The Eternal Time of History - Part IV E-Book

Simone Malacrida

• Herausgeber: Simone Malacrida
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

With the rise of Constantine to the helm of the Roman Empire, religion became a crucial element, along with civil wars and barbarian invasions, shaping the entire history of the fourth century. This was characterized by a continuous transformation of society, much more concerned with cultural, philosophical, and theological aspects than with military tradition.
The Italics were no exception, and generations adapted to these new customs, a clear sign of a decline that was both inevitable and almost indefinitely postponed.
The foundations for the collapse lay in the emergence of new peoples, represented by eternal past enemies, such as the Sassanids, and by adversaries who, mistakenly, would even be considered allies, such as the Visigoths.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

The Eternal Time of History - Part IV

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

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XVI

XVII

XVIII

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XXI

SIMONE MALACRIDA

“ The Eternal Time of History - Part IV”

Simone Malacrida (1977)

Engineer and writer, has worked on research, finance, energy policy and industrial plants.

ANALYTICAL INDEX

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I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

The book contains very specific historical references to facts, events and people. These events and characters actually happened and existed.

On the other hand, the main characters are the product of the author's pure imagination and do not correspond to real individuals, just as their actions did not actually happen. It goes without saying that, for these characters, any reference to people or things is purely coincidental.

With the rise of Constantine to the helm of the Roman Empire, religion became a crucial element, along with civil wars and barbarian invasions, shaping the entire history of the fourth century. This was characterized by a continuous transformation of society, much more concerned with cultural, philosophical, and theological aspects than with military tradition.

The Italics were no exception, and generations adapted to these new customs, a clear sign of a decline that was both inevitable and almost indefinitely postponed.

The foundations for the collapse lay in the emergence of new peoples, represented by eternal past enemies, such as the Sassanids, and by adversaries who, mistakenly, would even be considered allies, such as the Visigoths.

“If justice is not respected, what are States

if not great gangs of thieves?”

Saint Augustine

“De Civitate Dei"

​I

303-305

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Brutus had been missing from home for seventeen years, exactly half of his existence.

It seemed as if his life was divided in two by a watershed that he had decided completely independently.

His enlistment in the Roman legions saw him rise from the simple rank of legionary to become imperial legate, that is, commander of the second legion Auditrix, which was stationed in Mediolanum, despite the fact that he had spent much more time in Gaul, Germany, Britain, Raetia and Noricum, that is, the areas of responsibility for the containment of the barbarians under the command of Augustus and Caesar in the West.

He had mainly followed the second, Constantius Chlorus, during his rise and his continuous victories over his enemies, which were almost always associated with an integration of cavalry and infantry from these defeated populations within the Roman army.

The division of the Empire into four, certified without any internal struggle other than the now defeated usurpation of Carausius, had increased the number of legions to over fifty.

The army was so pervasive that it made other powers, such as the Praetorians and the Senate, completely secondary.

The latter, in particular, could have been the place where Brutus could have placed himself, given his noble ancestry, but the legion commander had never been interested in politics.

Having put away his armor and the wolf fur that he always used in battle to scare his enemies, he had allowed himself a month's rest to go home, where his mother Xanthippe and his brother Decius were waiting for him, with his wife Drusa and their children, Agrippa and Helena.

It was all that remained of his family, since his father Alexander had died four years earlier and Brutus had not been able to return to Panormo, in the Roman province of Sicily, where his ancestors had by then lived for many generations.

Brutus told himself that the Sicilian climate, with its heat and lack of humidity, was no longer familiar to him, just as the rustic view of those fields that stretched away to infinity was no longer familiar to him.

Nearly four hundred centuries of cultivation of vines, olives, wheat and spelt, breeding of horses, sheep and goats, production of clothing and footwear, production of bricks and a sorting center for ships that, travelling from east to west, transported all kinds of merchandise, supported by a land contribution of caravans and emissaries.

All this indicated the economic power of his family, which employed thousands of people of different ethnicities.

There were barbarians of all origins, from the Gothic region to the Germanic one up to the interior areas of Africa.

Furthermore, Brutus knew the distinctive character of what they had inherited from the mixture of various gentes, among the most important in Rome.

His brother's wife belonged to the gens Julia, but Brutus' ancestors had been, in various ways, Gracchi, Severi, Flavians, Tulli, Corneli, Fabii, and finally Italics.

There had also been other officers in the Roman army, but none had become imperial legate at such a young age.

Last but not least, there was the cultural center constituted by the great library, the pride of the family and which had always attracted the attention of writers and philosophers.

Having landed at Panormus, Brutus prepared to see his mother and brother.

They had not met for thirteen years, that is, since they had all witnessed the meeting between Diocletian and Maximian in Mediolanum.

Brutus was shocked to see his mother.

She was an old woman.

Only at that moment, and noticing the tears streaming down Xanthippe's face, did he feel some remorse.

“I abandoned you,” he stammered, as if justifying himself.

His enormous bulk doubled that of his mother.

Xanthippe felt that she had been satisfied and, silently, thanked God for what had happened.

It was a very welcome gift, even if he knew he had to hide the great secret he kept with his son and daughter-in-law.

In fact, they were all converted to Christianity, a religion considered dangerous, especially in the East.

Maximian and Constantius Chlorus were more tolerant than the eastern diarchy formed by Diocletian and Galerius.

“Because in the East, Christians have more power.

I am a state within a state.”

Brutus did not feel like a guest, but a master.

On the other hand, that property was, half, his and so he spoke as he had always been accustomed to doing.

Directly and with great conviction in his means, since, usually, everything he said turned into an order and that was the usual tone.

Decius stared at Drusa and looked down.

He wouldn't have intervened and they would have glossed over it.

It was better this way.

For everyone, especially for their children who should have grown up without any kind of restrictions.

“How long are you staying?”

Decius diverted the conversation, serving his brother some wine as a sign of kindness and hospitality.

“I thought a month.

