On the day of Septimio's arrival, the hunters dissolved into the morning mist, moving with such stealth that they seemed to vanish among the streets and alleys. As the village awoke, the young stranger and his bodyguard made their way to the mayor, who, with reserve but without hesitation, offered them lodging in his home.
No sooner had Lucia taken Septimio by the arm to lead him to her father's house than the sky began to darken. At first, gentle snowflakes drifted down timidly, almost in a whisper, heralding the arrival of the blizzard. In a matter of moments, the breeze intensified, and the snowfall transformed into a relentless gale, enveloping the path in a white shroud that foretold imminent challenges.
When they reached the entrance of the villa, Marco Hernico Caese, the wise mayor and Lucia's father, greeted them with a serene and authoritative demeanor. In a measured voice, laden with tradition that evoked ancient times, he addressed Septimio in Latin, speaking with the eloquence inherited from his classical education.
—Greetings, young traveler. What brings you to our village? —he asked, and instantly, the translation echoed in the air: —Welcome, what is the reason for your arrival?
Septimio responded with equal fluency, also in Latin, explaining that he sought refuge from the fury of the storm and guidance to continue his journey, even though Rome still lay far on his horizon.
—I seek shelter amid this harsh weather and direction to continue my path —he replied, and his words, translated naturally, revealed his sincere need for support.
The mayor nodded with approval, his gaze revealing pride in seeing his daughter as the bond uniting family and tradition. In a calm voice, he continued:
—Here you will find not only shelter but also the guidance of someone who respects and preserves the wisdom of the ancient gods. Our rituals and beliefs, though veiled to many, are the foundation of our legacy.
The mayor immediately noticed, upon observing Septimio's cloak, that on its edge gleamed the symbol of Zeus's thunderbolt. It was a subtle detail, but to Marco Hernico Caese, it meant a great deal: a sign that the young man shared the veneration of the ancient gods, a belief that still nourished his own spirit.
In a calm and authoritative voice, the mayor approached the young man and said:
—Young traveler, I have observed on the edge of your cloak the emblem of Zeus's thunderbolt. Does the same devotion to the ancient gods burn in your heart as it does in mine?
Septimio, without showing surprise, responded firmly:
—Indeed, sir. Since my childhood, I have learned to honor those who guided our ancestors. It is a path that illuminates my journey and gives me strength to face challenges.
They greeted each other in the ancient manner, with a respectful bow of the head that seemed to seal a silent pact between them, a bond forged in tradition and the memory of glorious eras.
After this ritual greeting, the young man soon raised a concern that had been on his mind for some time:
—Tell me, mayor, do the mountains still hide active mines? I have heard that within their depths lie riches that could change the destiny of a city.
The mayor offered a faint, melancholic smile and replied:
—Unfortunately, the valuable minerals were extracted many years ago. The ancient mines have yielded their glory, and what remains are mere vestiges of the past.
But Septimio, with a spark of cunning in his eyes, retorted:
—Not all of them, sir. I believe there is still something in those mountains that escapes the common eye.
Carefully, the young man opened his satchel and pulled out a small, seemingly insignificant stone, something that the villagers would consider worthless. Yet, to him, that rock was much more:
—Look, with this —he said decisively—, we see not just a fragment of no importance, but the seed of what could be a renewed Rome, the true one. With this stone and the spirit of our ancient gods, I envision the rebuilding of an empire that reclaims its former greatness.
The mayor observed the young man with growing admiration, sensing in his words the strength of a forgotten but latent ideal. With a nod of agreement, he replied:
—I see in you the flame of a faith that does not extinguish. Perhaps, indeed, there is a way to rise from the shadows of the past and forge a future that honors the greatness of what Rome once was.
Lucia had just finished securing one of the villa's fences when, in the rush of the impending blizzard, she cut her hand. Pain reflected in her eyes, mingling with frustration and annoyance. At that very moment, Septimio, with a fixed and determined gaze, unsheathed his sword. The intricate blade, known as Caladhel, seemed to contain within its filigree an echo of ancient times, a symbol of power and healing bestowed by devotion to the gods.
