The men-at-arms surrounded the stranger with stern expressions, their hands firmly gripping the hilts of their swords and their wooden and iron shields ready to be raised. Their armor was crude, mismatched, a patchwork of inherited or looted pieces, a reflection of the decay of the order that had once been absolute.
"That armor you wear is not authorized," growled one of them, a burly man with a scar running across his cheek. "No man may carry weapons in the city without the governor's permission."
The stranger did not respond immediately. His jaw tightened, and his gray eyes flashed with a mix of disbelief and disdain.
"Barbarians have no authority," he finally said, his voice firm, as if his statement were an unshakable truth.
The soldiers exchanged confused glances. They did not understand his language, nor the solemnity with which he spoke. But his tone and posture were enough to make them even more suspicious.
The priest, who had followed the young man with hurried steps, stepped forward with a conciliatory gesture.
"My son, do you understand what they are saying?"
The young man nodded without taking his eyes off the soldiers.
"Yes, their language is crude and simple. Easy to learn... but I refuse to speak it."
The priest felt a chill. This man was not just different; he was a relic of a past everyone believed buried. He swallowed and turned to the guards.
"He says he was unaware of the permit, but he has no intention of causing trouble."
The scarred soldier eyed him warily.
"Who is this man? We haven't seen him before."
The priest hesitated for a moment before answering.
"He is a traveler... one seeking answers."
The leader of the men-at-arms frowned and looked at the stranger cautiously.
"Whoever he is, he must present himself to the governor. No one carries weapons here without his authorization."
The stranger smiled faintly, without humor, and crossed his arms.
"And what will you do if I refuse?"
There was a tense silence. The soldiers stiffened their stance, but none took the first step. There was something about the man's presence that unsettled them, an authority that came not from rank or title but from his very essence, his bearing, his gaze.
The priest felt the situation could quickly spiral out of control and, in a calm voice, interjected:
"My son, perhaps it is best to avoid trouble. Let us see the governor, hear what he has to say."
The young man did not respond immediately, but after a moment of reflection, he exhaled with resignation.
"Very well. But I will not kneel before a barbarian."
The soldiers did not understand those last words, but the priest did. And as they walked toward the governor's residence, he couldn't help but wonder who this man truly was... and what destiny he carried with him.
---
Julius Pasco descended the stone staircase with clumsy steps, adjusting the sleeves of his tunic with barely concealed nervousness. His attire, a toga of rich fabric embroidered with golden threads, was a relic of better times, when the men who wore it ruled the world with an iron fist. Now, however, it was little more than a costume. The barbarians tolerated him, allowing him to play at being governor while they wielded the real power. And though he pretended not to notice their muffled laughter, every stifled chuckle behind his back was like a dagger to his pride.
As he reached the courtyard, his gaze first fell on Father Cassius, a man he had known for years and trusted like few others. But immediately, his eyes were drawn to the figure accompanying him.
It was a tall man, wrapped in a dark cloak that fell over his shoulders with the weight of night itself. His face was partially hidden in the shadows of his hood, but his eyes... his eyes burned with an otherworldly intensity, almost spectral. They were two cold embers framed by the gloom, and for a moment, Julius felt the light of the torches flicker in his presence.
He stopped short, feeling a chill run down his spine.
"Who... who is this man, Cassius?" he asked in a trembling voice, unable to look away from the unsettling figure.
The priest gave a slight bow before answering.
"A traveler, Your Excellency. One seeking answers."
Julius frowned. He did not like vague answers, especially when the subject of the story radiated such an aura of authority. He tried to regain his composure, smoothing his toga with sweaty hands.
"Very well... let him speak," he said, trying to inject firmness into his voice.
The stranger inclined his head slightly, as if accepting the challenge.
"You are the governor of this city," he stated in a neutral tone, but one laden with a presence that made Julius swallow hard.
"Yes," he replied, straightening. "By appointment of..."
"The barbarians," the man interrupted. It was not a question.
Julius felt his stomach churn. The truth sounded much worse when spoken aloud.
"I govern in their name, yes," he conceded, trying to stand tall.
The young man took a step forward, and the sense of shadow surrounding him seemed to intensify.
"Last night, I saw the streets of this city," he said, his voice deep as the echo of a crypt. "I saw thieves murdering a man and taking refuge in the ruins of the temples of the gods. I learned then that they were soldiers, barbarians you allow to be here."
Julius felt the blood drain from his face. The priest, at his side, remained silent, like a statue.
"Tell me, Governor," the stranger continued, his gaze piercing Julius like an invisible spear, "where are the legions? Where are the magistri militum? Where are the emperors?"
The silence grew thick, almost suffocating.
Julius blinked rapidly, his mind desperately searching for an answer that would not make him appear even weaker than he already felt.
"Rome... Rome has changed," he finally said, his voice barely a whisper.
The stranger tilted his head slightly, like a wolf observing its prey.
"No," he corrected, with the certainty of someone who has seen the truth. "Rome did not change. Rome fell."
And for the first time in a long while, Julius Pasco, the puppet governor of a dying city, felt the weight of his own insignificance.
