The Eternal Time of History - Part V E-Book

Simone Malacrida

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

The sack of Rome by the Visigoths opens the history of the fifth century, which witnesses the definitive decline of the Western Roman Empire and Italy as the central hub of the world known until then.
The ensuing decline of society continues for generations until the effective dismemberment of every pre-established order, bringing the history of the Italics to its final conclusion.
No longer united, but divided, as would happen to future peoples, their entire tradition crumbles and will not be passed down. Likewise, the Empire's eternal enemies suffer a similar end.
After much fighting, the protagonists of the past must give way to a new era and a renewal that will come from the beginning of a different cycle of events.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

The Eternal Time of History - Part V

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

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XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

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XXI

SIMONE MALACRIDA

“ The Eternal Time of History - Part V”

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The book contains very specific historical references to facts, events and people.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.

The sack of Rome by the Visigoths opens the history of the fifth century, which witnesses the definitive decline of the Western Roman Empire and Italy as the central hub of the world known until then. The ensuing decline of society continues for generations until the effective dismemberment of every pre-established order, bringing the history of the Italics to its final conclusion. No longer united, but divided, as would happen to future peoples, their entire tradition crumbles and will not be passed down. Likewise, the Empire's eternal enemies suffer a similar end. After much fighting, the protagonists of the past must give way to a new era and a renewal that will come from the beginning of a different cycle of events.

“Every day we change, every day we die, and yet we think of ourselves as eternal.”

Saint Jerome

​I

401-403

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Procopius Metellus took a fleeting glance at the walls of Constantinople.

They looked mighty and were meant to inspire fear.

The thirty-five-year-old gave no importance to past eras, during which no city in the Roman Empire was surrounded by walls, having no need to be defended since the entire military contingent stationed on the borders did not allow anyone to pass and, indeed, distinguished itself through continuous conquests.

His thoughts were elsewhere.

“What's the point of having walls like that, when the enemy is already inside them?”

He shook his head and walked away, away from the indistinct chatter of merchants and those who wanted to sell all kinds of goods.

As the Pope had foreseen, a kind of continuous elimination between various powers was taking place in Constantinople.

With Eutropius, the advisor of Emperor Arcadius, killed, Gainas' influence had lasted little more than a year.

The general had revolted and the Goths had been used as a hammer to break him.

“Barbarians against usurping imperial troops on behalf of the legitimate Emperor.”

For Procopius there was enough to conclude that the situation was uncontrollable.

Not trusting missives and letters, he would have given his confessions to some courier of proven reliability.

“We have to intervene.”

The plural was the most appropriate for those who considered themselves universal, that is, the Catholic Church, in open defiance of the Eastern power that tolerated Arian heresy too much, at every level.

At the imperial court and the episcopal seat, powers were too tenuous to challenge the real masters.

Who were they?

Certainly Arcadius' generals, whose mortality rate was as high as their desire to emerge.

Added to this were the Goths, who were actually divided into two great families, the Ostrogoths and the Visigoths, who played different and, at times, conflicting games.

And then the great danger that everyone had sensed for decades, namely the Huns, camped just beyond the Ister, in the lands that would once have been called Dacia and Pannonia.

Variable alliance scheme.

Who was the enemy?

It depended on the moment.

Now the wind had changed and Gainas had been killed by the Huns, who demanded recognition.

“From bad to worse.

The Visigoths are Arians, the Huns are pagans.”

Procopius could already affirm certain sentences with certainty and would have spoken on behalf of and through the Pope.

He had on him the seals and signs of the papal legate, a lay figure who inspired ever more respect and fear, even though he carried no weapons and had no army behind him.

However, the Church was assuming considerable economic and political power.

In a short time, they could have hired mercenaries or bought a peace, but it was always better to have the wars fought by faithful converts, who, eager to gain access to the kingdom of God, would not hesitate to raise arms against any enemy.

Pagan, Arian, imperial or barbaric.

Procopius sensed the next move.

“Expulsion of Alaric and his Visigoths.

Their power lasted too little.”

He decided to hasten his preparations for departure by early spring.

A papal legate of his wealth and rank could have access to various means of transport, exploiting various channels.

First of all, everything the Empire reserved for officials who, although not related to any official administrative apparatus, carried out a delicate task for the spread of the faith.

Procopius, however, preferred to move in the shadows, without leaving too many traces of his passage except when he landed.

And that was why he exploited the few ships his family now owned, a legacy of a dense series of commercial exchanges within the Mare Nostrum.

Of the more than a thousand vessels they once owned, only about fifty remained, whose operational command was in the hands of their cousin Tacitus Drusus, stationed in Panormo, in the former province of Sicily, where the noble family had by then resided for almost three centuries.

Procopius simply had to show the ring on his finger with the family crest and have direct passage without any explanation.

He preferred to patrol the port in the evening, at dusk, so as not to be recognized.

It was now his custom to wear a sort of hooded cloak, in the barbaric style, which allowed him to hide his head and avoid being recognized.

After being identified by the ship's captain, he asked for the destination.

By now there were few of them, the only ones considered safe.

Besides Constantinople, Athens, Antioch, Tyre, Alexandria, Cyrene, Carthage, Ravenna, Panormus and Rome.

He always hoped for the last two, where his poles of attraction lay.

The family home, an immense domus with adjoining endless fields for agricultural production and the breeding of thousands of animals, and the papal seat.

He boarded the vessel which was returning to the headquarters' operational port, Panormo.

He had left there many years before and he returned there, even if only for a short time.

His parents were dead and in Panormo there were only his cousins Tacitus and Amalasuntha, with their respective spouses and children, and their mother, Beteuse, the only survivor of her generation.

She was a former slave of Germanic origin, once beautiful and now a shining example of almost senile maturity.

Procopius believed that there was little to record or learn in Panormus.

Everything had always flowed the same way, at least that's what he thought on the surface.

Not interested in breeding, agriculture or trade, he judged the world by another yardstick.