I want to see how this land has changed.”

His brother rebuffed him.

“Nothing ever changes here, you should know that.

Do you know what happens to those who return after a long time?

He finds everything unchanged and discovers that the only one who has changed is himself, as his eyes and internal filters have changed.”

Brutus knew Decius's dialectical skills and how he used them.

He was a fine scholar of classicism and an excellent businessman.

He had taken on everything their father did, although Brutus was almost certain that he had his wife Drusa help him.

For this alone, he judged Decius as what he had always been.

A weakling.

He still remembered when he was little and his younger brother never fought back.

Never a flash of virility and pride.

How had he managed to conquer a woman like Drusa?

His sister-in-law seemed anonymous and unhappy to him, as if she were waiting for something.

Brutus imagined that he had never experienced the strong sensations that he was accustomed to giving to women, more or less forced or paid to lie with him.

Only a couple of them had loved him.

One was in Mediolanum and had had a child by him, completely without Brutus' knowledge.

And the other one was right there, two miles away from that house, employed by her brother.

She was an older servant and her eighteen-year-old daughter Cassia was about to marry and give Brutus his first grandchild soon.

What all these people hid from the imperial legate was their religious beliefs.

All Christians and all aware of the brutality of that soldier.

Despite this and what he had suffered in his youth, Decius proposed to take his brother inside the family property to show him how much it had changed over time.

“This is the area where the servants and freedmen lived.

Much improved from a while ago.

More dignified conditions for all.”

Riding in stately fashion, Brutus recognized some of the Goths who had taught him to fight.

A gesture of reverence towards the master and the commander was the least that could be done.

Brutus dismounted from his horse and wanted to greet them personally.

“You have done a great service to Rome.”

In truth, almost all of them had been converted to Christianity and did all this to honor God.

There was something very ordinary and disciplined about the neophytes of that religion, with only a refusal to serve other Gods, including the traditional Roman ones.

For the rest, it was a rigid discipline based on control by the bishops and Decius had not understood why the Empire was hindering all this.

In his opinion, Christians were better citizens, not inclined to rebellion, and even barbarians were so fascinated.

The Goths who had settled in Panormo were much more similar to them than to the other members of the same people who lived beyond Dacia.

The policy of gradual absorption with the dispersal of the various ethnic groups seemed to be working and the two brothers were in agreement on this.

“You did a great job.

Our father would be happy about that.”

Passing by to return to the domus, which had also been restored and refurbished, Brutus did not even notice Bulica.

The servant, who had been his first lover, saw that boy from the past again but was completely ignored.

Brutus, however, noticed the young girl.

Not knowing that it was his daughter, he thought of other situations, but the horse continued at his slow trot and led him back home.

Inside, he wandered through the rooms to the library.

“This has always been your kingdom.

And it always will be.”

Brutus intended to hand everything over to Decius.

It was right like this.

The brother had always worked in the family business and had invested all his time in it.

He had taken his wife on board and was raising two children with a view to continuing in the same footsteps.

“Perhaps in the future I will ask you only for the weapons of our ancestors.

Or you'll get mine to put in here, as a keepsake.

Now I don't want to stop.

I am in command of a legion and there should be no civil wars since the tetrarchic system works wonderfully.

The next step, which is not political, is to take command of an army.

I don't like the Senate, the Praetorium, the consulate, or the governorship of some province.

I want to keep fighting.

Only these barbarians seem to have had enough of our iron.

We are very organized and we are using them with us.”

Decius didn't want to know the details.

He hated violence and despised the fact that Rome based everything on power relations, when in fact it excelled in other things as well.

Brutus had immersed himself in his memories and had seen everything shine, not understanding how this was possible.

He considered Sicily too peripheral.

It was Drusa who explained the reason to him.

“Senatorial families are arriving here.

One of them is apparently going to contact us because she wants to buy a piece of land in the interior, safe from all possible raids.

They will come here to us in the summer to see the baths, the library, the mosaics and the frescoes.”

To Brutus these things seemed of little importance compared to the glory of war and the recognition that could be had by leading a Spartan but dedicated life.

He spent his last day with his mother.

Xanthippe had always felt very close to him, even though she knew his nature.

She knew this might be the last time she would see him.

She ran her hand over his face.

“I would like to see you happy.

With a woman by your side.

I hope you have one, I mean a faithful one who loves you.”

Brutus took his mother's hands and felt them cold.

He warmed them with an instinctive gesture.

If his soldiers had seen him, they would not have recognized him.

The imperial legate, the one who terrified his enemies with unspeakable howls, stood there taking care of an old woman.

“Sometimes it seems to me that you speak like Christians!”

Brutus had let himself go with that last confession, but in a joking way.

Drusa was alarmed, but Decius reassured her.

“Trust me, he didn’t understand.

He is too dull-headed for such subtleties.”

Brutus left behind his past and his former home.

With it, the familiar images and those fields on which he had taken his first lessons in combat would disappear.

Something else awaited him to the north.

A new levy of legionaries to integrate and troop movements to follow.

Everything needed to be reviewed and strengthened.

This is how the subsequent battles were prepared.

As soon as he rejoined his legion, he felt the duty to immediately implement some actions.

He had to find a woman to spend a night with.

Easy thing, just pay.

Then get drunk with his soldiers.

Just as easy.

And finally, witness the training of new soldiers.

After that, he would set out.

Constantius Chlorus had requested his presence in Gaul and Britain to organize the defenses.

New methods of conducting certain sieges and repelling invaders were in mind.

At the same time, in Panormo the senatorial family of Rome was on an official visit to the domus of the Italics.

Decio did the honors of the house, leaving it up to his mother and his wife to explain how things were and what had changed in recent years.

“There are many opportunities in Sicily.

A lot of money will arrive here from Rome, given the migration of patricians that will take place.

And first come, first served.”

He saw big business on the horizon, with an economy in need of revitalization and good prospects for the future.

