomb could belong to a magistrate, in any case a notable, and that could be the symbol of his position. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you anything certain, at the moment. We have collected several fragments of tuff that have fallen from the frieze and we are examining them. I have sent the photos of every single piece to the computer at the Institute of Restoration of Fiesole: who knows if the puzzle could be put back together?”
“I want to see the fragments,” asked Lucius, almost taken by a fit of inspiration.
“No problem at all. They are still here in the tomb. By all means help yourself.”
Clementi indicated a wooden chest along the wall just after the entrance.
Lucius didn’t hesitate. Inside there were lots of small tuff tesserae, some of which still had traces of gilt; but there were too many of them and too small to be recomposed quickly.
“Hell, it’s a problem!”
Clementi looked at him conceitedly, as if to say: and you thought I was more stupid than you?
Lucius slammed the lid with a gesture of annoyance, but at that moment he was once again seized by a feeling of uneasiness which had been tormenting him for almost a year. Suddenly the two daemon figures seemed to take colour and become alive, freed from the grip of the tuff. Here they were hurling themselves against him, to snatch him and take him into Hades. He again saw the glittering sword rise in the air, ready to sever his head from his neck. He had his heart in his mouth. He looked for a way out, but for a moment it appeared to him to be in a dark room without exits. He tottered. Then he felt Clementi’s hand on his shoulder.
“Claustrophobia, just claustrophobia. You’re not used to Etruscan tombs. It will soon pass. Drink here.” He gave him the flask. Lucius gulped down two mouthfuls of water and immediately felt a sensation of coolness rise from his stomach and his heart resumed its normal rhythm.
“It’s all gone. It’s not the Etruscan tombs, but the stress I’ve recently accumulated. Overwork.”
“We’re all, more or less, in your condition, Lucius. Don’t think you’re a stranger,” Letitia reassured him.
They left the tomb late in the afternoon. The sun had gone down over the horizon a short time before and, once outside, they were run over by the cold and lashing wind which, working its way with force between the gorges, generated a worrying litany. Lucius gazed at a big cippus of calcareous stone, leaning on the tufaceous wall, just outside the cave.
“It’s an element we can’t explain. As far as we can deduce from the inscription, it seems to be a boundary stone.”
Clementi lit up the stone with the electric torch and Lucius ran his hand from right to left, reading the Etruscan characters: “TUL. SPUR. FESU., that’s what’s written there.”
“It looks like the abbreviation of TULAR SPURAL FESULA, which means border of the city of Fiesole, but it seems absurd. No one would have ever put a sign of this kind at the entrance to a tomb, nor were the Etruscans used to marking city borders. It must mean something else, but I don’t have enough elements to suggest a different version. Perhaps the answer will come up suddenly, in the most unexpected way, as it often happens in archaeology.” He winked at the two of them, then turned the torch off, without giving Lucius time to have a better look.
“It’s time to go back to the camp. I’ve had two lodgings prepared in hut number 3, the one meant for guests. You will sleep there. Dinner is at seven o’clock in the central shack of the camp, at the crossroads between the cardus and the decumanus. Be punctual.”
There was just a waning crescent that evening, but its late was enough to light up the decumanus, which Lucius was walking along muffled up in a sheepskin jacket. The wind had dropped in force and carried with it, from the tops of the Apennines, the clean smell of snow. At the crossroads with the thistle a clearing opened up which two small buildings side by side overlooked: the first was a shrine dedicated to Jupiter Optimus Maximus, while the second was a chapel with a Christian cross above it. On the other side of the clearing a construction of laminated plastic and aluminium which housed the restaurant.
Lucius entered and immediately saw Letitia sat at a table, in the company of Clementi and a personality well-known to me. It was Biagio Piacenza, professor of Ancient History at the Federal University.
“I think you already know Professor Piacenza,” the woman said.
“By repute. I think I’ve read everything you’ve written over the last three decades. It’s a great pleasure for me to meet you, professor.”
Piacenza seemed struck by Lucius’ words. He wasn’t in fact used to receiving such unreserved tokens of esteem, he who was a completely heterodox and independent character. This hadn’t caused him few career problems, but his fighting nature and his undisputed scientific background had nevertheless led him to stand out.
“This evening I’ve had a special dinner prepared for you. So you are let off from queuing up at the cafeteria, like all the others… but only for this evening,” Clementi underlined, while he briefly beckoned to an attendant.
“So,” said Piacenza “what do we owe such an important visit to. A mission ordered directly by the Minister. It’s not an everyday matter.”
“Well, I think you have heard of the, professor.”
“Ah, yes, of course. The Orations Against Catiline, a kind of Neverland. And which many would have liked to remains as such, instead…”
“Instead it appears island isn’t there at all.”
“Indeed, like I preached for about half a century. At first against everyone’s opinion, then, in the course of time, against everyone’s opinion… those who count. I say this, because, as you know, Dr. Licatani, I am the author of many popular books and I have to say that everyday readers, those not pompous, in time followed me in greater and greater numbers and supported my theory. Soon they will be pleased to know that they were right, even before me, because I claimed my theory with the help of science, while they did with only the help of common sense, that which my opponents have shown they don’t have.”
“Of course common sense, sometimes we forget even its existence and instead, it could be the simplest key to resolving complicated problems, like perhaps the puzzle of the tomb of Orations.
“That’s right, the tomb of Orations, what do you think Clementi of naming it that? We hadn’t given it a name a yet.”
Clementi nodded amused by the turn that the discussion was taking.
“So,” Piacenza continued, “you were talking to me about the puzzle…”
“Yes, about the fragments of the frieze above the door of Hades.”
“With the means of science, it will take a long time to work out what it is. Now, however, I want to put scientific rigour aside somewhat and use just common sense. Let’s see if we can analyse what we found to be strange in that tomb: an amphora containing nothing less than the four Orations Against Catiline. And who could this character be to whom such an important gift had been made? A friend of Cicero’s? I don’t think so. No burial was granted to Cicero’s friends. They were all executed along with their leader and their ashes scattered by order of Catiline. So nothing remains but the other hypothesis: that it was a friend of Catiline’s. A very close friend, to whom he owed a lot. But even Catiline’s friends remained a small group. All executed by Cicero, before the battle of Pistoia, or they died in the battle itself. By a strange concomitance, tomorrow is 5th January, the anniversary of the clash out of which Catiline came out defeated and miraculously escaped death with a handful of companions, in circumstances not yet clear. So, I think this person could belong to that group of survivors. We have to look right among them, and that’s how the puzzle of the frieze will be solved.”
“You have outlined a quite original course, professor: solving the puzzle of the frieze… leaving the puzzle to put itself back together!”
“Well, I would describe it as a very desirable hypothesis,” remarked Letitia.
“Like the dinner I see arriving,” Clementi intervened, joking, while the waiter approached with a trolley full of all sorts of good things.
“This is garum flower of the highest quality,” he pointed out a cruet of light blue glass with a stopper of sealing wax, “it comes from Spain. It’s a numbered cruet. Well, we can start with chicken with olives, seasoned with aromatic herbs, vinegar, oil and honey, what do you think? Or would you first like some lettuce with leek, to prepare the stomach?”
His table companions exchanged quick looks of approval, then Letitia spoke up: “I think we all agree to skip the vegetables and start directly with the chicken.”
“Whoever wants to, can flavour the chicken with the garum flower. Do help yourselves,” Clementi prompted, as he removed the sealed wax from the small bottle and ecstatically smelled the scent that came out of it.
The waiter began to pour out some Albano wine mixed with salt water, which everyone drank with pleasure. Then he brought a large dish of pumpkins, with a side dish of peaches in syrup, dates and honey, then some patina with dentex with oyster sauce and several sauce boats containing oximeli, oxiporium and oxigarum.