That of faith and how to defend it.

For Procopius, only actions that brought praise and glory to God counted.

What Procopio didn't even take into consideration, beyond the natural change that, however imperceptible, tends to modify every little gesture, was what the rest of the family had already known for two years.

His cousin Amalasunta's eldest son, Ambrogio Giulio, had begun the systematic study of the immense library that had been the pride of the family for at least a century, if not more.

Made up of volumes from various eras, enriched by several erudite exponents of past generations, it had been definitively catalogued and saved from the march of time by Drusus Metellus, cousin of Procopius' grandmother who had by then died twelve years earlier.

The papal legate remembered it well, with his clear figure standing out inside the immense room that had been used as a warehouse and consulting room.

The library was a source of ancient and classical, pagan and Christian, philosophical and mathematical, historical and geographical knowledge.

Nothing escaped it and Procopius had given it little consideration since he left Panormo, believing that his work in the service of the Pope and of God was much more important.

Ambrogio, a sixteen-year-old full of ardour and who was pouring his adolescent energy into his books, never stopped informing himself and creating connections within the index created by Drusus.

Meticulously and systematically, without regard to sun or rain, summer or winter, he read and learned.

He relished the words of poems and lyric songs, soared in the air imagining the various idioms described in grammar and syntax, and worked to overcome logical and rhetorical limitations.

Drusus had established a path of progressive difficulty and Ambrose was following it slavishly.

His sister Agnese didn't understand him, and neither did his cousin Placido.

The two formed a sort of alliance that saw the right mix of nature, business, games, fun and study as the best method for growth.

Next to them were their parents and uncles, united by the great family bond that had always distinguished them all.

“We, the Italics of Panormus,” Tacitus, Placidus’ father, the current strategist of the family business and the one who presided over the room dedicated to trade in which the wooden map emerged like a sort of classical sculpture, increasingly emphasized.

It was a huge rectangular wooden structure, resting on an equally majestic table.

It contained maps of all the Empire's possessions, but not the current ones, but rather those from the splendid era of its greatest territorial extension.

Furthermore, the map also showed the areas that, at the time, were under barbarian influence.

Tacitus, clean-shaven as befitted the Romans of old, walked more and more often in a botched fashion around it.

“What's bothering you, my love?”

His wife Clovis, a former slave of Frankish origin who had found in her mother-in-law Beteuse the best ally to enter the family council, tried to console him.

She knew her husband and his restless spirit.

He didn't want to witness the decline, feel responsible for the collapse and he didn't want to be outdone by his father Domitius.

“What kind of world will we leave to our son?”

It was almost a torment for Tacitus.

Thinking about the future, without enjoying the present.

Clovis hugged him tightly.

“God will take care of everyone’s good.”

Procopius arrived when the trees were already in bloom.

A riot of colors and smells pervaded Sicily and the bay of Panormo seemed enchanted.

“Get out of there, come on.”

Agnese tried, with all her might, to drag her older brother at least into the internal gardens of the house, those that were surrounded by colonnades and peristyles, protected by the external walls and by the rooms that, as if they were watchtowers, rose all around.

Ambrogio looked away for a few moments.

Why did he do all that and subject himself to such relentless pace?

Out of vanity and pride?

So, he was no better than the pagans or the powerful who, while declaring themselves Christians, did not follow God's logic.

A pang of remorse assailed him.

He must not be led astray by anyone, not even his sister, the human being to whom he was closest.

If he had known that Procopius would land that day, then Ambrose would have read twice as much.

The final test of all his studying was to surpass the current member of the family considered the most erudite.

He was unaware that Procopius had consulted and understood less than a quarter of the library and that his distance did not allow him to refine his knowledge, but only to fossilize on repetitive and obsessive concepts.

Ambrose was in the phase of mythologizing the past, always feeling inadequate and inferior.

He would have passed her, but not now.

On the other hand, Procopius's mere gait left no doubt about his fullness of self.

His gaze was turned upwards and towards the horizon and he did not care about the humble ground he walked on.

God was above and not below and was certain to proceed with his presence at his side.

He walked to the family home and introduced himself to his cousin Amalasunta.

“Welcome back.

How long are you staying?”

Procopius used to visit for a short time, taken as he was by the duties of the world.

"Not very much.

I am arriving from Constantinople on a family ship, but I should be going to Rome.”

Amalasunta did not ask him anything else, knowing that Procopius would inform the family council.

It was a practice that had been in place for a few generations for the shared management of business.

Since the crisis and decline had set in, it seemed to everyone an excellent solution to face the problems together and with complete awareness.

The rules, established by a fairly recent tradition, were that there were three types of participants.

The decision-makers, those who directly managed every aspect of the family business; the advisors, generally someone who had distanced himself from the actual day-to-day life but who possessed unparalleled analytical and erudite skills; and the listeners, usually made up of the younger generations.

None of the children, not even Ambrose, had yet been admitted as auditors, due to their age not yet being appropriate.

Perhaps the only one capable of aspiring to such a role was Ambrose, but the young man would have seen those meetings as wasted time taken away from his main business, namely knowledge and learning.

Procopius was an advisor, as had been, before him, the two members of the family who had carried the name of the Italics throughout the Empire as great scholars.

Beteuse, once decisively involved with her husband and others of his generation, had agreed to step aside and offer advice.

The room used for the meeting was dominated by a round table in the center, as if to underline a concept that was very clear to everyone.

No boss, no vertical pyramid, but all equal.

Procopius stood up in front of his family and began his exposition, not before giving thanks to God.

“In Constantinople, everything is in turmoil, but nothing positive is in sight.

The Huns and the Visigoths are competing for the sphere of influence and, it seems, the Huns are winning.

It won't be long before Alaric moves West to take his revenge.

For this, I must go to Rome to report to the Pope.”

It had been concise, without beating around the bush too much.

Tacitus looked at his wife and brother-in-law.