However, even from them he had to hide the fact that he was a convert.

“When can we come out into the open?”

It was a recurring question in the large Christian community that existed on the estate owned by Decius.

Unlike many who feared continued repression, Decius was more confident.

“We are not in the East here.

We will have to have faith and you will see that things will change soon.

Change is needed, but it will come.

It's inevitable.

Have you ever seen the sea remain identical to the one from the previous day?”

He hardly spoke like a master anymore, at least not in the get-togethers they had with each other.

Bulica, listening to him and seeing him move, had said to herself that it would have been better for Cassia to have a father like Decius than her real one.

“Yes, but if it had been Decius, Cassia would not have existed.

Decius would never have done what Brutus did.”

It seemed like a contradiction that would end up eroding the woman if she did not free herself of that burden.

But how?

Talking would not have been correct.

Not now, after years and after lying for so long.

And then for what?

She had analyzed the situation countless times and told herself that, for Cassia, it was better this way.

A safe life as a commoner, but with an unsurprising fate.

She would marry, have children, and they, in turn, would give rise to new generations.

That was the way it was for them and they had only to thank God for it all.

The descendants of the Italics were good masters, guided by a great spirit of sacrifice and sense of duty.

Now they had also become Christian brothers, all of them except Brutus, but the imperial legate would not show up again in Panormus.

Rumors spread quickly, and everyone knew that Decio would inherit the entire company and pass it on to his children.

Bulica took refuge in prayer.

The same one that had been taught to her by her current husband, who had learned it from others.

Word of mouth was based on a few writings and recent studies by various bishops.

Decius, having overcome the initial impact phase, was delving into the doctrinal aspects, always cautiously so as not to be discovered.

There seemed to be great divisions and different Christian beliefs, at first sight of little importance to those who were not accustomed, like Decius, to the study of the classics.

He felt very scared and talked to his wife about it.

It was morning, one of those autumn dawns that are slow to arrive.

There was silence and they were alone in bed looking at each other, as they had always done.

“For much less, philosophical currents have waged war.

You understand?"

Drusa was the only one with a decent education who would have understood Decius's drama.

Even her mother Xanthippe could have resolved such a concern, but it was better not to give her any more worries.

Drusa sighed.

“God will guide us.

It will send a signal, as it always has.

Someone will come along who will fix the doctrine.”

Decius stood up.

Perhaps it would have happened that way, but what exactly did he believe?

What was the true meaning of Christianity?

*******

Two years had already passed since Sersore had embarked on some ships that constantly sailed the sea that separated Persia from Arabia.

It was the most suitable and well-known sea outlet for the population living within the Sassanid Empire, whose extension roughly followed that already in possession of the Parthian kingdom.

The Sassanid dynasty had taken over eighty years earlier following the disintegration of the Parthian lineage due to the ongoing conflict with Rome.

They had brought a breath of fresh air from the East, but general habits had not changed.

Same capital, same nomenclature and same alternating events.

Repeated clashes with the hostile neighbor and the successes had been, for the most part, due to the crises that had always affected the enemy Empire.

In particular, Sersore lived in a period in which his land had suffered the devastation of Diocletian and the whole society had suffered the consequences.

Of his family, he was the only one left alive, while his home and his father's mercantile and shipping company had been destroyed.

For this reason, he had decided to take to the sea.

On the one hand, he had above-average knowledge of navigation, the instruments needed for orientation and for forecasting atmospheric and marine currents.

Furthermore, his name was known and almost everyone would have taken him on board.

He would not have been a simple sailor, but a sort of assistant captain.

Sersore had had no doubts.

“I have nothing holding me back.

No woman waiting for me and no home.

There is no food and no safety.

The sea will feed me and take me far away.”

So he had done, and now he was in the enviable position of being able to choose.

Trade ships could follow several routes, and wages were better if you ventured east.

Beyond Persia, there were lands of little interest, until we finally landed in India, with its inestimable riches.

Sersore smoothed his beard, which was covering his face under a blanket of black hair.

The long hair was tied in a braid as was the custom among other nomadic peoples who inhabited the steppes north of Persia.

“I'll take care of it,” he said confidently to the impresario.

He would have led a small vessel, sailing along the coast and crossing the great river that gave rise to India, both geographically and toponymically.

He looked at him.

What would he have risked?

Not much, just a minimal portion of the earnings.

If it were, however, he would have earned a considerable sum.

“Good boy. May the gods bless you.”

The Empire was a melting pot of ethnicities, cultural exchanges, and devotion to disparate religions, even giving refuge to Jews and Christians, a new connotation that came from the West.

Sersore believed in nothing but himself and the response of the sea.

It was an uncontrollable force that brought man back to his place.

Small and powerless, despite what the emperors, kings, generals and anyone who commanded a certain number of men thought.

“Out there, nobody is in charge.

Not even a captain.”

He had said this to another sailor who, although older than him, did not have the same experience once he left the mainland.

The warm, humid wind enveloped the men as they threw themselves into the unknown.

Thinking about the expedition in its entirety would have put anyone off, but Sersore was used to thinking in pieces.

To get to a point without worrying about what comes next.

For now, Sersore could only see the first trading port, the one near the outermost edge of his people's Empire.

There they would stock up and prepare for the leap to India.

If there was something that distinguished Sersore from all the other sailors, it was how much they missed life on land, especially the women.

“You can't know.

If you've never tasted...”

He was constantly mocked in a good-natured manner, but Sersore didn't take it personally.

It was enough for him to experience the thrill of the wind and be considered an excellent captain.

He felt the responsibility of his new role, given to him at such a young age and for an adventure that was in itself dangerous and without any certainty.

The sight of the ever-present shoreline gave hope to many.

In case of a storm, they would soon regain the shore, although Sersore thought that all this was but a mere illusion.

There were winds capable of carrying one out to sea despite the skill in the use of sails and the power of rowing arms.

Everything depended on chance and nature and man only had to adapt.