They ended dinner with minutal fruit, accompanied by honey wine with snow.
“An excellent dinner indeed, fit for the great Apicius,” congratulated Lucius.
“Dear Clementi, despite your anarchic streak, you are proving to be very fond of tradition…” Letitia prodded, stirred and perhaps even vexed by the indifference with which the man had always treated her, proving to be immune to her indisputable appeal.
“Perhaps because we all owe a lot to an anarchist called Catiline; am I wrong?”
“No, you aren’t, and the four Orations Against Catiline could come to your aid…”
“That’s why I think they’ll never be published!”
“Why, of course, be sure of it, Clementi! I assure you myself. The Minister is determined to do so. I don’t think an old democracy like ours has to be afraid of the past.”
“No, Letitia, it’s not a question of a small event in the past, but of the foundations of our democracy. In the Orations Against Catiline Cicero describes his adversary as a bad lot, an adventurer, womaniser and drunkard, without moral rules and thirsting for power. The complete opposite to what he proved to be: Catiline was in fact an honest man, completely different from those who rule us today. A man who had the courage to row against the general trend, at a time when public morals were in complete dissolution. Usually dreamers like him, those who put the values of dignitas above the logic of ambition and money, are doomed to defeat. Catiline, on the other hand, came out victorious, against all expectations, but the destruction caused by the revolution was so extensive and profound that he had to refound the whole of society completely.”
“I can’t imagine what world we would be living in now, if Cicero had won,” remarked Piacenza. “Of course, society then could have regressed towards authoritarian forms of government. In a study I published as a youth and which few remember, I conjectured Catiline’s defeat and the possible return of the Roman State to the monarchy through Caesar, with catastrophic results for the history of the entire West. Starting with the fact that the failed suppression of slavery would not have led to the development of technology, as in fact happened. Quite quickly, the Roman State broke up and this was followed by a very long era of instability and decline in every field of human knowledge. At the time, however, no one considered my study which was regarded like the exercise, a rather bizarre one, of a recent university graduate. There’s no reason for excluding that Catiline might have thought, even for only a moment, of self-appointing himself dictator for life. Who would have stopped him? Instead he confined himself to electing Decemvirs, with two-year mandate, who would see to the reassignment of land to the plebs who were hungry and reduced to misery by the big landowners, usurers and that mass of unscrupulous money-makers and profiteers for whom Cicero was spokesman and advocate. He cancelled 75 percent of debts and…”
“… and he established a tribunate for women, dear Piacenza, don’t forget that,” Letitia interrupted. “This was the biggest change, the real epoch-making turning-point. For the first time in history political representation was given to women, and not only that. Not satisfied with this first innovation, Catiline turned to those to whom until then not even the dignity of being humans had been recognised: the slaves. With the Lex Sergia de servis the process was started of gradual suppression of slavery, completed two centuries later, when our order acknowledged Christian principles. Catiline refused honours and riches and, after restoring the Republic, he retired to private life on a small estate on the Island of Ischia, accepting only the honorary title of Founder of the Republic. To avert any suspicion of authoritarian intentions, he decreed that the Prima Lex, drawn up in his own handwriting, be promulgated only after his death.”
Clementi laughed sardonically: “We all know the story, dear friend, and we know that the Prima Lex is an unparalleled monument of Roman law and the basis itself of our State. We do know however, even better so, the propaganda that speculates on this… But tell me Letitia, do you think politicians who cover their intrigues by hiding behind the virtus catilinaria, will ever accept the publication of speeches delivered by Cicero against the Founder? Are you under the illusion perhaps that the Orations Against Catiline will be read at the foot of Catiline’s statue on the Altar of Rome on the Capitol?”
“I don’t think it will come to that, because there’s no reason to exaggerate an event that starts with an almost normal procedure in politics: defaming the adversary. And nor do I think the scrolls have been burnt. On the other hand, if Professor Piacenza’s hypothesis is true, not even Catiline did it, who, instead of destroying them, handed them to a trustworthy friend.”
“Hypothesis, only hypothesis… Where’s the truth?”
“Perhaps… beyond that door.” Piacenza hadn’t finished uttering these words when he had already regretted saying them.
But Lucius didn’t miss the opportunity: “Which door?”
“The door of Hades, on the back wall of the tomb, of course.”
“Beyond that door there’s only tuff, tuff and tuff. There’s nothing else, Piacenza”! exclaimed Clementi sarcastically.
Piacenza smiled, then he took off his glasses and slowly cleaned the thick lenses with a napkin.
“Did you see those two figures watching over the door?”
“Monsters to scare the dupes,” underlined Clementi.
“I’d be more exact: monsters to deceive the dupes, including those with a fine degree…”
“What do you mean by that? Explain youself.”
“That those two characters, Vanth and Charun, watch over the door, because they also have the keys to it. And these are thrust before everyone, so obvious… that no one sees them!”
“There’s no need to have the keys to the door of Hades. Those living are not interested in going there, those dead, on the other hand, go there immediately.”
“Provided that that is only the door of Hades and not another door, for example the door of wisdom, or rather, of the Holy Etruscan Science, the discipline.”
“There’s no concrete evidence as to the existence of this supposed discipline.”
Like there wasn’t any for the Orations Against Catiline. The fact that there are no documents on an event doesn’t mean that the event never happened…”
“All right, all right, I remember the refrain. Right, let’s come to the point and tell us which are these keys, if you ever knew them.”
“I think it’s interesting to refer to alchemic symbology, paying attention to the instruments held by the two daemons. So, Vanth, winged creature, clasps a torch and some snakes, while Charun, underground divinity, a hammer. Vanth represents what is volatile, while Charun what is fixed. Charun’s hammer serves to break a hard shell, from which what is volatile will have to be extracted, and that can give both wisdom: the snakes, and spiritual light: the torch. This action done, one will be able to cross the door.”
“You’ve explained everything and you haven’t explained anything, my friend.” Clementi shook his head.
“I have give a more plausible explanation than yours, as you only talk only of superstitious and meaningless rituals. They also weren’t so stupid, the Etruscans. Do you want me to go on explaining?”
“Go on, if you can.”
“Well, Charun, with his brutish face, represents the subconscious, the unknown, the irrational, what is settled beneath our conscious and which we prefer to pretend to ignore, because it’s beyond our control. To free these primordial powers, however, a violent act is needed, that breaks the shell of the deep self and that makes us evolve. The hammer itself represents this violent act. The shell of the subconscious breaks and the powers break free: from fixed they become volatile, like Vanth, and risk being beyond our control and overwhelming us, but, with the right initiation, they can be controlled an channelled to our advantage. The snakes of Vanth symbolise the initiation itself, that will lead to the enlightenment, represented by the burning torch. Following this phase, a human being becomes perfectly aware of himself and can prepare to pass the door of the discipline, which will open up at once.”
“Not bad for an alchemic-pyschoanalytic explanation, nevertheless all remains to be proved and maybe it will never be proved.”
“That depends on us. Every solution lies within us. We mustn’t look outside, but have the courage to plunge into ourselves, by overcoming our fear of the unknown.”
The restaurant room had meanwhile emptied and the attendants were busy cleaning and tidying up.
“I think it’s time to go,” said Lucius, “otherwise they’ll throw us out unkindly.”
“Yes, and it’s also late. It’s time to go to bed. Tomorrow morning a very early rising awaits us,” confirmed Clementi.
Hut number 3 was very comfortable and warm. Each bedroom was provided with a stereo and satellite television.
Lucius said good night to Letitia in the doorway of her room.
“Professor Piacenza’s remarks have troubled me a lot, maybe because I’m going through a particular time in my life.”