Heron, Amalasuntha's husband, of Persian origin and dark skin, was an expert in agricultural activities.

An army on the march with a war in tow brought destruction of various kinds.

Of fields and people.

A contraction in the demand for food.

This was not good news, especially if the barbarians were to win.

“At least we're safe,” he said to himself.

This was the reason why Sicily had been chosen by various noble families.

The province, now incorporated into the Italian diocese, was replacing Africa as the breadbasket of the West, given that there were certainly more rebellions and invasions there.

Procopius left without delay and without setting foot in the library.

He didn't even ask himself why he hadn't seen Ambrose, the only one of the new generation to refuse during the two decades of the papal legate's stay.

In Rome, there was no sign whatsoever of a potential eastern danger.

The city had been cut off from power games for over a century, as the imperial court resided in Mediolanum, where Honorius, Arcadius' brother, was based. He too was unfit for command and not up to the level of his father, who had reunified all the territories under the direct control of the Empire.

Vast areas had been abandoned and little was known about others.

The Pope did not pay much attention to what Procopius reported, except for the part concerning the actual power of the bishop of Constantinople.

“We must fight heresies.

Too many are proliferating.

Do you remember your mission in Africa?”

Procopius could not forget it, given how much he had unleashed in terms of preaching.

The Donatists had been pushed into a corner, but doctrinal defeat no longer seemed to be enough.

What was the point of councils and excommunications if deviations spread anyway?

They took away consensus and power, especially when they asked the people for donations.

It was necessary to bring in the power of the governors and the Empire, through precise edicts and repression.

Confiscations and prison.

There were also those who, more hastily, had thought of a definitive solution.

“The dead cannot speak.”

An army was needed to punish these people and Procopius was given a specific order.

“We need to convince someone to fight for Christianity.”

The papal legate found himself in the strange situation of not being able to disobey an order that derived directly from the will of God and of those who interpreted His word, but of wanting to be put in the position of not carrying it out.

In his opinion, the impending problem was another.

An invasive catastrophe of immense proportions was about to hit Italy.

In the West, few had seen the devastating fury of the Visigoths.

The irruption of a Vandal horde into Rhaetia and Noricum distracted everyone and Alaric had a free hand.

Who would stop him now that he knew the way to Mediolanum, the capital of the Empire?

An answer that was certainly not written in the books that Ambrose devoured without stopping.

*******

Tatra was returning on horseback to the area of his people's jurisdiction, together with another group of warriors.

Beyond the river and the hills, something better than the glory of battle awaited him.

He had done himself honor when the Huns had played the card of alliance with the Eastern Emperor Arcadius, killing his general Gainas.

For Tatra, the Goths were the true enemies of his people, as he considered them Asiatic barbarians, which the young man did not like.

“Stay calm and don’t spur the horse.”

Another young man approached him and urged him to slow down.

“We know why you want to get to your destination quickly!”

The others laughed.

Tatra was about to marry and remembered his fiancée very well.

Tiara was two years younger than him and had grown up as a perfect part of her people.

Respectful, with great qualities of submission and reverence towards leaders and men.

Like almost all Hunnic warriors, Tatra was equipped with a horse, although some were deciding that an infantry unit was needed.

“It would slow us down,” Tatra had said, his wit not being particularly sharp.

It could be said that he was born on horseback and could not conceive of any other movement than that.

Walking was uncomfortable for him and was not in the nature of his people.

In front of the fire that they lit every evening to warm food and to give a sense of community before falling asleep, they exchanged stories of the present with legends of the past.

From when they were elsewhere, with Tatra having witnessed only the last migration.

He remembered that, as a child, the great plains of Scythia had been home to his family, while now they had been left behind.

His father told him that, even before, they were beyond the great river and his grandfather remembered the steppes towards the other great Empire.

“We have never stopped and we will never stop.”

Dedicated mainly to pastoralism and little to agriculture, it was not in their nature to stay in one place for too long.

On the other hand, few thought about the years to come.

“Whatever comes will be welcome.”

Tatra fell asleep, trying to think about the coming winter and how he would spend it, with the warm embrace of a woman of his own.

Tiara was staying in a place that was considered the current home of a part of her people, at least of those who answered to the command of King Uldin.

There was no single ruler, especially given the vastness of the groups that moved.

Nomadism was an inherent component of their character and entailed a sort of fragmentation into several parts.

There was a general popular awareness, especially when people migrated or had to face adversity.

Tiara lived with her family, as befitted any unmarried young woman.

Customs were basic and nothing superfluous was owned.

“Everything we have must be easily transportable,” every child was taught.

The girl often thought about her future husband.

Of average height, on average shorter than the Germanic peoples, the Tatras wore beards as was customary among their people.

She had a slim, fit physique, which particularly attracted Tiara.

He couldn't stand fat or pot-bellied men, even though he understood that these were common characteristics as people got older.

By that time, she hoped to be old, with grown-up, happy children, as she herself had been.

She was content with little, just the freedom of the wind in her hair, preferring a hairstyle with two independent braids.

For Tatra, it was precisely the braids that intrigued him, since they denoted personality and the desire to stand out.

In a people where the masses leveled everyone's character and where great numbers constituted strength, it was not at all usual to find someone like Tiara.

“Finally home.”

The sight of the valley nestled between two mountain ranges and hills was what awaited the warrior and he would never have said it until a few months ago, when the fury of the battle was such that it transfigured Tatra.

No one would have recognized him as the placid young man who had always stood out for his excellent riding and great practicality.

It was a way of changing to strike terror into the enemy, even if all this was an internal reflex.

Before every fight, Tatra was shaken by strange tremors and he hid them by using his gallop and anger.

“The majority remained in the service of the Empire,” announced the leader of the expedition, an elderly man who was part of the so-called nobility.

Stories were told of when the Huns were a people without divisions and that they had attempted to penetrate the Chinese Empire, but had been repelled.

From here, the great migration and transhumance.