Last safe haven, as everyone called it.

Anyone who stopped in the East could be seen in a few moments.

They were the ones who lingered over the loads, calculating weights and volumes exactly based on what was available.

Sersore was used to thinking numerically in his mind.

From memory, as the most experienced did.

“Three more sacks of grain and four skins of water.”

This is how much more there would have been.

The order was to stuff ourselves properly before leaving.

For the first two days they had to eat little or nothing, leaving everything for the long crossing to India.

Sersore tried to alternate his behaviors, oscillating between a veiled control and a partial freedom.

The harmony and morale of the crew was the primary asset to be preserved.

Unprotected sea of immense size, impossible to tackle directly.

“Better to stay closer to the coast,” he said to the helmsman.

They would have taken a longer, but safer journey.

“There is the great river.”

It was easily recognizable, identical to the image Sersore had formed in his mind after hearing the legends passed down orally or the descriptions of those who had once been there.

From that moment, India would begin.

He counted four more days of sailing.

“To the next city by the sea.”

Another six days and they finally saw something interesting.

They entered the port, raising the banner of the Sassanid Empire so that everyone knew where they came from.

They were interested in buying and understanding what was interesting.

Sersore had jealously guarded the chest that had been entrusted to him and had hidden it in a place known to him in his cabin, almost the only one in existence indoors, obtained simply by using vertical planks and a sort of wooden roof above his head.

No one would have dared to steal it, since not only the success of the trade but, more importantly, the purchase of supplies for the return journey depended on its contents.

Communication was difficult.

Almost no one spoke their language and Sersore had never heard that language.

“I'll translate for you.”

A man offered himself, obviously for a fee.

Sersore was too accustomed to that world not to sense a possible fraud.

“I’ll only pay you if I quote lower prices than I have in mind.”

He knew the value of the goods, at least the equivalent of what each good could be sold for within the territory from which it came.

After deducting the cost of shipping and the contractor's profit, as well as their wages, what remained was what they owed to the buyer.

Anything that was left over would be used by them as extra income to share.

Negotiations began feverishly.

An inhuman crowd gathered on the dock and it was difficult for the crew to set foot on land.

“We stand united.

Where one goes, they all go.

So follow me.”

Sersore led the crew to a safe place.

First of all, he had to weed out all those who wanted to sell objects that were not interesting, at least according to the manager, who had given him a list.

“Tell everyone I’m not buying anything today, nor tomorrow.”

Ten days passed on shore and almost all business had been concluded.

“We must stand guard on the ship.”

The sailors complained.

“We came here for the women too.”

Sersore would not allow his first mission to be thwarted by trivial reasons.

“Next time.

We all have one goal: to return home safe and sound, with what we have loaded.

When they pay us, then we can have fun.”

He had to be uncompromising, as he knew that a moment could ruin all those efforts.

After two days, they set sail.

Now they knew the route.

Ten days to the beginning of the mouth of the Indus.

Just as many to leave it behind once and for all and head towards the Empire.

After two more nights, they saw the last frontier of home.

They were almost safe.

Within their kingdom, at least they would speak their own language and have the protection of the impresario's seals, a guarantee of recognition.

Slow suction of that sea that was closing in and finally the landing.

A hug sealed the end of the journey.

“My youngest captain and the bravest.”

The impresario did the calculations twice, just to be safe.

Excellent results and we had to continue.

“When are you setting sail again?”

Sersore would have chosen the next day, but not the crew.

As a good captain he should have waited.

“We need to let the men rest and then we need a larger ship and another support ship.

We must increase in numbers if we want to be freer and more successful.”

From then on, India and the sea would be his best friends, probing those routes deeply and pushing far beyond the first available port.

The business was just beginning, with a beneficial effect in the form of erasing a memory of the events on land, which would always remind him only of the death of his family at the hands of the hated Romans.

*******

Xanthippe spent more and more time with her two grandchildren.

In them, he saw the future, the first members of the family to grow up as Christians from birth.

She felt at peace with herself and was working to teach Agrippa the rudiments of Greek.

Classical culture remained a central linchpin for understanding the world and the philosophical concepts that underlay religion.

Sister Elena followed the lessons step by step and never missed an appointment.

He saw Agrippa as a model and an example to emulate.

This serenity was a mirror of what was happening in Panormo society.

With the fears of the past cast aside, the plague and invasions overcome, trade resumed, everything seemed to flourish again.

Even the harvest had increased in yield and Decius was satisfied with it.

“If only they would stop thinking about wars, it would be good for everyone,” he reflected as soon as word reached him, via the senatorial families of Rome who wanted to move to Sicily, of a possible transfer of power without violence.

It would have been a first step towards normalization.

Except for the persecutions that were taking place in the East, Decius found Diocletian to have been a great emperor.

Perhaps one of those men that Rome needed to recover and someone who embodied a spirit of other times.

No one had abandoned power of their own free will and well before natural death, at least not in imperial Rome.

Everything would have materialized this year, with the mutual withdrawal of the two Augusti.

Diocletian would have returned to Illyria, his homeland and where he was said to have built a sumptuous palace overlooking the sea, while Maximian would have preferred Lucania.

Decius thought of his brother Brutus.

It would become one of the military references of the new Augustus of the West, Constantius Chlorus.

His career was destined for great success, and he wished well for the man who had once been his personal persecutor.

Drusa, however, did not share her husband's opinions.

“You are too good to Diocletian, as you are to your brother.

I understand you, because ultimately your father Alessandro's hand is there in both cases.

However, the reality is quite different.”

Drusa had proven herself to be a woman with a strong character, far beyond her apparently fragile appearance.

She had had to deal with pregnancies and the loss of children at a young age, without shirking her duties.

A tireless worker, she supervised all of Decio's activities regarding trade and production, leaving her husband complete autonomy only for cultivation and livestock farming.

Xanthippe was extremely satisfied with her daughter-in-law and only regretted that her family had not decided to move to the city near Panormo, choosing a part of Sicily much further south.