“We’re all going through particular times, Lucius. Our kind of society leads us to use up mental energy much more than our ancestors, who struggled with the problems of daily survival. Piacenza knows this well and uses certain topics to impress people. If you want a piece of advice, take everything he said with a pinch of salt and… good night!”
Letitia promptly shut the door in Lucius’ face, without him having time to retorting.
He went into her room, sat down in a comfortable armchair with a reclining back and handled the remote control. He flicked through several satellite channels in the Celtic language, then tuned into a television station in Nova Atlantica, the biggest metropolis in the Free Western Union, which stood on a few islets in a bay at the mouth of the Aurelian River. It had been Manlius Christophorus Aurelianus, the discoverer of the New Continent, who gave his name to that river, five centuries before.
“Let’s here what these settlers are saying!” he cried out intrigued.
The thing that most amused him wasn’t so much the news that came from Overseas, but the language and the accent: a mixture of neo-Latin and Celtic.
He laughed heartily listening to the television news delivered in that strange language which now and then reached heights of comedy for its puns and ambiguities which were created unwittingly.
Lucius has almost dozed off, so much so that he didn’t here the first two knocks at the door of his room. At the third knock he straightened his back with a start:
“Who is it?” he asked with a furred tongue.
“It’s me, Piacenza.”
He immediately opened the door: “Professor, I wasn’t expecting this visit from you…”
Piacenza smiled slyly: “During dinner you spoke little, but, despite this, I felt the echo of your questions and doubts.”
“You’re right, professor, the theories you upheld struck me deeply.”
“Then listen. I have to add another important thing, which I withheld during dinner and which Clementi thought well not to reveal: under that spur of rock there’s a small valley that’s not visible from up there. The ground is always hot and vapours come out from underground. People have named it, for centuries now, Devilcharmer.”
“Superstitions…”
“I’m not certain of it. Traditionally, the devilcharmer is a very powerful magician, perhaps originally he is mixed up with the figure of the shaman. Most probably, in the days of the Etruscans that place was for divination. The shaman used the exhalations of natural vapour that came out of the ground to go into a trance and to more easily reach the other dimension. Perhaps the tomb actually belonged to a shaman.”
“If you are convinced of what you claim, take me there immediately!” Lucius uttered these words before he even realised he had thought them.
“At this hour, with the cold outside… We’re at the beginning of January!”
“The fourth of January, professor, the day before the battle of Pistoia. In any case I won’t be able to sleep a wink. As for the cold there’s no problem. I’ll wrap up well.” He took his sheepskin jacket, a woollen cap and a heavy scarf from the wardrobe: “I’m ready.”
Piacenza could but consent. On the other hand he had been the one to provoke him.
The elderly professor, followed by Lucius, made his way among the dead bushes lighting up the way with an electric torch. After a couple of kilometres the path started to descend, until it stopped at the start of a calyey widening.
“This is the Devilcharmer, if you try to touch the ground you’ll feel the heat rising from underground.”
Lucius obeyed and placed the palm of his hand on the ground.
“It’s true, it’s hot. This place floats on hell!”
“The hot water gushes continuously from underground. There it must be about 80 degrees.” He turned the beam of light towards a pool of water with a clayey bed from which thick vapours rose.
“It smells of sulphur!”
“Yes, they say this mud is a cure-all for arthritis. I will have to try it, one of these days. A bit further on there’s a cave. I think the devilcharmer, or rather, the shaman awaited the trance here. High up, on the ridge, there’s another cave. Who knows whether it’s ever been inhabitated?”
Lucius didn’t let Piacenza finish the phrase, as he had already gone in the cave and sat in the middle with his eyes closed, while waiting for a supernatural event.
“I don’t think it works exactly like that. It’s likely that the shamans dissolved some special hallucinogenic substance in the pools of water. As soon as the atmosphere became charged, they would begin their journey outside their bodies.”
“Maybe the didn’t use any magic powder.” Lucius knelt down at the edge of the pool of water and took out of his pocket a small camping kit, from which he selected the spoon, which he filled with hot water. He blew until the water became cooler and drank. “It’s disgusting, it’s pure sulphur… No, it doesn’t work. So let’s try this way.” He plunged the spoon into the clay which covered the bottom, he left the substance to dissolve, then he closed his eyes and swallowed it.
He only had the time to see the astounded expression on Piacenza’s face, then a black veil settled over his eyes.
He found himself thrown inside the tomb of the unknown person, without anymore corporeality, prey of dark and uncontrollable forces. The door carved on the rock of the hypogeum changed colour and texture, while the two daemon images became, suddenly, real. Lucius was seized by terror and tried to protect himself with his arms, but in vain, because the two daemons leapt on him and gripped him pushing him violently towards the door. Lucius expected to hit the rock, instead he was cast into a universe full of lights and colours. Comets with iridescent tails crossed a space without boundaries which teemed with stars and galaxies of varied size with dazzling colours, which were exalted by exploding into a myriad of supernovas. He felt a sensation of peace and contentment and hoped to stay forever in that place, outside time and space, in an eternal present. The eternal present, he realised that this expression didn’t come from his mind but from a secret entity that had suggested to him. The eternal present, a pressing thought, which took the place of every other thought, overcame his being and grew just like the light of a small star which, motionless before him, became bigger and bigger and more blinding, until it took possession of the whole universe and his very spirit. Light only light. His mind was alert and aware of himself and not only himself, but also of an unknown world that was about to be revealed. His face emerged from the light, like from the surface of a pond and, nearby, that of another man with his head surrounded by the corona laurea*. He recognised him immediately, although the official iconography had changed some of his features over the centuries: it was Lucius Sergius Catiline, the Founder. Then the man’s face fused with his and became just one. Only then did he realise. He couldn’t go back anymore…
_____________
*laurel wreath
V – Lucius Catiline
Lucius had left his horse at the end of the path and had reached the top of the cliff, followed by a man who wore a cuirass of interwoven leather, reinforced with bronze studs. A legionary held out his arm to show him the ranks of Antonius Ibrida’s army which were moving towards the middle of the valley. To the sound of the bugles the cohorts marched to reach their place assigned in the array.
“They are preparing for the battle. We must draw them to favourable terrain. Antonio has never shown the gifts of a great strategist and he doesn’t have enough courage. He will try to overwhelm us in number, risking as little as possible. You Faesulanus, will command the right wing,” said Lucius turning to the man, “Manlius will keep the left wing.”
The Faesulanus looked at him surprised. He would never have thought that one day Catiline would entrust him with such an important task. He who until then had never been entitled to any name, if not to that of Spurius Faesulanus, the brand of his illegitimate birth.
Spurius came from Etruria and had been bought as a slave by Catiline himself, twenty years before, when he was still only twelve years old, and had followed his master around the world, first to Macedonia, then to Africa where Catiline had been governor. After returning from Africa Catiline had freed him, letting him go back to his land of origin, where he had given him a small farm near Fiesole.
Catiline put his hand on his shoulder and looked straight into his eyes: the moment of truth had come. He knew he could count on him. He prepared to face the Roman army, as enemy of the country, the army that had been sent against him by the man who in fact, a few days earlier, had been appointed Father of the Nation: Cicero, cheat and coward. A provincial suffering from an inferiority complex towards what Catiline represented: the old Roman aristocracy, the tradition, the republic.
He paused for a few more moments to observe the peaks of the Apennine covered in snow, and above, heaps of white clouds, which rose huge to the farthest boundaries of the sky.
“This time God the Father will send giants to save Rome. Here they are, they are right above us. They watch us and await the right moment to intervene and do us justice.”
He breathed deeply, then he turned towards the path and went down it again with great agility, followed by the legionary. He went up again on horseback and reached his army lined up in that narrow clearing, under the cliff.