With horses and goats heading west, although some had strayed south and were now in lands so far away that reunion was impossible.

“When can I get married?”

Tatra had returned only for this.

The consent of the families was required, even if it was more of a formality.

“Before the next moon,” he was told.

He nodded and gulped down a dollop of some kind of soup made from turnips and wild field grass.

It was difficult to eat meat unless you were in battle or raiding other peoples, and you had to get used to normality again.

“What are they doing here?

Send them away.”

Tatra could not stand the swarm of children that invariably surrounded every arrival of warriors.

They were curious and wanted to know what had happened and what the places they visited were like.

Depending on each individual's preference, the reactions were varied.

Almost all of them were like Tatra.

Grumpy and with no desire to share, while a few preferred to get bigger and play with the children, who laughed and ran around as if it were fun.

“Leave me alone.”

His parents and siblings left, knowing full well that Tatra needed sleep.

It had always been like this, after every effort.

“You will see that, with the rising of the sun, it will be different.”

His mother was sure of it and she wasn't wrong that time either.

Slowly, the warriors sought glimpses of peace, even if the nobles demanded otherwise.

“War is the normal condition, not an exception,” it was said.

Without the war it was impossible to sustain that life and have the wealth to feed everyone.

“We produce nothing, we have no real kingdom, we have no currency or taxation.

Everything comes from outside.

This is why we must fight and assert ourselves.”

Tatra understood up to a certain point, since then:

“It's always a matter between gentlemen,” he used to say.

He considered himself a simple person and a boy who saw the spear and the bow as a way, like any other, to have a place among his people.

The waiting period was about to end.

The two future spouses had seen each other only a few times, as their union in advance was not permitted.

It was up to the tribe's shaman priest to seal their bond.

Eternal, as long as they lived.

“It is not permitted to betray a woman or divorce her husband.

To the man, only in case of gross negligence on the part of the wife.”

There were roles to be respected, but this did not matter to the two young people.

The moment their eyes met, a furious passion overwhelmed them and they couldn't wait to enter, accompanied by everyone's enthusiastic choruses, their new home, built and donated by the people.

It was tradition and they had to respect it.

Without the presence of others, they remained silent, almost embarrassed.

They didn't know each other at all.

What did Tiara like?

And what attracted Tatra's attention?

New worlds to explore, rather than wars in unknown countries and with peoples different from their own.

If he could, Tatra would have remained in that place forever.

“I wish this night would never end.”

It was a wish for the future.

Tiara had no such belief, as she had been disappointed.

Is that all love is?

It wasn't a great miracle and, in fact, the woman suffered pain, while the man found a valid alternative to war.

“You don't have to grow old.”

Tatra's conclusion was almost childish in its desire to defy time.

Now that he had something that was truly his, he didn't want to lose it.

It's useless to ask what would have happened in the event of the warrior's death, since of the two spouses he was certainly the one most at risk.

These were questions they didn't even ask themselves.

In Tatra's mind, only the approaching winter loomed large, a season of rest awaiting the blossoming of Nature.

Usually, when the flowers were about to reappear, some nobleman would arrive and order their departure.

Where to was unknown and did not matter to Tatra.

Place names given by others were secondary.

Would anything really have changed if, in place of India, there had been Persia or Asia Minor or Moesia or Thrace?

What were those people?

Nothing.

“Let’s do as we please,” Tatra concluded, not only in front of his wife Tiara.

The woman began to think about the months, perhaps years, of solitude and found it a fair compromise.

Living next to a man constantly would not have been nice.

Without any freedom and with two jobs to do.

When the ground thawed, then the wind would remind her of her way of being.

*******

Despite the victory that Stilicho had obtained against Alaric and his Visigoths, the Emperor Honorius had decided to move the capital to Ravenna.

Mediolanum's glory had lasted little more than a century, but now the city, chosen for its strategic position for the defense of the borders, was considered too vulnerable.

Far from the sea, without any natural defenses, it was not well suited to what the imperial court had in mind, that is, to avoid capture.

Only the speed and bravery of Stilicho had broken the siege that Alaric had placed on Mediolanum and the barbarians had been defeated and pushed back, even managing to capture the king's own family.

Procopius did not have too many illusions and understood that the Visigoths would return to the attack as soon as the winter was over.

Ravenna had only two merits.

The swamps were infested with insects that carried disease to the besieging armies and the fleet was constantly docked, so as to escape to Constantinople quickly and safely.

What an inglorious end for those who were destined to conquer!

The Pope did not care about all this, unaware of the danger, while in Panormo it had been established that overland travel to supply food to the northern part of Italy should be limited to Ravenna.

From then on, marketing and distribution would be handled by small local agents.

Tacitus, increasingly disheartened, embraced his wife.

Clovis knew his thoughts, now also shared with those of Heron, who had decided not to cut the production of the fields.

“If there is excess, we will use it here in Sicily.”

At least, in that province, no one would go hungry.

Of course, it meant selling at a lower price and therefore reducing the share of revenue.

The Italian treasury was no longer as well-stocked as it once was and general expenses, including those for the maintenance of the domus, had to be reduced.

Maintenance work had been spaced out, postponing deadlines and creating a less busy schedule, but above all, all the embellishments that had once brought lustre to the house had been cancelled.

No more expansions or new rooms, nor frescoes or mosaics or furnishings.

Furthermore, the reduced presence of caravans and ships provided further cost containment.

There was always the Dacian treasure of Gaius, an ancient ancestor that everyone remembered only because of the genealogy that had been hung in a specific room, and all the relics and mementos that were worth a fortune.

However, there was a reluctance to sell even one of those items, as they had all been raised with the same general line.

“Only in cases of extreme danger and after having explored all possible hypotheses.”

On no occasion had it reached this point and the demands had significantly diminished.

The advent of Christianity had led to a reduced demand for luxury goods, such as clothing and refined food.