---
Julius Pasco stammered with difficulty. His Latin, though cultured, sounded clumsy and aged, like an old man struggling to recall the verses of his youth. In contrast, the stranger's voice flowed with the pure and solemn cadence of ancient times, with the firmness of a tribune in the Forum.
The governor, sweating despite the cool morning air, narrowed his eyes and forced an incredulous smile.
"Has your family spent four centuries hiding in some cave? Or deep in the forests of Germania?" he asked with a smirk, hoping his irony would dispel the tension.
The stranger offered a brief smile, barely a flicker of emotion on his shadowed face.
"For us, only a hundred years have passed," he replied calmly. "But yes... it is like returning to a world different from the one our grandfathers described."
Julius frowned. His agitated mind tried to find logic in those words. He swallowed and, in a graver tone, inquired:
"Who was your grandfather?"
The man, with the dignity of a consul in the Senate, answered without hesitation:
"Octavius Petilius Cerialis Duces, commander of the Legio IX..."
Julius felt a chill run down his spine. His erudition saved him from immediate confusion, but not from the horror that began to form in his mind. He laughed at first with disbelief, then with poorly concealed hysteria.
"The Ninth Legion vanished four centuries ago in Britannia," he said in a trembling voice. "It disappeared without a trace..."
But the stranger did not respond. He only turned his head slowly toward the horizon.
"Then tell me, Governor..." he whispered, his voice taking on an ominous tone. "Whose war horns announce the dawn?"
And at that moment, as if fate itself answered his question, the blare of war horns tore through the morning air.
From the south, beyond the walls of Frusino, the trumpets of an approaching army resounded. Their metallic notes intertwined with the drums, making the earth tremble with each beat. The first light of dawn revealed a sea of banners waving in the breeze.
A soldier burst into the courtyard, his face pale.
"Sir!" he gasped, kneeling. "An army approaches from the south! Thousands strong!"
Julius felt his legs weaken. With effort, he turned his gaze to the stranger. The man stood motionless, his eyes glowing beneath his hood, as if the shadow enveloping him had come to life.
The guards, fearful and confused, drew their swords and pointed them at the man.
"Speak!" one of them growled. "What have you brought here?"
The stranger remained unfazed. He simply raised his gaze to the horizon, where the sun rose behind the inexorable advance of a legion lost in time.
---
The hooded man raised his voice with the solemnity of a tribune in the Senate, his high and pure Latin resonating with the authority of the ages.
"I have come to learn who the emperor is and to request an audience with him. But I see there are no emperors... that Rome has fallen."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the faces of those present. His eyes burned like embers in the gloom.
"Our sacred duty is to restore order."
Father Cassius, with a chill running down his spine, quickly translated for the others. He explained that the man was undoubtedly an envoy from the Eastern Roman Empire and had come to impose the emperor's power.
Julius, listening with a furrowed brow, allowed himself a sly smile.
"I cannot give the order to surrender," he said with studied calm. "But I can organize the people to support you."
His eyes narrowed, his expression turning into a mix of cunning and fascination.
"I know very well you do not come on behalf of the traitorous Easterners."
The barbarian soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. They did not know what to do. Some clenched their fists on the hilts of their swords, others cast furtive looks at their commander, waiting for an order.
Finally, the barbarian commander stepped forward and spat with disdain:
"Everyone will speak the common tongue!"
The hooded man, with a fluid motion, drew his sword.
The blade was magnificent, longer than any weapon a barbarian or Italic blacksmith could forge without it breaking. Its edge gleamed with blue and white flashes that seemed to dance under the light. The beauty of the steel was unnatural, as if it contained the essence of a forgotten time.
The soldiers instinctively stepped back.
The hooded man assumed a battle stance, his imposing silhouette against the light of dawn.
"Welcome to the Republic, Governor," he said firmly, and the promise of war hung in the air.
The two barbarian soldiers attacked simultaneously, trying to flank the hooded man. Their swords descended with brutality, but in a single motion, the stranger swung his weapon with lethal precision.
The gleaming edge of his sword cut through the air like lightning. With the first strike, he shattered their weapons and split their armor as if it were parchment.
The warrior to his left barely had time to gasp before the upward slash opened his chest and throat, his blood spurting in a dark stream. The one to the right stood for a moment, his head separated from his body, before collapsing with a dull thud.
The other soldiers froze. Two of them dropped their weapons and fled in terror, their footsteps echoing across the cobblestone courtyard. A messenger, his face ashen, hid behind a worn pillar, its reliefs of ancient gods nearly erased by time.
The commander, with a roar of fury, drew his sword and charged at the hooded man. But he did not realize what had happened until it was too late.
His wrist was severed in an instant, his hand still clutching the hilt of his sword. He tried to strike, but his blade only cut air. A heartbeat later, the enemy's sword pierced his heart.
The commander gasped, his eyes wide with disbelief, and then collapsed heavily onto the cold stones.
The hooded man turned on his heel and fixed his gaze on the two Romans still standing before him. His voice rang out firmly in the bloodied courtyard.
"My name is Quintus Petilius Lupinus, son of Secundus Petilius, and envoy of the IX Legion."
The morning wind blew through the ruined columns as the distant trumpets of an army heralded the dawn of a new war.