He proceeded towards the middle of the arraying where he was awaited by the standard-bearer, who held the standard that belonged to Gaius Marius: the golden eagle with its wings open. A relic which he valued more than anything in the world and of which he was proud, because it was the symbol of command and at the same time of the authority of Rome.
He held his arm out before him in the sign of the adlocutio and began to speak.
He delivered a desperate speech. For him there was no other way out, than battle. Food was in short supply and two armies were ready to obstruct them, both towards Rome, and towards Gaul.
He reminded his men that they were fighting for the country, for freedom, for life, whereas the enemy for the excessive power of a few and urged them: “Pounce upon them with all the more audacity, mindful of the old virtue.”
Then he concluded: “If luck is wickedly ill to your worth, see to it that you don’t die unavenged, that you don’t let yourselves be captured and slaughtered like cattle. Fight instead like strong men and leave the enemy with a victory that costs tears and blood!”
He had the horses withdrawn from the field and chose to fight on foot.
Here the enemy move against them. A sudden twinkling all along the front line shows that swords have been drawn. Leading the army, however, Ibrida isn’t there. Publius Sextius, the man sent by Cicero, his right hand, doesn’t trust him due to his long-standing friendship with Catiline and forces him with an excuse to stay in the camp. Leading the attack is Marcus Petreius, an old soldier, rough and unscrupulous.
Catiline drew up the eight best-armed cohorts in the front line, the other twelve in support, then he raises his arm in sign of salute, first towards Manlius, then towards Spurius Faesulanus. He gathers his well-trained guard around him and places himself between the front and second lines, in the shadow of Marius’ eagle.
“May the gods be propitious to us!” he shouts, drawing his sword, imitated by the whole army.
It’s the sign of attack. The front lines hurl themselves at the army of Petreius, first in step, then at a run. They suddenly stop and throw their javelins towards the enemy who have also begun their advance Petreius’ army responds to the launch. Already the first to fall can be counted. The impetuosity with which Catiline’s men lead the fighting takes the enemy by surprise who waver a moment, but then, encouraged by Petreius, recover and counterattack with ferocity. Catiline with his faithful followers throws himself in the fight, where the most urgent need requires him. His soldiers don’t draw back in inch, rather they bloodily open up the road between the enemy cohorts.
The battle is for a long time uncertain. Petreius decides then to throw the crack troops into the fray: the praetorian cohorts, kept in reserve up until that moment. The attack is very violent, especially in the wings, which begin to surrender. Manlius who had gone too far forward, is surrounded by a swarm of enemies. He fights like a lion, he is injured repeatedly, but he gets up again every time and goes back to make an attempt. Still he can’t avoid death. A slinger strikes his head with a bullet that pierces his helmet. Manlius falls to his knees, while the lances of a swarm of legionaries spear him many times, then a centurion beheads him and hoists his head on a pike. At that sight his men, already decimated, waver. The slaughter begins.
On the right wing too wide spaces open up and Spurius Faesulanus isn’t able to check the overwhelming number of attackers. He himself is injured on his left arm and face, but appears not to notice and incites his men to resist. The situation, however, is hopeless. He suddenly realises that he has around him only heaps of bodies. The few survivors, covered in wounds, fall upon their own swords rather than fall prisoners.
A couple of troopers go towards him shouting with their swords drawn, but Spurius has time to pick up a javelin and to strike the first man. He can’t stop the second one who runs over him with the horse. He falls on his back among the bodies that completely cover the ground. The trooper stops, turns the horse and aims at him to finish him off, but he avoids the blow and manages to unsaddle his opponent by stabbing him in the back with his dagger. The man lets out a desperate cry and falls to the ground dying. Spurius doesn’t delay in giving him the finishing blow, takes possession of the horse and jumped on it’s back, leaving quickly amid the bewilderment of Petreius’ legionaries. The golden eagle soared gleaming where the fight is more fierce. It’s there that he has to rush, to Catiline’s side and die with him.
The enemy throw themselves in the middle where Catiline’s conspirators attempt their final desperate defence, but their number is overwhelming and they are mown down. A void is quickly created around Catiline, even though he hasn’t acknowledged giving in, but has get deep into the enemy ranks. His head of dark shaven hair, symbol of the old aristocracy, stands out proud in the fray. The standard-bearer is slaughtered by a group of praetorians who don’t stop lashing out at him even after his death, Marius’ eagle falls to the ground, and gets stained with the man’s blood. A praetorian seizes it, but Catiline notices and runs through his sternum with a sword stroke, then tries to take the standard back, but feels a sudden and acute pain in his right side. He feels his strength abandoning him, tries to turn to strike the praetorian who’s behind him, but the sword slips out of his hand and blows away. He falls to the ground, covered in blood: the end is near. The praetorians suddenly stop and gather round him. The ranks open up, but only to let a man whom who knows well to get through: it’s Marcus Petreius, who wears a dark leather lorica, stained with blood. He has an iron helmet on his head with a crimson crest above it. He takes it off and angrily throws it on the ground, then he gets off the horse and bends down over him: “The bad plant is finally uprooted,” he whispered in his ear, “you will have neither descendants nor memory. No tomb will welcome your remains. Your name will be forgotten forever and your ashes scattered in the wind.” Two praetorians grab Catiline by the shoulders and force him to his knees, while Petreius lifts his sword towards the sky: “This is how the enemies of Rome die!”
The weapon is about to cut through Catiline’s neck and he counts the seconds that separate him from Hades. But a sudden blaze rises above the figure of Petreius. The man totters. From his head an abundant stream of blood comes out. He lets out a desperate cry and falls dead to the ground. Catiline sees the golden wings of Marius’ eagle cross the sky above him, after striking the enemy front. Maybe the giants sent by God the Father really have come down from Olympus to fight at his side, but there aren’t any giants around, there’s only a man on horseback raising the Marius’ blazing standard.
“Spurius, my friend,” whispers Catiline with a thready voice. The man stretches his arm out towards him and helps him to get on the horse. The praetorians, bewildered by the lightning action and by the general’s sudden death, don’t react, rather they withdraw when a scant group of Catiline’s conspirators survivors come forward with weapons in hand.
The battle is lost, but Catiline is unharmed. With about twenty of his most faithful supporters he leaves the fight and finds refuge on the Apennine.
In the field lie the lifeless bodies of almost all his legionaries, wounded in the chest and dead in the same place they occupied when alive.
VI – The eternal present
Catiline had lost lots of blood and the wound in his side was deep. Spurius took him in the thick of a forest that spread in a gorge between two mountains. Night had fallen quickly and icy and lashing sleet began to fall from the sky. Catiline began to shiver, seized by a very violent fever. His men were close around him ready to give up their lives, like all the others had done already. But at that moment they couldn’t do anything, except make a shield against the cold with their bodies. The horse, by then hollow-flanked, let out a final neigh and collapsed to the ground. The gods seemed to have abandoned them: soon the snow and the cold would overwhelm them and their weary bones would resurface in the spring to whiten the lawns of the undergrowth. “Come on, towards that rocky ridge, it’ll protect us from the snowstorm, we must manage to get through the night,” urged Spurius.
They reached the ridge by opening the way among the brambles with their swords. “You, Decius, cut some branches. We’ll create a refuge for Catiline and we’ll heat it with the warmth of our bodies: we have no alternatives.”
Decius, the centurion, helped by a couple of men still in good health, gathered as many branches as he could and prepared a temporary shelter.
It snowed all night and only towards dawn was there a moment’s respite. The snow had completely covered the refuge of branches and the cold had already seized Spurius’ limbs, when he felt the end of a stick hitting the bronze stud protecting his chest repeatedly.