Fewer servants and fewer banquets, fewer receptions and some customs completely forgotten and fallen into disuse.

This was a vision opposite to that of the entire imperial age, characterized by excesses of all kinds and by surpluses of precious metals, money and objects.

Many had gone bankrupt or had decided to sell everything and move to the East, where opulence still seemed to exist.

The Italics of Panormo had resisted everything and this was due to their perfect unity and the absence of dispersive elements.

None of them had squandered their possessions and none had brought anyone inept or incapable into their home.

Tacitus still had some emissaries from the old network inherited from his ancestors and it was said that Alaric was very eager for revenge.

“They will intercept him well before Mediolanum,” was the conclusion.

Stilicho no longer found himself having to face multiple invasions, as he had previously with the Vandals and the Visigoths.

He had defeated them separately and now he had to wait for the barbarians to move and then pin them to the ground and force them to make peace.

What was gained from such an attitude?

Time and money.

The first one in particular was crucial.

Although the Empire had suffered defeats and humiliations, it had not yet collapsed and was still capable of annihilating entire peoples.

This was due to a series of temporary peace agreements that had not been aimed at integrating the peoples, but at buying more time.

Years, decades and generations, all postponing the final collapse.

Ambrose had been invited as an auditor to the Italian family council, but the young man had declined, citing entirely understandable reasons.

“I will never deal with activities and business, you know that.

I don't think it's right to listen and then not put it into practice.

It would take up my time without giving me any added value.”

Ambrogio had suggested including his sister Agnese and his cousin Placido, even though they were still young.

“It will be, for them, a way to complete their education and self-awareness.

Their souls will feed on words and ideas, on what has been done and on the world outside.”

Heron had looked in amazement at his son, whose physique did not resemble his own at all.

He still thought of him as a child, but Ambrose had already made some adult choices.

He knew what his life was and what awaited him.

To follow in the footsteps of Drusus, Caesar Marius, and Procopius, becoming the fourth generation of scholars who reached outside the family to spread knowledge and fame.

Perhaps Ambrose would have contributed to further enriching the library, a sort of hidden and immeasurable treasure since the writings of Aristotle and Plato alone would have commanded a fortune, not to mention the treatises on mathematics and geometry.

It was said that even the curator of the library of Alexandria longed to gain possession of such wisdom held by private citizens.

In that city, the name of the Italics had been spread mainly by Drusus, whose association with the pagan school of Theon had borne unexpected fruits.

Since the death of the elderly scholar and the coming into force of the Theodosian decrees, Procopius had maintained no contact with the pagans, preferring by far to create a direct link, and then to correspond with Cyril, the bishop's son, designated by his father himself to succeed him.

It was a long-term gamble, partly linked to the papal mandate and partly connected to the choices and will of Procopius himself.

Ambrose's advice was accepted, if only because of everyone's awareness of his figure.

“He will soon surpass us in knowledge.”

Everyone expected a confrontation with Procopius, except the latter, who was blind to the events of his family.

News reached Rome of Alaric's descent and Stilicho's preparations.

Ravenna was impossible to conquer so the general intercepted the Visigoths not far from Verona.

After the Kalends of June, the battle on which the fate of all Italy depended took place.

Procopius had urged the Pope to take precautions, but his warnings had fallen on deaf ears.

Apart from matters of faith, the papal legate was not considered a political advisor, and this distressed Procopius, by virtue of his family background.

Although he could never fight, he envied his ancestor Marius Severus who had fought all his life in the name of God.

He had been listened to because of his experience, even if no one had paid attention to his thoughts.

It seemed like a dual choice to make.

Action or thought.

No conciliation possible.

The heat in Rome was oppressive and Procopius suffered constantly, especially because the city was no longer equipped with healthy homes, but almost everything was left to progressive decay.

No more new aqueducts, no more new spas, ever less maintenance, progressive depopulation that had mainly affected the Suburra, fewer administrative officials and fewer goods.

Everything diminished, except one thing.

The presence and pervasiveness of churches and Christian places of worship, embellished with relics from pagan temples, now closed and in the process of being plundered.

The few pagans who still resisted could not find peace and considered the Christian majority as plunderers and devastators.

Works of art that disappeared forever, just because they were considered blasphemous.

And what did the men know about what they were doing?

Nothing.

Rather, they justified such actions in the name of truth.

Procopius remained in Rome until the hoped-for news arrived.

Visigoths defeated and retreating to the mountains.

He smiled and took his leave of the Pope with his mission in Africa in mind.

The bishop of Rome who had succeeded Anastasius was said to be his son, and Innocent had one thing in mind.

“It all depends on Rome.

No bishop can do it alone.”

He felt the need to unite the entire episcopal hierarchy around the figure of the Pope, with no further distinction between East and West.

“We need to create unity of purpose and if there are disputes, everything must come here.”

Procopius was assisted by a young patrician, a family friend of the Pope.

It came from the East, specifically from Asia Minor near Constantinople.

A distant descendant of the gens Claudia, his family had increasingly taken on Hellenistic features, so much so that he wore a beard according to Greek custom.

He was young, seventeen, and still inexperienced in life and its implications.

“Take it with you.

In Africa, you will tour the main dioceses and meet all the bishops.

I entrust these encyclicals to you and you will gather opinions.”

Procopius had to accept, otherwise he would not have been a papal legate, but it seemed to him that they were distancing him from the heart of the matter.

Everything happened much further north, on the axis between Italy, Illyria and Constantinople.

And, above all, there was the main question of Arianism, to which both the Visigoths and many believers in the East belonged.

The former, exhausted by hunger and cold, with Alaric at risk of losing his life, had to sign a dishonorable peace for their ambitions.

No more tributes received from the Empire, no more raids in Italy, restitution of the spoils, urbanization still within the western part, but between Dalmatia and Pannonia.

Alaric had no choice.

He knew that it would be used as a first shield against the Huns and their desire to invade the West, but above all as an offensive by Stilicho against the Eastern Empire.