The old woman thought more and more often about her son Brutus, driven by a strange sensation she had had when she met a servant.

She knew how Christians they were and remembered her name, since they had been baptized together.

It was Cassia, who had married the previous year and was now showing clear signs of pregnancy.

Xanthippe had smiled as she met her outside the domus.

“You shouldn’t get too tired,” he had suggested, then dispensing some forced rest periods.

She had gone to Decio's office and convinced her son to introduce a new work organization.

Pregnant women could do nothing for a year and still be paid or supported.

Bulica almost burst into tears thinking about how things had changed in a short time.

“Let us thank the Lord,” he had stressed to Cassia.

She was unaware of the trigger and the lateral thinking that had crossed Xanthippe's mind.

What had he seen in Cassia?

A kind of feminine nature that had never been generated by Xanthippe and that had remained latent in Decius and, above all, in Brutus.

Contrary to reality, the son had created a person who contained his mental projections.

A woman, delicate, almost frail, religious and willing.

A sort of summa that Brutus opposed and that he sought everywhere.

It was no coincidence that the three women who had borne him children had all become Christians, even though the legion commander had always fought against them.

He was convinced that Diocletian and Galerius were right in persecuting those fanatics in the East and had personally gone to Rome to threaten the bishop of that city, who was considered a sort of special leader.

Brutus had received orders from Maximian himself to implement Diocletian's eastern provisions.

“Expulsion of Christian soldiers from the army.

Confiscation of the assets of the Christian Church.

Prohibition of religious functions.”

Brutus moved with part of the legion and descended on Rome, obtaining the closure of the catacombs and causing great fear among the undiscovered Christians.

“Renunciation or death” had been Diocletian's verdict, which he had even applied to his wife and daughter.

Drusa was convinced that the Emperor had been punished for this.

“He turned his hand against his own family, demanding ritual sacrifices to the Gods.

And now God has punished him.

He is feeling ill and is retiring because of this.”

Decius did not share such an extremist position, but he could do nothing when news of the persecutions arrived from Rome.

“My brother...”

He didn't even dare to imagine what Brutus could unleash once he set it in motion.

Unknowingly, he was accelerating the process of moving some patrician families to Sicily and Decius would have benefited from this.

In front of the imperial legate stood a man stripped of all glory.

“So you are the bishop of Rome?

Do you know the edict?

I know you are from the City and I feel ashamed for you, Marcellinus, to see how the city, the very symbol of power, has been dragged so low.

Then you wonder why it's no longer capital.”

Marcellinus answered the question calmly.

He denied any interference in state affairs.

“It is written.

Give to Caesar what is Caesar's and to God what is God's.

Therefore, we Christians will always be faithful to the State.

We pay taxes and support the legal system.”

Brutus had had enough of words.

How false those speeches were!

“Hand over the sacred texts to be burned and then choose between abjuration or death.”

A political advisor approached him.

There was no need to be so harsh, since it could have triggered internal revolts.

“Or exile,” he added shortly after.

Marcellinus chose the third way.

Exile, so as to remain in waiting.

He knew that the world would soon change.

“I sense your deep sense of unease.

There is good in you, Imperial Legate.

You have seen death many times, but you long for life.

Everything in you yearns for eternity.

Do you think war will give you what you want?

It is only an illusion, a false idol like your Gods.

Seek the truth deep within your heart.”

Brutus motioned for him to be taken away.

He had fulfilled his task and now he was eager to leave Rome.

It was a devious and licentious city, too friendly and dangerous.

There was a vast past but a swampy present, devoid of any magnificence.

Riding north, Brutus was ready to receive command of the strategic reserve located at Mediolanum.

Constantius Chlorus was about to appoint the new Caesar of the West, in the person of Flavius Valerius Severus.

At the same time, the deployment of troops had to be reformed, given that Maximian had been more concerned with Africa than with the northern part of Noricum and Rhaetia.

Brutus would also have wanted to fight to erase the words of that Christian bishop that had deeply disturbed him.

“What does he know about me?”

It was said that, to convince himself of his total wrongness, he would commit all kinds of crimes in the eyes of Christians.

In Mediolanum, he ordered repressive activities against the followers of that religion, killing one with his own hands.

He was the half-brother of his son, the second he had with the former prostitute he had seduced years before.

The woman had died the previous year and, as a legacy to the world, had left those two children.

The execution was carried out in public, before the eyes of a cheering crowd, even though, among them, there was part of the Christian community silent and stifling its sobs.

Brutus' son, without knowing his father's identity, repressed his first outburst of anger, remembered the words of forgiveness and repeated them to the imperial legate, now the new true commander of all the troops present in Mediolanum.

Constantius Chlorus summoned him.

He knew his impetus and his fury and knew that they could be counterproductive in a city that did not want to see blood.

“I entrust to you the fortification and reconstruction of the entire defense between Rhaetia and Noricum as far as Pannonia.

We must secure the Alpine corridors up to those towards Illyria.

Make them narrow and inaccessible to a horde that wants to invade the Italian plain.”

Brutus knew how to enforce such an order.

Discipline and willpower, self-denial and harmony among the units were required, together with mutual integration with the barbarians.

“Will I be able to bring my wolves?”

He was referring to his personal escort, a force of three hundred men trained in every field and with a legendary reputation on the battlefield.

To join this elite unit, one had to be an excellent warrior, with an unwavering will to kill and perfect overall coordination.

“Yes, go ahead.

I will go to Britain to settle that frontier and restore the fleet.

We must avoid barbarian penetrations by sea.

They are turning into pirates.”

Brutus smiled.

He had a mission, after a long time.

A precise and logical task.

The fortification work included clearing the borders, with the consequent killing or capture of barbarians.

He would be back in business and his spirit was filled with joy.

“We will leave in a decade.

Refuel, check your equipment.

Heading north towards the Lario and, after skirting it, we will pass into Rhaetia.”