He warded it off repeatedly, until he felt a hand grab his arm. Instinctively he groped for the hilt of the sword, but immediately gave up.
In front of him there was an old man clothed in a mantle down to his feet, with a hood that hid his face and only gave a glimpse of his thick white beard.
“What are you looking for here, Romans?”
“We have survived the battle, we have a seriously injured man with us.” Spurius pointed to Catiline, by now unconscious, lying at the bottom of the wall of rock and covered with branches and dry leaves.
Decius, who was with him, shook his head dejectedly: nothing more could be done. The old man however, didn’t seem to share his opinion. After freeing the body from the temporary cover, he placed his right hand on the forehead and lifted the eyelids. Finally, with a firm move, he opened the mouth and put his finger in the throat. Catiline gave a sudden start and vomited a dark blood clot, then quietened down again.
“He’s still alive, but not for long. You must bring him to my house.”
“To your house, where? And secondly… who are you?”
“I’m Vel Aufidius, the augur. My house isn’t far from here,” he opened his mantle and proudly showed the bronze lituus he had fixed to the belt of his tunic, symbol of his rank.
Spurius didn’t hesitate and ordered his companions to lift Catiline’s body, while the old man confidently went ahead of them in the snow, as though his eyes had the ability to study the path beyond the thick blanket that covered it.
They reached the foot of a rock in which a narrow split opened. There the snow hadn’t settled on the ground, though plenty of it fell. Sulphurous waters came out from under the ground releasing high puffs of vapour into the air.
“Here the cold never prevails and the cave is much roomier and more comfortable than how it looks from outside. You’ll even find some food there: make yourselves at home.”
“Is this your house?” asked Spurius.
“No, I live up there.” He pointed to an opening halfway up the rocky ridge.
“And how do you get as far as there? Do you also know how to fly by any chance?”
“No, but I know how to use the most valuable thing we have very well…”
“That is?”
“The brain!”
He grabbed a rope tied to an oak-tree branch and untied it. A rhythmic sound preceded the descent of a trolley, linked to a system of counterweights, which stopped just off the ground. The augur leaped inside: “If you Romans used your brains more, you could do without slaves…” He pulled the rope once again and the trolley slowly went up until it reached the narrow wooden landing before the entrance to the cave.
“Now send the dying man up to me. You Spurius can come and see him tomorrow morning. But only you.”
Vel laid Catiline on the bare rock. He poked the fire that burned in the middle of the cave where he placed several iron tools to make them red-hot. Then he freed Catiline from his cuirass to examine the wound on his right side. A spear point, thrust in the lumbar region, came out by the abdomen.
“Maybe it hasn’t touched any organs. If that’s the case, you’ll pull through,” said Vel, “as long as your body is able to reproduce all the blood you’ve lost, my friend… There’s only one thing to do.”
From the embers he took a red-hot stylet, waited a moment for it to soften in the air, then inserted it in the wound. Catiline was stirred by a shiver, but didn’t come round. Vel extracted the spear point from the flesh and immediately blood came gushing out, but the augur stopped the haemorrhage, scattering a mysterious ochre yellow powder on the wound. In the end he cleaned it up with a colourless liquid and applied a substance that looked tallowy and greenish.
“Now there is nothing left for me to do but carry out the most dangerous operation: the last hope.”
He stood before Catiline’s body and made an invocation in the Etruscan language. On twelve parts of the body he marked the names of as many divinities with a crimson dye and arranged twelve amber amulets next to the names, the first one on the forehead. Finally he put the fire out and remained in complete darkness for a long time, repeating a long litany, until a soft luminosity emerged from the obscurity and enveloped the body.
Vel took out of a leather pouch a piece of magnet and a long glass cruet, wrapped in a linen cloth. He brought the magnet to Catiline’s head and immediately the brightness emitted by the amber began to waver. A second luminescent body left the physical body and remained suspended in mid-air. The augur reduced the magnet to dust in a diorite mortar and put the dust in the cruet. The luminous body broke up into a shower of small flames, drawn quickly to the inside of the cruet.
Vel Aufidius sealed it with tow and bitumen and replaced it in the pouch he held tight around his waist.
A wave of light from the East penetrated the gorges, lighting the ice crystals with iridescent shades of colour. The snowstorm had died down and the survivors of the battle had got up from the beds of leaves and hay on which they had spent the night. Spurius and Decius had gone ahead of them and had been busy cooking soup with dried broad beans and spelt, which they had found in several jars kept in the cave.
The augur appeared at the entrance of the cave, as if he had appeared out of nowhere: “If you want, Spurius, you can visit your friend, but don’t worry about what you’ll see.”
Spurius didn’t say a word and followed him.
Catiline was lying on a bed of oak leaves, covered up to his neck with sheepskins. His cerulean and inexpressive face gave an impression of death.
“Is he… is he dead?”
“It’s hard to explain his condition,” said the augur, “it’s very similar to death. It’s as if his life is suspended between this world and Hades. I have practised a very ancient art on him, which only a few of us Etruscans know. Your friend’s body is physically here, but his mind, his intellect, his thoughts and even his awareness of himself are in another place, where time and space don’t have any importance and everything is, without becoming. Breathing is very light, almost imperceptible, and the heart beats a few times a day, but meanwhile the wounds heal up and the blood is regenerated. Pain and suffering are separated from the body and can’t affect it fatally. The highest minds, when they reach this state, can acquire omniscience. On the first day of the next lunar cycle I will wake him up and he’ll return among the living. But he will be a new man.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“I saw the madness of the men colour the plain red. He is Lucius Sergius Catiline, the leader of the rebels. Who else otherwise?” replied the augur.
“You… you will bring him back to us alive, won’t you?”
“A long road separates Catiline from Rome, but its written that in the end he will join you, so Fate won’t let him stop here for long…”
His mind was far from his body, and Catiline saw the dramatic sequences of the battle pass before his eyes thousands of times: his legionaries fought with their swords in hand, but would fall overwhelmed by the numbers. Heaps of bodies covered in blood and dismembered covered the plain. The iron stench of blood impregnated his lungs and an intense, intolerable pain afflicted his right side. Marcus Petreius, clothed with a leather lorica, also stained with blood, raised his sword above him to cut his head off. The nightmare would stop after that distressing image.
The dream recurred many times, until Catiline found peace again. His mind seemed to be cured and recollection of those terrible moments further and further away.
New images now animated his visions. He immediately realised that they didn’t refer to him, but to someone who was near him and who shared those tragic moments with him.
He was inside a sumptuous house, with walls covered with valuable frescos. A man, in the spring of his life, was standing in the middle of the atrium and appeared to be waiting for someone. Catiline couldn’t see his face, because his back was turned on him.
The sudden cry of a baby preceded the arrival of a young woman, who wore an Etruscan tunic. She held her son tight, and went towards the atrium smiling, followed by two slaves. She went up to the man and handed him the child. He looked at the baby for a long time, then lowered his eyes and shook his head, refusing to take it with him, as was his habit. The woman’s face darkened and her body stiffened, as if struck by a sudden lash. She drew her son towards her and hugged him as she cried, then abruptly turned her back and handed him to one of the slaves. That child, unrecognised by its father, would never have a name.
Silently the man went to the door and only at that moment was Catiline able to see his face. It was him, his sworn enemy: Marcus Tullius Cicero.