The general had not forgotten the double order to halt that Arcadius had given him in the previous years and also the fact that he had always defeated the Visigoths.

Procopius looked at the young Theophrastus Claudius, who recognized the coat of arms of the Italians on their ships.

“So you are the ones who own the library?”

Procopius smiled.

In the past, they would have been recognized for something else.

For trade and for the production of califs, for horses or for grain, for wine or for military commanders.

Now it was the library that made them famous and Procopius had spent neither time nor money to embellish or maintain it.

Theophrastus, with the typical nonchalance of young people, before boarding asked if and when it was possible to visit.

“It would be an honor for me.”

Procopius thought about it.

Perhaps upon their return, after the end of their mission.

He didn't want to make any definitive promises and didn't make any commitments.

His conscience would have worked in the shadows, once he had noted Theophrastus' great desire to learn, his excellent credentials as a man of faith and of proven noble origin.

Without knowing the future, Procopius would determine the fate of the family.

It was up to him, the one who had never worried about creating offspring or taking action to carry on any tradition.

The man who considered himself free from everything except the will of God was on a journey, and each step he took led to the natural conclusion of subsequent events.

Linked together according to a precise logic, abstruse to the human mind but so inevitable.

Agnese awaited her admission to the family council without doubting anything.

Surprises are such if not revealed and this was what everyone thought, including General Stilicho and the defeated Visigoth king Alaric.

​II

405-407

––––––––

Procopius opened the letter that came from Alexandria, Egypt.

He had recognized the seal of the bishopric and such communication could only come from Cyril, the bishop's son and his heir in all things, who had already distinguished himself by various actions, all of them admirable.

He had sidelined the pagans, forcing them to go into hiding and give up almost all their possessions, closing many of their schools and forbidding them to disseminate their unsound theories.

On the level of Christian doctrine, Cyril was fighting against the spread of heresies and this placed him in common with the recipient of the letter.

Procopius avidly read the words written there.

This was positive news, in every field.

As a final note, the letter contained a dry sentence.

“Theon of Alexandria is dead.”

Procopius knew who Cyril was referring to.

Theon had been the director of the Serapeum, the building destroyed years before by the Christians themselves, under the command of Procopius and Cyril himself.

He was a pagan, a fine mathematician and the father of Hypatia, also a philosopher, mathematician, and astronomer of Neoplatonic extraction.

Both were known to Procopius, since his ancient ancestor Drusus was a great friend of their family.

Together with Theon, Drusus had elaborated some fine mathematical and philosophical discussions and they had discussed endlessly the Ptolemaic system and the use of the plane astrolabe, built and invented by Theon himself.

Procopius did not react except by sneering.

He still remembered Hypatia, that woman eleven years older than him and who had been the cause of his first, and only, passionate ardours.

The fact that he had been ignored had ignited Procopius' anger, which he had repressed deep within him.

After years, part of the revenge had been accomplished.

For the rest, everything went as they had hoped.

Slow but progressive advancement of the centrality of Catholicism, although the Pope was worried.

“These Eastern bishops think too much about their power.”

He feared some split, in the wake of what had been happening for some time in the Roman Empire.

The division between East and West was just one example, but still people lived in peace.

Much more complex had been the question of the usurpers, many and scattered throughout various eras.

Procopius was interrupted by the arrival of Theophrastus.

The young man was studying the arts of trivium and quadrivium in Rome, together with the doctrine of the Church.

He had not seen Panormus' library simply because Procopius had not stopped at the house.

“What did you learn today?”

Procopius was doing, with a stranger, what he had never wanted to do with his own family: conducting their education.

Breaking a tradition that dated back to Drusus, he had refused to take his nephews under his command after they were twelve years old, something which he had instead taken full advantage of.

The reason was not his lack of willingness to teach, but his desire to leave that house.

He wanted to feel free and unconstrained, without having to wait until the youngest child, Placido, turned eighteen.

That was the age considered the limit between a general education and what everyone would do.

“I should have stayed in Panormo for another two years, but instead I have been wandering freely and without any limits for over fifteen years.”

He felt refreshed and listened attentively to what Theophrastus was saying.

Diligent, willing, but not witty.

Certainly not suited to philosophy or theology, but to a practical task.

Given the young man's circumstances, he had to find a wife and start a family while dedicating his efforts to a profession.

This was Procopius' idea, shared by all the adults interested in the young man.

The Pope had written in this way to his parents, who lived near Constantinople, and it had been established that, if Theophrastus had not found a wife within two years, he would return home to fulfill his mission and his own unconscious will.

However, Theophrastus had not given up on wanting to visit the much-renowned library of Panormus and was becoming insistent.

Although Procopius did not like to show off and flaunt what he had not personally followed, he managed to draw a conclusion that was convincing enough for everyone.

If there had been no mission to complete or significant news from the borders, he would have agreed to the journey.

“Two months,” Theophrastus had told himself, during which he redoubled his efforts to complete his education since he would be catapulted into the presence of so much knowledge.

Procopius would have found any plausible excuse to postpone his departure, but there was not much to argue about.

Everything seemed frozen in a state of waiting.

Alaric was quietly staying in Illyria and little was known about other barbarians.

Gaul and Britain were now far away, especially the second province, which was now considered essentially lost.

The heart of the Empire had to be defended and no extravagances sought in the peripheral areas.

There were no theological novelties, even if, somewhere and hidden from everyone, there was certainly someone who was elaborating theories different from those of the councils and official doctrine.

How to spot these impostors?

“Don’t worry, Procopius.

They will be the ones to show themselves, because that's what they want."

The seraphic character of Pope Innocent was little suited to the strong-willed nature of Procopius, who increasingly felt the strong call to action.

Despite himself, he had to agree to fulfill Theophrastus' wish.

He went to the port to find out how often the family's ships docked.

By now Rome was a secondary port for goods, not so much because of its population, still clearly in the majority compared to any other imperial city, but because of its needs.