It was a task that would take him a whole year, including the winter.

One of the characteristics of his men was that they could work and fight in any weather conditions.

Just like wolves, they knew how to strike effectively in winter while other animals hibernated.

Once back in charge of the strategic reserve, Brutus saw a bright and glittering future.

His direct referent was the Augustus of the West, in a tetrarchic system that seemed to work wonderfully.

A perfectly thought out and tested mechanism that had restored lustre to the Empire.

With external enemies repelled, the economy consolidated, and internal wars avoided, it was now possible to concentrate on eliminating internal dangers and all those who threatened the order of Rome.

Unaware of the fragility of things and the unpredictability of life, Brutus wanted to delude himself into thinking he was living in a new golden age.

Better than the Augustan peace, better than the times of Trajan, better than the adoptive principate.

The Empire had four capitals and an army never larger than before.

Almost sixty legions.

An impressive mass of soldiers who had only one task.

Defend.

No more conquests and no more new loot, but simple containment.

“As long as they get along, everything will be perfect.”

Decius had confessed all this to his wife and Drusa already saw the danger looming.

When have people so enthralled by power and with the force of arms on their side ever been content to share command?

Without faith, everything was dictated by instincts and opportunism.

The abyss was near, and pagan society would emerge defeated from it.

​II

307-309

––––––––

Brutus was at the head of the army which, from Mediolanum, was rapidly descending towards Rome.

The situation had degenerated after the sudden death of Constantius Chlorus.

The Augustus of the West had died on British soil, in the same city where, almost a hundred years earlier, Septimius Severus had died.

For Brutus, who was closely tied to the man he esteemed, it was a difficult blow to absorb, but what was about to unfold was worse.

In defiance of the tetrarchic system, the troops following Constantius had acclaimed his son Constantine as emperor.

“We are no longer in the times of military anarchy, there are rules!”

Brutus would have slaughtered these traitors to the established order with his own hands, but there was no need.

Galerius, the Augustus of the East, proposed a perfect solution.

Flavius Severus would have become Augustus of the West and Constantine the Caesar of the West.

Formally, nothing changed and Brutus was able to calm down.

However, something had gone wrong in Rome.

Strengthened by the discontent that had arisen in the city, Maxentius had ended up having himself proclaimed Emperor.

He had the support of the people of Rome, of the Senate, of the Praetorians, of the troops stationed at Castra Albana and of all of Africa, as well as of a key figure on whom he could count.

His father was Maximian, the Augustus of the West who had formally retired but whose importance was still such.

Brutus, although skeptical about civil war, had to agree with the orders coming from Galerius.

“We cannot be distracted by the fact that Maxentius is the son of Maximian.

Consistency is at stake here.

From the adoptive or hereditary model, we have moved on to something else, that is, to a choice based on precise rules and orders.

If we allow it to be broken once, then everything is permitted.”

He had set out for Rome and now the city would tremble.

For Brutus, it was necessary to eliminate Maxentius and fully implement the reform desired by Galerius with the suppression of the Praetorian Guard.

Furthermore, the army commander would have gladly exterminated the senators who had supported this usurpation.

“Guilty of having unleashed another fratricidal war.”

Decius remained to watch.

When Roman armies clashed against each other, it was always difficult to decide who to supply and who not to.

On the other hand, his greatest concern now was for the fate of his brother, who was completely unaware of the great strength that still existed in Rome.

No longer military, but economic.

And if Brutus had known the past history of the Empire and his family, he would have understood the initial meaning of the great reform implemented by Septimius Severus through the centrality of the army stationed in the border areas.

To take away from Rome the election of the Emperor.

The alliance between senators and praetorians and the direct intervention of Maximian would have caused something that was intolerable and inconceivable for Brutus.

The betrayal.

Many people already didn't want to kill Roman brothers or be killed by them.

Furthermore, a certain sacredness of the Urbe persisted.

Finally, the arrival of Maximian and the memory of past glorious events prepared the minds of the legionaries.

It was like a leak opened by water.

At first, insignificant and slow.

Then more and more disruptive.

All it took was money, donated in abundance by all the senatorial families.

“What are they doing?”

The troops were deserting, going over to the enemy, in which case Maxentius.

Brutus soon found himself isolated, with his wolf pack and the personal guard of Flavius Severus, who fled the camp seeking refuge in the north.

There was nothing left to do but surrender.

Brutus surrendered to Maxentius, suffering the worst possible indignity.

Betrayal and surrender without a fight.

“Honor me by killing me.”

Maxentius stared at him.

It could have given a signal of ferocity or clemency.

“Stand up, commander.

Are you convinced that Rome needs to be defended?”

Brutus nodded.

“And that we must be united in tradition?”

Maxentius used the weapons of eloquence.

He recalled the great reforms he would have liked to support, first and foremost the centrality of the Roman gods and the persecution of Christians.

Brutus found himself in agreement with the principles of Maxentius, which were the same as those of his father Maximian.

Who was Flavius Severus?

A vile and cowardly man who had fled and who had to be hunted down and imprisoned.

Brutus stood before the one he now saw as Augustus of the West.

They would have reached an agreement with Constantine, as they were brothers-in-law.

Everything remained within the family confines of a dispute where only Flavius Severus was a stranger.

With an indomitable desire to make amends, Brutus ordered the two legions he had retained command of to march on Ravenna.

Maxentius remained in Rome and Brutus headed north with Maximian, making it clear that they would demand the surrender of Flavius Severus in exchange for his life.

Perhaps it would not have been necessary to shed even a drop of Roman blood and that was a good thing for Brutus.

Drusa feared she would witness further massacres, but Decius stopped her.

“It's just politics, the very thing my brother hates.”

He thought that fate was cruel and that those who try to get as far away from danger as possible end up falling into it.

These provisions are ambivalent.

“We supply everyone equally.

Same loads for the East and ditto for the West, with doses equally divided between Constantine and Maxentius.”