Then the mist enveloped everything and when it cleared Catiline woke up in a world he no longer understood. Men dressed in an inconceivable way inhabited cities full of very tall buildings and lights. Huge birds with silver wings streaked across the skies letting out deafening rumbles, while the streets were crossed by steel carts without horses which sped by quicker than one could look. What ever world was that? He began to understand only when he was in front of a huge equestrian statue, opposite an enormous temple in the middle of the Capitol. Marius’ eagle rose above the pediment and the cavalryman’s face was his own. So he no longer had any doubts: what he was seeing was the future. His future, the future of Rome…
But at that moment the nightmare re-emerged from the depths. Still him, Marcus Petreius, covered with the enemy’s blood, menacingly gripped his sword: the blow hit home. Catiline saw his own decapitated body, lying in the blood of the fallen, violated by the enemy and burnt in a big fire along with hundreds of bodies of his unfortunate companions. Their ashes scattered to the wind.
He let out a long cry into nothing, full of despair. He really had died and now he was in Hades to mourn his wretched end forever. He thought back on the glorious images of a short time before: the big statue and that wonderful city.
He was sure that if he found that place, all his nightmares would vanish. He looked in the mist, until he saw the Capitol again, but the cold enveloped him and he suddenly felt alone, in an empty world: before him there was a miserable field of ruins, visited by crows, while flocks grazed among piles of rubble. A few wretched individuals in rags wandered among the remains of what had once been the centre of the world.
Maybe a bad daemon had pulled his leg. For a moment it had made him feel the illusion of glory, and a moment later the certainty of his frailty.
He cried out and he cried out again, overwhelming that universe of misery with his despair, but his voice was lost in the void that held him prisoner and didn’t even echo him.
“Lucius, Lucius, you are still with us… thanks to God the Father.”
Whose was that voice? He had trouble remembering it, but realised that it belonged to him, like a loved one belongs to us.
“I’m Spurius Faesulanus, your friend. Remember?”
“My friend… my friend,” he tried to raise his eyelids, “I’m alive, the nightmare is over… you’ve saved my life.”
“No, you wouldn’t still be alive, if it wasn’t for him.” He pointed towards Vel.
“Who is that man?”
“He’s an Etruscan augur. He took care of you and saved your life. Without him you would have died a month ago.”
“A month ago? Has a month gone by since…?”
“Yes, a month, a lunar month more precisely, since the day of the battle…”
“… in which we were defeated.”
“Yes, unfortunately, but you’re alive and you fled the enemy: this is what counts”
“I was in a faraway place like Hades.”
“I know,” Vel intervened, “that’s the only way you could have stayed alive, Lucius.”
“Do you know that place?”
“I know it. Once I went there too. All men should do so…”
“I saw incredible things.”
“You saw what it was and what it will be and, at the same time, what it could be. Different worlds that coexist without barriers of space and time. Isn’t that right?”
“It is… but now I know with greater certainty how I’ll have to act.”
“Fate has put the future of the world in your hands, Catiline. It will depend if you whether it will b a place of wonders and happiness, or a place of ruin and despair. You will have to reflect deeply upon what has been revealed to your eyes.”
“Even upon that child…”
“What child?”
“The son that Cicero disowned. His illegitimate son: Spurius Faesulanus.”
He looked up towards his friend who looked back at him. Now every mystery had to be solved.
Spurius started to talk, at first short of breath, then with a clearer and clearer voice: “I was afraid of losing your friendship, Lucius. It’s the only thing that has mattered to me, since I’ve been alive. Without knowing it, the seed of the enemy germinated and grew in your garden. I was afraid you would never accept it. That’s why I always held the truth back from you. But, I swear: I’ve always been loyal to you and have shown it.”
“The gods enjoy playing with the destiny of men: Cicero’s on saves Catiline’s life, his worst enemy! No, I’m not the one who’ll change the world, but you, Spurius, you, thanks to your heroic act. What I most regret is that one way or another everything will have been due to Cicero: if he triumphs, it will be thanks to him, if he is defeated, it will happen thanks to his son!”
“We are only poor mortals. We are not allowed to change the plans of gods.”
“However we can do something: live according to justice. For this reason I promise you that if I triumph one day, I’ll give you the name that is due to you, that of gens Tullia, the line of Tullia. Your full title will be Tullius Spurius Faesulanus.
VII – The victory
Cataline’s army advances on the plain in battle formation. First the Gallic and Etruscan auxiliaries, followed by the bowmen on foot. After them four legions of which three are Italic and one servile. Catiline hoists the standard of Marius’ eagle and leads two cohorts that he himself had promoted to praetorians. At his side he draws up two squadrons of crack cavalry and bowmen on horseback commanded by Spurius Faesulanus. In reserve two Rome-based legions made up of city dwellers who fled Rome after the battle of Pistoia.
Marcus Tullius Cicero is entrenched at the foot of a tufaceous rise not far from the Tiber and blocks the way towards Ponte Milvio with four legions commanded by Antonius Ibrida. He has powerful artillery made up of catapults and ballista and two lines of unmounted bowmen. He has reserve cavalry, under the command of Quintus Lutatius Catulus to deploy it at the last moment and six praetorian cohorts, commanded by Publius Sextius, composed of veterans back from the battle of Pistoia. He doesn’t intend to be the first to join battle, instead he hopes to provoke the enemy, so that they break against his fortifications, after being decimated by the artillery and bowmen.
It is the Ides of April in the year 693 in Rome.
Before the fight Vel Aufidius consults the gods on the outcome of the battle, looking towards the clear sky, swept by a warm and brackish wind from the sea. A flight of coots takes wing from the murky water of a marsh near the Tiber and flies slowly towards Rome. Suddenly the portent: from the direction of the sun just as many vultures appear and hurl themselves upon the coots, killing them all at once. The gods are favourable. It’s the right time for the battle.
Catiline orders the bugles to be blown to give the signal for attack.
The Etruscan and Gallic infantry advance at a slow pace, while Cicero’s infantry is late in breaking away from the main body of the array. As soon as the front lines of attackers are within distance of the artillery, a heavy firing of bullets broke out creating confusion and opening up wide gaps in the formation. The array of foot soldiers wavers and looks as if it will disband, but Catiline recognises the crucial moment and orders the signal of retreat to be given.
Gauls and Etruscans withdraw as well as the legions of the Italians, who have left wide passages in the formation, to allow the front lines to slip away and reorganise.
Encouraged by this early success, Cicero orders Antonius Ibrida to march in the narrow plain that stretches between the Tiber and the hill. This time it’s Catiline delaying the encounter and leaves Ibrida to get over the fortifications. At that moment he orders the Italian legions to attack, while Spurius, with all the cavalry, moves towards the Tiber. The fight in the centre is very violent and continues until midday, until Ibrida’s legions begin to yield ground. Having become aware of the unfortunate moment, Cicero decides to use the cavalry to break through the right side and outflank the front line. Spurius, however, is read to resist on that side. He immediately draws up the bowmen on horseback who break the attack of Catulus’ cavalry. The fight is as quick as it is bloody. Catulus himself remains on the field with two thousand cavalrymen. Spurius puts a circling manoeuvre into effect and encloses most of the enemy front line in a pocket.
The battle soon turns into a massacre. Under the blows of the Catiline’s conspirators more than five thousand infantrymen fall. Meanwhile Cicero decides to play his last card: the praetorian cohorts and the auxiliary troops from the fortified field.
An early attack by the Catiline’s conspirators against the defence is repelled by the artillery and bowmen. This gives the praetorian cohorts the possibility of drawing up between the fortified field and a marshy area almost halfway up the floodplain, with the rest of the Ibrida’s legions.
For Catiline it’s time to put forward all the forces he has, to deal his adversary the final blow.
He himself orders the advance of the praetorian cohorts to the front, while the servile legion, supported by a part of Spurius’ cavalry, attacks the defence from the front.
The encounter is terrible and causes heavy losses on both sides. Catiline advances with a group of cavalrymen to give a strong hand where needed and to encourage his men, followed throughout by the flashing eagle.