Fewer patricians, no significant imperial or administrative delegations meant less demand for goods and food, and therefore little commercial interest.

“In a decade,” he told Theophrastus, arousing the young man's enthusiasm.

What that stranger found exhilarating was instead daily practice for the entire family of the Italics of Panormo, especially for Ambrogio, who, at twenty years old, had already surpassed all the other members of the family in general culture.

One by one, they had voluntarily submitted themselves to challenges with Ambrogio and the twenty-year-old had emerged victorious in all of them and in every discipline.

He now knew six different languages and could discourse in each of them, making lists of stories, dates, places, landscapes, customs, and philosophical or theological thoughts.

In the path conceived by Drusus, Ambrose was now at the final stage of what his ancestor himself had called "supreme master", with a particular postscript:

“Whoever has come this far, be careful.

To complete this last part, you need as much effort as all the others put together.

In other words, you’re only halfway there!”

Ambrose was not discouraged and continued undaunted.

He saw the end of the journey as the final challenge, namely Procopius himself, and that was why he never left the library.

He had managed to relegate the other activities to his sister and his cousin, convincing all the adults to accept a state of affairs already decided for the future.

Agnese, with a future husband still unknown, would dedicate the rest of her life to managing the fields, as it had always been her dream and longed for, while Placido, also with a wife, would dedicate himself to livestock farming and trade.

However, the youngest child hid a secret inside himself that no one knew about and which he kept like a precious treasure chest.

“I want to get away from here and see the world,” he had said to himself.

In his mind, the trades must not have been those his father wove, managing everything from Panormo without ever moving.

Placido wanted to be a real merchant, but he knew what everyone else would answer him:

“It’s not the right time.”

This was the agreed-upon conclusion of every family council he had attended.

Placido didn't want to believe it.

Accustomed as he was to the safety of his home and of Sicily, he certainly did not imagine the dangers that the Empire and its inhabitants faced in almost all areas, even in Italy.

The Visigoths were ready to invade the heart of the Western Empire again, but this time not with Alaric at their head.

The general and king had signed a pact and would respect it, mindful of what it would mean to face Stilicho.

Losing and risking your life.

If anyone else wanted to try, they were welcome, and Alaric would not have opposed it, leaving them to their fate, that is, almost certain death.

Unaware of what they would find at Panormus, Procopius and Theophrastus landed in the port, welcomed by the usual breeze that spread various odors.

Theophrastus was enchanted by the sweetness of the waters and the scents, but Procopius wanted to warn him.

“Be careful, everything here is not as it seems.

In some ways it's even better, but this land has the power to bewitch you and make you bond with it.

All my relatives are victims of this will that chains them and does not set them free.”

Theophrastus would not have listened to any of this and would have been enchanted.

From the hills, from the landscapes, from the sea, from the crops, from the animals.

We almost forgot the reason for his visit.

Procopius was announced after he had spent a whole day outdoors showing his guest their possessions.

Beteuse was the first to welcome him.

After all, she was to be considered the elderly matriarch, over sixty years of age.

Behind her came the four brothers and brothers-in-law who held the decision-making power.

Procopius greeted them and introduced the young Theophrastus Claudius.

“And where are the other young people?

I am sure that Theophrastus will have many more things in common with them.”

Amalasunta informed her cousin.

“Agnese and Placido are preparing for the last dinner, while for Ambrogio it is much simpler.

He's in the library, as always, every hour of every day."

Theophrastus pricked up his ears as soon as he caught the word “library” and was envious of that Ambrose, who could freely and continuously dispose of such a fortune.

Amalasuntha led Theophrastus inside the house, orienting him.

“We’ll have a couple of rooms prepared just for you.”

He signaled to some servants and everything started moving, like a perfectly well-oiled mechanism.

They dined on frugal dishes, the fruit of agricultural traditions and a country heritage that saw quality, not quantity, as its true strength.

Procopius gave thanks before breaking the bread and sharing it with his guests.

Theophrastus was the guest and all eyes were on him.

Ambrogio did not fear the comparison with a trivium and quadrivium student in Rome, having already overcome that phase at least two years ago.

After Procopius had introduced, in general terms, the situation of Rome and Italy, as well as the theological disputes, Tacitus suggested to him that, moreover, it would be better to discuss them during the family council.

If there was one rule that everyone had always respected, it was that, in front of strangers, internal priorities were never discussed.

“Never let anyone outside the family know what is really on our minds in business matters,” was a still valid warning from Constantine Tiberius, Tacitus’ grandfather.

At that point, in order to avoid the awkward silences that arise among a group of acquaintances in the presence of a new stranger, everything had to revolve around the figure of Theophrastus.

And it was up to the guest to remove the embarrassment.

The young man understood and brought up a topic that interested him greatly, namely the reconciliation between Platonic and Aristotelian philosophy and Christian theology derived from the exegesis of the Scriptures according to the Nicene-Constantinopolitan creed.

“It's not a complex concept.

It is a question of purifying Platonism by making it pass from the Neoplatonic vision and abstracting the primitive ideas of an otherworldly soul into a spiritual soul.

For Aristotle, the rereading must be placed on the unmoved mover which is none other than God with his providence and will.”

Ambrose had answered concisely and perfectly.

Not even Procopius could have succeeded so quickly and effectively, but Ambrose did not stop.

“If you want, starting tomorrow I can take you to the library and show you the logical path.

These are seven different writings to be read in sequence.

Each one opens a door to the other.

I completed this inner journey three years ago, thanks to the index and notes of my ancestor Drusus Metellus.”

Ambrose showed a certainty in his arguments and a well-rounded vision of the library.

It was not possible to know its entire layout, even by mentally thinking about the location of the writings.

Procopius poured himself some wine and moved on.

He didn't ask himself how the young man had done it, but his family knew of the efforts he had made over the course of six years.