It was a careful way of moving, waiting for events.

He didn't know much about Constantine and whether he could be trusted or not.

Furthermore, the fact that Diocletian was still alive cast an ominous light on the unfolding events.

You could win or lose momentarily but that would not have turned into a definitive gesture.

Decius was more concerned with other things, such as the fate of his children in such a torn world, the health of his mother Xanthippe, apparently excellent but always with a veil of sadness, and how to lead the family out of the current dangers.

Heir to a tradition that had always seen someone sacrifice himself for the common good, Decius found enormous points of contact between many of his ancestors and the Christian faith.

He would begin in a few years to educate his children according to the precepts of the family religion, once he was certain of their confidentiality.

So far he had managed to keep everyone safe, with no denunciations from the pagans who were in his pay.

While there were elements of fervent anti-Christianity, practical reasons came first.

With his exemplary behavior, Decius had discouraged anyone from losing their acquired privileges.

In a different way than Brutus, Decius reached the same result, that is, to have himself followed.

At first glance, it seemed weaker and less convincing, but what Decius achieved was solid over time.

Even in the face of adversity, his subordinates would not change their minds, which was not true for Brutus' legionaries.

Aside from his wolves, everyone else bypassed the hierarchical order and addressed themselves directly to the sole commander in chief.

“The power of love is greater,” Drusa used to say and constantly reminded her children of it.

Agrippa and Helena were raised with values other than oppression and violence.

How would Rome have survived?

This was the main objection of a society that had become increasingly militarized.

First of all, ban capital punishment and executions as well as torture and persecution.

This was the first phase, as for the second, that is, the abolition of war, Drusa had something revolutionary in mind.

“We must convert even our enemies.

Don't stop Christianity at the borders of the Empire.

Bringing the word to the barbarians.”

As abstruse as the idea was, Xanthippe thought it was brilliant.

How could a war have been avoided?

Simply making everyone brothers.

A factual truth was given by the non-belligerence between Christians, even if Decius began to perceive certain disagreements coming from the East.

Rumors of theological disputes and differences of opinion were coming in.

Who was the most important bishop?

The one in Rome?

And why, because we had Peter as our forerunner?

Or the one in Jerusalem?

And Antioch and Alexandria, the main cultural centers of the Empire?

Furthermore, Decius was certain that Easter was celebrated on different dates, having received testimony from many merchants.

If all this could not be resolved in a conciliatory manner, the guns would have sounded.

As always in human history, without looking at anyone's face.

“You are carrying an unnecessary burden.

Free yourself from this burden, my son.”

Xanthippe had deep respect for Decius and was fully convinced that her family would have a great future, entrusted to Decius's good sense.

However, he saw in him a kind of self-inflicted compulsion.

Nothing compared to the great freedom that Xanthippe had always sought and that she had found, definitively, in Christianity.

Her sentimental and sexual erudition on the forbidden books in the library had been freedom, and her showing herself naked to her cousin had been freedom, and her marrying Alessandro had been freedom.

Always the freedom to leave your brother and cousin to their own choices, even if they are wrong and deadly.

And, finally, freedom to accept Brutus' way.

The eldest son was the one who embodied the spirit of Xanthippe and the woman felt she had always preferred him, feeling guilty towards Decius, who had forced himself to live a pious and righteous life, primarily to gain his mother's approval.

As witty, intelligent, and intellectually superior as he was to any other member of his family, past or present, Decio would never admit to sacrificing himself for others.

He too felt free, despite the invisible chains that held him tight to a home that had too often become a prison of the future as a reminder of the past.

Brutus escorted Flavius Severus from Ravenna to the outskirts of Rome, content to have witnessed no bloodshed.

Meanwhile, Maxentius was carrying out his program.

Quickly and without any hesitation.

There had only been the defection of the senatorial family who had moved to Sicily, for now hosted by Alexander's former attendant, Decius' father.

They had bought a good plot of land in a further inland region, located on a plateau, and were carrying out the first construction work.

Once the first nucleus was ready, they would move there to expand the building and make it as sumptuous as in their original ideas.

Only a vast civil war would have prevented such a hope.

Although Brutus was convinced that none of this would happen, the news caused panic in Rome.

The Augustus of the East was about to march on Italy and, perhaps, had already passed, with the vanguard, one of the passes secured by Brutus himself.

There was no time to argue.

“It is better that one perish for the good of all.”

Maximian was convinced of this.

His son Maxentius understood and ordered Brutus to execute Flavius Severus.

Before the commander could make up his mind, the Praetorians were quicker than anyone else.

Accustomed to conspiracies and the swiftness of ambushes, they had already been lying in wait for some time beneath the house where Flavius Severus was being held hostage in the Lazio town of Tre Taverne.

A dispatch was sent directly to Galerius who had to take note of it.

His army stopped and then turned back.

In Rome, in the palaces near the Palatine where Maxentius used to reside as per ancient Roman tradition, there was a celebration and this aroused the concern of his father Maximian.

Was it still necessary to reorganize the imperial hierarchy within the tetrarchic scheme?

Not for Brutus.

For the man of arms, everything was clear.

In the West there was an Augustus and a Caesar in the figures of Maxentius and Constantine.

Certainties that only a soldier could have, but not a politician or anyone accustomed to complex reasoning.

Decius was aware of this and told himself that they would have to wait until the following year.

“One thing nature teaches us is to keep up with the rhythms.

We humans often want to impress our speed on events, but we are wrong to consider ourselves so powerful.”

His son Agrippa listened and stored away.

He had inherited almost everything from his father.

First of all, the physical appearance.

Slightly rounded with short black hair, slightly dark skin and brown eyes with grey streaks.

Of the Germanic, Dacian and Gallic influences with fair skin and blond hair, very little remained.

Above all, their thoughtful and gentle attitude was a characteristic they had in common.

Xanthippe seemed to see, day after day, Decius himself growing up, confusing him with Agrippa.