The attack on the fortified field is very violent. Spurius has a great battering ram moved made up of held tightly together by chains and hurls it against a rampart formed by two parallel palisades, filled with soil. On the first impact the rampart seems not to give way, also because during the march of approach more than half the carriers are hit. He decides then to create a testuggine of veterans around the battering ram which can create a shield against the launchings of the enemy.
The second attack has a better outcome and opens a narrow gap in the rival defence, enough for Spurius to go into the fortified field leading the veterans. To plug the hole three lines of auxiliaries armed with spears have crowded in the meantime, while from far away the bowmen bombard Catiline’s conspirators, but they soon have to desist in order not to hit their fellow soldiers too.
Spurius throws himself on horseback into the fight without sparing himself, while the men of the servile legion rush behind him, overwhelming the ranks of auxiliaries with a formidable attack and spreading within the defence, sowing confusion.
Cicero comes out headlong from the opposite side with a group of cavalrymen, leaving the standard near his tent, around which a bloody fight flares up. A group of praetorians protects the standard and tries to reach the way out to take it back to Rome again. Spurius doesn’t hesitate and throws himself against them, spurring his men to the same. The praetorians fall one by one, until Spurius manages to get hold of Cicero’s standard. At that gesture the enemy surrenders and throw down their arms. A cheer of triumph rises among the victors, while Spurius Faesulanus, trotting on horseback, riding along the outer edge of the field with the trophy raised high.
For Catiline too the battle is turning in his favour. The praetorians, seeing that Cicero has left the battlefield, copy him and rush back to Rome, leaving behind hundreds of dead men and prisoners.
The battle is won: Rome is close. Cicero has no choice but to barricade himself in Rome and endure a long siege, but he knows the plebs won’t support him. For him it’s the end.
Spurius climbs above the highest defence, to show everyone the standards that have just been taken, and arouses the jubilation of his comrades with loud cheers of victor. Meanwhile Catiline, with his praetorians, enters the field, received with war chants. Then, suddenly, something off key, a hiss or a hollow rustle, breaks the harmony. Spurius’ body stiffens. His arm, raised in salute, falls down, almost dislocated. Catiline with horror sees his friend’s chest pierced by an arrow, shot treacherously by a bowman hidden in one of the corner towers. Spurius lets out a cry of despair, and falls dead at Catiline’s feet. He still grasps in his hand the standard of Marcus Tullius Cicero: his father.
Meanwhile a messenger informs Catiline that in Rome the plebs has revolted and invaded the Curia, slaughtering senators. Cicero has been captured and locked up in the Mamertine prison. His presence is needed immediately to appease spirits and give the city a new government.
On that same day Marcus Tullius Cicero is executed and, along with him, Antonio Ibrida himself and two hundred other aristocrats who had supported him.
Catiline has Spurius Faesulanus’ body laid out and orders Vel Aufidius to escort him to Etruria, where it will have to be buried according to the custom of that people.
VIII – Tullius Spurius Faesulanus
The funeral cortege proceeded in silence along the path clinging to the rock face, until it reached the open space onto which the entrance to the tomb opened. Spurius’ body, sprinkled with scented unguents and dressed in a white robe trimmed with gold, lay on a litter carried by four well-built men on their shoulders. Vel Aufidius opened the headed the cortege, flanked by a priest and retinue of twelve women who carried baskets and amphoras for the funeral banquet.
The body was placed with its head turned towards the entrance to the tomb, while the women poured drinks each into a different cup. From the baskets they took out breads of different types. Then a little boy, with a double flute, began to mark the rhythm of a song, while the women sat in a circle around the augur and the priest, waiting for them to start the ceremony of communion. Suddenly the flute ceased playing and the banquet stopped, as when waiting for a guest who was late in coming. From afar a sound of steps. Some people went up with difficulty towards the open space. The priest and the augur got up and welcomed the guests.
“We were waiting for you, noble friend,” said the augur addressing the first of the men, who wore a dark mantle lowered over his head. "I have preserved the body with a special unguent, while waiting for the tomb to be ready, as you required it.”
The man took his mantle off his head and revealed his face: it was Lucius Sergius Catiline.
Vel handed him a cup and piece of bread. Catiline ate the bread and drank from the cup, then he sat down with his retinue and awaited the end of the ceremony.
“Now I will show you inside the tomb,” said Vel “everything has been carried out according to your wishes.”
He led the way, lighting it up with an oil-lamp and showed him inside the tomb.
“That is what the profane call the Hades’ door and the two creatures are Vanth and Charun, the guardian of the door. Above the lintel I’ve had engraved what you ordered: Marius’ eagle, your emblem.”
“You have carried out properly what I had prescribed and for this I will repay you, as I have already done for saving my life. Now there is just one last thing…”
He gestured with his hand to one of the men from the retinue carrying an earthenware amphora sealed with a bitumen stopper.
“Have this amphora placed at Spurius’ feet. It contains some writings by his father. They belong to him by rights.”
Vel waited for Spurius’ body to be placed on the sepulchral bed, then laid the amphora at his feet.
“Now rest in peace, my friend. May the gods welcome you in the Elysian Fields, as becomes a hero.”
He touched the face with his hand, then he turned suddenly and quickly went up the steep flight of steps.
As he came out, he covered his head with the dark mantle, to better hide his eyes which were bathed in tears. With an imperious gesture he then turned to the stone-cutter who was preparing to engrave the name of the dead man on the stone beside the entrance: “Write his real name, as I decreed: Tullius Spurius Faesulanus”.
“Tullius Spurius… Tullius Spurius…” Lucius’ eyes were wet with tears which distorted the faces of the people around him.
“Lucius, what’s happening to you?! It’s been two days that you’ve lost consciousness. You must have poisoned yourself with the mud and the sulphureous water. Howdid it occur to you to drink that rubbish?” The Letitia’s red hair, as she bent over him, tickled Lucius’ cheeks and closed his eyes, enraptured by that caress.
“Oh, wake up, what are you doing, are you going back to sleep? Now that’s enough!” the woman shook him.
“I’m hungry,” said Lucius in a childish tone “terribly hungry. I haven’t eaten for so long…”
“… eaten something sensible, you mean!”
“My god, my head…” He touched his forehead.
“Does it hurt you?”
“No, it’s full of images and words. It’s as though a computer has unloaded all its contents inside, without any order… I want to eat, hell!”
“Yours is an obsession!”
“What the hell are you saying, I’m not asking you for a dose of coke! I want to eat like all human beings!”
“You have to be patient just for a moment. The doctor said to keep you on an empty stomach. In half an hour he should be coming back to check you.”
“Who cares about the doctor?” He got up abruptly and went frantically towards the wardrobe opposite the bed. “I’ll get dressed and go out to eat something. Nothing but a rotten doctor!”
He pulled out his clothes and put them on, then he rushed to the door but, as he was about to open it, he encountered the doctor himself who was about to come in.
“I see that you’ve risen from the dead, our sleeper!”
“Risen from the dead and starving…”
“Good sign. Sit down.” He pointed to the armchair, then set his phonendoscope in his ears and uncovered his chest. Lucius flinched as soon as the cold surface of the instrument came into contact with his skin.
“Cheer up, we’ve nearly finished. Everything’s alright. Now, however, don’t go out alone but get the young lady accompany you, at least until you’ve filled your stomach.”
It was ten in the morning and in the tavern in the camp there were only workmen who ate a frugal lunch based on Gallic patina and spiced wine.
Lucius approached the counter and asked for a hearty meal: half a dozen boiled eggs, barley bread and aromatised goats milk. Then he had some Gallic patina added which he covered with caramel. He began to eat greedily, watched with a sense of disgust by Letitia who sipped a cup of barley.