Ambrogio had never taken a break and lived in there and it was obvious that he knew everything about what was kept there.

He himself had communicated that, within four years, he would complete every possible study among those tomes and would decide what to do with the future.

Placido stared at the guest's face.

Theophrastus seemed amazed and stunned, almost terrified in the presence of so much knowledge.

“Thank you, I wasn't expecting so much for an informal dinner.

From tomorrow, I will be completely absorbed in those writings.”

He smiled, as if he wanted to take up a challenge that he knew was lost from the start.

He felt like one of those warriors who, even knowing the enemy's superiority, do not hesitate to accept the fight.

There was greatness in this, the legacy of a stoicism that had never definitively died.

Passed through the centuries, cleansed of pagan ripples, even in Christian martyrdom there was something stoic, but everything was done for faith in God.

That was the superior leap that united all the guests around that table.

Agnes had remained silent, unable to reach the level of discussion that Theophrastus and Ambrose had reached.

She had looked askance at the young man, only two years older than her.

He seemed composed and with solid family traditions.

The face was round, perfectly symmetrical, with black but well-groomed hair and beard.

No barbarian or oriental influences, meaning what instead came from Heron.

At the table, only two women noticed what was about to happen.

And it wasn't Agnese's mother or the protagonist of the story herself.

Clovis and Beteuse felt the barbarian blood within them boil.

Indomitable, passionate, difficult to train.

They had tried to hide it for most of their existence in Panormo, but every now and then it would reawaken.

It was this that had induced their husbands to marry them and live with them first in love and then in life.

Both of them grasped the subtle unspoken bond that had been established.

Agnes out of modesty, Theophrastus out of momentary ignorance.

Not the knowledge of the library, but something else would have attracted and retained the guest.

When Theophrastus had satisfied his thirst for knowledge and had seen the vastness of the library and when he had realized Ambrose's complete superiority, he would have understood his true nature.

As Procopius and the Pope had predicted, Theophrastus would have an identity crisis.

“No matter how hard I try and how much willpower I put into it, I will never be witty and erudite.

Ambrogio is of a different nature and I understood it.

What should I do?”

In Procopius's vision, that would have been the time to return to Rome and convince the young man to return to his family near Constantinople to learn a trade and take a wife.

But even Procopius had not taken into account the inevitability of providence and its majestic ways that lead to divine will above the unfolding of events.

In the throes of a midsummer identity crisis, fleeing the domus in a desperate rush, Theophrastus would have headed for the fields.

Boundless and immense, with the wheat already mown and the servants busy gathering it into sheaves and grinding or shelling it.

With the olive trees laden and the vines full of grapes, with the spelt ready for harvest.

In that bucolic chaos, a figure would have stood out on the horizon, backlit and cloaked in the warmth of the sun of that land.

It was Agnese, floating in her ideal world.

The young woman would have been Theophrastus's lifeline, the revelation at the end of the path to enlightenment.

The future was upon us, the same one that saw the Visigoths cross the Alps and enter northern Italy in search of conquest.

They would not have allowed themselves to be stopped either at Verona or at Mediolanum, but they intended to penetrate much deeper.

Slow steps toward a goal they would not reach, at least not this army.

Love and death, as always, traveled hand in hand.

*******

Lutenicus had left his wife Abbinia without any hesitation and joined the band of Visigoths who had entered Italy under the leadership of Radagaisus.

“This time, I will return victorious,” he had told Abbinia, who was pregnant and would give birth when her husband found himself at war.

What Lutenicus could not bear was how much his king Alaric had made him oscillate between alliances and rivalries with the Romans, whether they were from the East or the West.

They had trusted that breed too much and they had to make them pay for it.

He had already lost a brother, a mother and an aunt in the various battles that Alaric had fought at Mediolanum or in the mountains.

The Romans had defeated them and, by pure luck, Lutenicus had survived, while his brother Clementius had been killed near Mediolanum.

They had to see the worst in winter, in the mountains that separated Italy and Noricum.

Agilulfa, their mother, along with their aunt Cleopia had died of starvation, and even her cousin Ossiana and her husband Eunico were close to meeting the same fate.

In response, what did Alaric do?

He had accepted the conditions of the Roman Empire and of General Stilicho, the one who had defeated them several times.

He had retreated to a remote area and from there had to submit to the commands of his former enemies.

Lutenico had calmed down for a while, just to see the birth of his first son Gerentius and his granddaughter Catafrina, but then he had considered it humiliating to remain inactive.

He was twenty-five years old and in the prime of his life.

And he would not have agreed to fight for the Romans against other Romans or other barbarians.

No more.

Not after having come so close to conquering part of Italy and not after having wandered for so long.

He was born elsewhere, in Dacia, then passed to Moesia and Thrace, finally to Illyria and Italy.

He felt close to his people, as did his older brother, who had been his guide in everything.

Every single step of Lutenicus had conformed to what Clementius had already experienced.

Dying in battle was possible and even probable.

It had to be accepted and was part of the rules of the game, but not death by starvation.

Humiliating and heartbreaking, it mainly affected women and children.

So, Lutenico didn't hold back and greeted everyone.

“It's your turn,” he had said to Eunico, who had always been reluctant to fight, but given the absence of men he would have to be convinced.

Without a real land, the people had followed Alaric as if he were a leader, but in the end the king had proved inadequate.

For Lutenico, there was only one solution.

Change king.

Radagaisus promised war immediately and without delay.

Penetrate deep into Italy and defeat the Romans and then negotiate from a position of strength.

“We want a piece of Italy where we can all live.”

He hugged his wife, whose plumpness was evident.

Abbinia was a very tall woman, towering even over Lutenico.

It was considered a virtue, since she could produce powerful sons who would serve in the army.

Lutenicus's wishes were known, while Eunico did not know whether he would have wished such a future for a male child.

For this reason, he had been happier to have a female.

“We have plenty of time,” he concluded with his wife Ossiana, who was very different from Abbinia physically.