Conversely, Elena was a copy of her mother as a child.

Natural and radiant, no frills and essential.

In their children, the couple reflected themselves and that was why it was natural for them to become parents.

For now, no conflict or divergence, but the difficult period was about to come.

Neither Drusa nor Decius had any illusions that this could last forever.

“Everything changes, nothing changes,” was a paradoxical phrase that Decius often repeated.

It was said that it was enough to consult the family records to find the answer to every earthly question.

What had happened could be transliterated to the present day, by appropriately changing the external conditions.

“If a civil war breaks out, for example, we will see an economic crisis and a new and subsequent pressure from the barbarians.”

They seemed like obvious statements, but even Brutus had reached the same military conclusions.

He was eager to return to Mediolanum to once again take command of the strategic reserve.

As interesting as living in Rome was, and as much as it was in accordance with tradition, only from Mediolanum could a border defense be coordinated.

It was said that he would speak to Maxentius, but he did not.

Perhaps he felt the need to spend a winter in Rome, among the luxuries he had never allowed himself.

Wine and heat, patrician houses and matrons.

The whole world he had always despised and that had rejected him was now beneath his feet.

He awaited the arrival of Maximian, then indulged in a decade of passion with a senator's daughter who had set her eyes on him.

She was not like the ordinary concubines he was used to sleeping with, but a twenty-five-year-old mother of two who wanted a love affair with a rough and powerful commander.

Brutus could not hold back and vented his pent-up anger on her, making her pay for her privileged status.

The woman suffered in silence.

It was what he had sought and, in part, wanted.

It really was a wolf.

A man more like an animal in the way he treated women.

After that, she dismissed Brutus, returning to her monotonous life and preserving for the rest of her days that wild and passionate love from which a son would be born.

The fourth for Brutus, the fourth never known.

“I no longer need you, your request for transfer to Mediolanum has been accepted.

There you will be the commander-in-chief of all the troops and you will coordinate the defense of the Italian plain.”

Brutus began to think about his next step.

With a new levy of legionaries, he could have completely routed the Alemanni, recovering the Agri Decumates after almost fifty years.

Such a feat would have earned him another promotion to supreme command of all troops stationed between the border and the strategic reserve.

*******

The rolling hills of Dacia were home to Munda's entire family. At forty-one, she had overcome the trauma she had experienced as a child, when that same land had been synonymous with total defeat for her people, the Goths, soundly defeated at Naissus and with a march that had seen the deaths of both the mother and the aunt of the then newborn, who now stood proudly on her own two feet, scanning the horizon.

In that same land there was part of its origins, mixing those who had been free Dacians with the Goths.

In truth, the migration that had seen almost the entire population of Olbia, the former Roman colony located on the sea north of Dacia, emptied out, had caused a great division among that people.

The two tribes that occupied different locations had always differed in their habits and customs, but now the name also ruled over everything.

Teomiro, Munda's husband and one of those warriors who had not fought any battle, was amazed to hear his eldest son Totila, twenty years old, pronounce the new name.

“Visigoths.”

Thus the others remained the Ostrogoths and now they settled the area that had previously been their responsibility, having abandoned the eastern steppes due to the growing presence of the Huns.

What Teomiro's father had predicted had come true and now the Visigoths could rest easy.

“One or two generations,” Teomiro had decreed, aware of the serious problem ahead.

The Roman Empire to the south and the Huns to the east.

A deadly grip if applied to a population that had few members compared to the past.

That's why his adage:

“No wars” had been taken into consideration by everyone and had become common heritage.

Totila was itching to train and his desire to train had long since passed.

“Action is needed,” he thought to himself, and that was why Teomiro had made his ruling quite clear.

“We need to find him a wife, and soon.”

By the age of twenty, he must have already had children, but migration and the subsequent effort to re-urbanize had taken up time and resources.

Very little remained of the old loot plundered by the Romans and only a few families still managed to maintain a good level of prosperity.

These were the same ones who could rise to noble roles and hope for one of their members to be elected king.

The family's most precious possession was a horse that, from a foal, had become a young adult and was destined for Totila, while Teomiro had settled for a marginal role in the future.

What he had managed to do was enough for him, especially keeping Tamindo, his youngest son, away from his brother's example.

Tamindo had learned a trade soon after the end of the migration and now dressed skins and clothes.

He was the only one in the family who worked for others and the boy was happy.

“I like not being in charge,” she said.

Not very sensitive to power, it was enough for him to have the means to live on and the hope that he would soon find a wife.

Unlike Totila, he had already spotted a potential conquest: Getinia, a fourteen-year-old girl who worked in the fields and who made no secret of her desire to emerge.

In the evening, she was the only one in the entire village scattered among the hills of Dacia to try her hand at reading a text they had found there.

It was an ancient volume left there by the free Dacians that spoke of the history of the country.

She had the rudiments of Latin explained to her by the village sage, a certain Pondiro, who remembered perfectly the time when the Goths had plundered the Roman world and, from that era, had retained the legacy of the language.

From that volume, Getinia drew a few lines every day, but perseverance would reward her.

She would become the first woman in the entire village to understand the Roman language and one of the few women among the Visigoths not to be illiterate.

This determination had impressed Tamindo, who had done everything to show off in his eyes.

When Getinia's family came for a clothing delivery, Tamindo took charge of the delivery even if he had other things to do and he put in twice the skill and three times the attention than usual.

Up until now, no one had noticed his interest, not even Getinia, who knew Tamindo, but had attributed him to the young man who worked in the clothing and leather shop.

Munda watched his children constantly, without speaking or passing judgment.

They had grown up.

In the evening, she used to spend time with Teomiro.

“They both need a wife.”

Her husband kept staring at her, as he had never understood what the woman was really thinking.

What was in the mind of an orphan who had to undergo such a harsh ordeal and live constantly with death as her companion?

“But Tamindo will take care of it himself,” Munda added.