“Welcome back among us.” Piacenza placed a hand on his shoulder. “You gave me a fright the other night. It took a strong gastric lavage to get you back on your feet!”
Lucius responded with a grunt, as he was about to grab his fourth egg.
“I was told I would find you here. I have some news for you. Now, however, please take your time to eat, Dr. Licatani…”
“What kind of news?”
“The tomb…”
“The tomb... what?”
“This morning from the central computer of Fiesole we received a photograph. You know that for now it’s only a hypothesis…”
Lucius swallowed a mouthful of goat’s milk: “Please speak frankly.”
“The bas-relief on the tomb. As you know, Clementi had sent the photographs of the individual fragments in Fiesole and the computer was able to reassemble them. You can’t imagine what came out.”
“Please don’t put limits on my imagination, especially after what I’ve been dreaming over the last few days… Provided it was a dream.”
“It seems to be about…”
“Let me guess: Marius’ eagle.”
Piacenza gave a start: “How did you…”
“Please just say yes or no, professor.”
“Yes, yes, of course, it’s Marius’ eagle, who told you?”
“Let’s leave it; if I told you, you certainly wouldn’t believe me.”
“This opens up a new scenario. The tomb definitely belongs to someone from Catiline’s circle. A person he can’t remember.”
“All the same, this unknown person has changed the history of the world.”
“I wouldn’t exaggerate.”
“Often reality goes beyond fantasy, professor. I don’t have to take lessons from you on the subject.”
Lucius got up from the table and held put his hand to Piacenza, as he left. Letitia hesitated for a moment, then she too got up and followed him.
“What the devil is happening to you, Lucius? Is this a way to treat people?”
“I’m sorry Letitia, but I had no choice. Piacenza mustn’t get to know anything about it, for now.”
“Anything about what? And why mustn’t he know? What’s happening to you?!”
“If he was to discover what I know and was to disclose it, no one would believe him, as has happened all his life. In this way the truth wouldn’t become manifest… I have to speak to the Minister. Immediately.”
Letitia nodded. She took her mobile phone from her bag and called a mysterious interlocutor with whom she exchanged a few quick words.
“Alright, I’ll see you today. In half an hour we’re going back to Rome: pack.”
The Palace of Roman Civilisation, where the offices of the Ministry for National History were, stood not far from the building of the Curia, completely renovated on the occasion of the celebrations for the Year Two Thousand.
Along the way, Lucius passed in front of the rostrums, where a decury of the Special Guard of the Roman Federation mounted the guard in continuance. He looked up and was taken by the golden reflections that came from the huge statue of Catiline on Capitol Hill. Everything was in its place, as always, despite there being stamped in his mind, indelibly, the images of desolation that his dream had shown him. He was glad that these were confined forever to the world of probabilities.
Before him the white stairway of the Palace of Roman Civilisation opened up, beaten by the north wind that that morning had made the sky indigo blue again.
In the entrance hall of the Palace, a huge mosaic showed the borders of the Federation of Rome: from Schiavonia to Iberia, from Britain to Africa.
A group of tourists from the Empire of Cipango were taking photographs of every single thing in the place, including the marble busts of all the console tables that had followed one another since the foundation of the Republic, placed in a gallery almost a kilometre long.
“Let’s take the lift,” said Letitia, but Lucius shook his head:
“No, we still have about twenty minutes, I want to see the Memoria Urbis again.”
The girl agreed and followed him to the park behind the building, where there was an architectural structure called Memoria Urbis and was made up of four cylindrical buildings, linked to a central column on which Marius’ eagle soared. Each building contained documentation relating to one of the four eras of Roman history. The first began with the foundation of Rome and ended with Catiline’s Revolution, the second opened with the publication of the Prima Lex, continued with the birth of Christianity and the promulgation of laws against slavery, the invention of the first steam engines and firearms, crucial for victory in the barbaric wars; it ended with the discovery of the New World. The third ear dealt with the colonisation of the New World and the industrial revolution, the Atlantic colonial war and the birth of the Free Western Union, a little less than two centuries before. The fourth and last ear started with the discovery of electrical energy and radio waves and continued with the Intercontinental War, which lasted twenty years, won by Rome and its allies, thanks to the making of the atomic bomb. The war was followed by the constitution of the Roman Federation, when every province had gained autonomy and legal status; finally the conquest of space and the landing of astronauts on planet Mars, just two years before.
“I don’t think there is any student of the Federation who, in his school career, hasn’t visited the Memoria Urbis, or rather the Four-leaved clover, as everyone calls it. It seems you’re seeing it for the first time now.”
“Perhaps it really is the first time that I’ve seen it, with new eyes. If Catiline hadn’t won, all this would never exist and we would now be living like savages, slaves of hunger and ignorance. And we owe this to one man alone…”
“To Catiline.”
Lucius shook his head and smiled: “No, before him, to a courageous man, as much as he was unlucky, who was called Tullius Spurius Faesulanus, who saved Catiline’s life in the battle of Pistoia. TUL.SPUR.FESU. doesn’t mean border of the city of Fiesole, but Tullius Spurius Faesulanus and indicates the tomb of the illegitimate son of Cicero who died at Ponte Milvio in 693. It was Catiline who had Marius’s eagle carved inside it and who placed the amphora containing the Orations Against Catiline there. He gave that man, to whom he owed his life, the name and heritage of his father.”
“How do you know all these thing?”
“I just do, Letitia. And as you’ve been able to observe yourself, research is proving me right…”
IX – Year 2000 of Rome
Melania, the secretary, was waiting for Lucius at the door of the entrance to the Etruria Antiquities Office. That was a particular day.
The driver got out of the blue ministerial car and opened the door. Lucius, in a dark grey double-breasted jacket and ochre yellow tie, got out of the care and went towards the woman, who shook his hand smiling.
“Hello and welcome, Superintendent Licatani.”
“Let’s not rush things. The investiture ceremony has yet to take place. You can call me then in about an hour.”
He entered the Great Hall of the Office were Fabiani was with a false smile printed on his rattlesnake face who, with a quick nod of his head, asked the staff sat in the semicircle to applaud.
“Welcome, Doctor Licatani, it’s an honour for me to leave this Office having reached retirement age, knowing that the post I have held for as long as thirty years will be assigned to an expert and researcher of such great merit.”
“I thank you, Superintendent, for your sincere words,” replied Lucius with the same false tone, “since the day when I had the fortune to meet you, I have been able to establish the depth of esteem you held me in. An esteem that I have always repaid unconditionally.”
The exchange of affectation was interrupted by the arrival of the Minister, followed by the usual train of collaborators, including the inevitable Letitia Lentini.
The Minister shook hands with Fabiani and whispered to him a few brief phrases suited to the occasion. They stepped aside and he sat at one end of the long table in the middle of the semicircle.
“Please Letitia,” said the Minister “the decree of appointment.”
The woman opened a file in blue cloth and pulled out a scroll folded in four and sealed with wax. She handed it to the Minister who broke the seal and opened the document.
“With this act I appoint you Superintendent for the Antiquities of Etruria, Doctor Licatini. Doctor Lentini, please proceed with the reading of the grounds.” She handed the decree to Lucius and shook his hand.
Letitia had meanwhile taken out of the file a second ruled sheet on paper headed with the Minister’s name and had begun to read: “For numerous merits acquired further to the research and recovery of very important documents relating to the history of the Roman State, we appoint Doctor Lucius Licatani Superintendent General for the Antiquities of Etruria. By decree of the Head of the Consular Government of the Roman Federation, we confer on you also the title of eques rei publicae. Dated two days before the Ides of September 2000 from the foundation of Rome, year 1247 after Christ.”
FINIS