The mayor, Marco Hernico Caese, took a step back upon seeing the young man prepare his relic, concerned by the sudden movement. In a calm voice, Septimio raised his hand in a gesture of reassurance and explained:
—Trust in Caladhel, sir. Its power is real.
The greeting, executed in the ancient manner, sealed a silent pact between them. Moments later, Septimio, with a mix of determination and reverence, made a small cut on his thumb. At that very instant, the blade of Caladhel came to life. A silvery light emerged from its center, and as if by a miracle, a gentle energy spread through the room. The healing force traveled through the air, and before the astonished eyes of all, the wound on Lucia's hand closed instantly. Only the small cut on Septimio's finger remained as a testament to the personal sacrifice that act had required.
The mayor, absorbed by the scene, exclaimed in a broken voice:
—This is a marvel!
Lucia, still in shock, murmured: —I have never witnessed anything so sublime.
In a calm tone, Septimio replied: —Caladhel, the Light of Healing, acts in the hands of those who honor the gods. This small sacrifice is the price I must pay to invoke its power.
The artistry and complexity of the object, framed in that moment of revelation, defied any earthly comparison. The delicacy of the engravings and the unusual gleam of the gem in the hilt suggested that this sword, without a doubt, held incalculable value, capable of eclipsing even the treasure of the villa itself.
Faced with such a miracle, the mayor became convinced beyond any doubt that Septimio was an envoy of the gods, a true hero destined to change the fate of Rome and its people. The gazes of all present fell upon the young man, who, with his act, had ignited a spark of hope and faith in a future full of possibilities.
---
The fragility of everyday life became evident in the routine that had settled in the villa. Each morning, on occasion, the mayor would set out with his entourage on brief excursions to old abandoned mines, places where the echo of the past merged with the solemn creaking of the earth. These silent journeys hinted at an almost ritualistic atmosphere, where the presence of Septimio and his retinue faded into the shadows of the path, ensuring that Lucia rarely crossed paths with them during the day.
However, the following dawn brought with it an unrelenting blizzard that forced Father Darío and his entourage to face blocked roads and uncertain routes. The storm seemed determined to seal off access and hide secrets, creating an atmosphere charged with uncertainty around the new settlement and the intentions concealed behind every gesture and furtive glance.
In this same climate of precarious routine and untamed nature, dark rumors began to spread among the villagers. Whispers spoke of excessive acts of self-flagellation by Darío, rituals that seemed to exceed the bounds of devotion and border on fanaticism. To this were added unsettling accounts of strange approaches Darío had allegedly made toward some of the village girls, furtive encounters that stirred unease and generated murmurs in the shadow of the blizzard.
Though they were only rumors, the gossip spread like the icy wind, enveloping daily life in an atmosphere of doubt and fear. The mix of established routine—the silent morning walks to the mines and the daily struggle against the relentless weather—with these implausible suspicions created a delicate balance in the villa, where faith and tradition clashed with the uncertainty of a future that seemed to promise both hope and unease.
---
It was a sunny afternoon, the first in weeks where the sky had cleared completely, revealing an intense blue that seemed to restore hope to the village. The sun shone with an almost forgotten strength, illuminating the streets and the faces of the inhabitants, who emerged from their homes to enjoy the rare moment of calm. However, that peace would not last long.
In the central square, where neighbors usually gathered, a group of armed men, following Darío's orders, dragged a respected woman from the village. It was **Marcela**, a middle-aged widow known for her kindness and dedication to others. Her face, normally serene, was now twisted with fear and confusion. The crowd began to gather, murmuring among themselves, as the men brought her to the center of the square, where Darío waited with a stern expression and eyes that gleamed with a mix of fanaticism and something darker.
—Here we have a servant of darkness! —shouted Darío, pointing an accusatory finger at Marcela. —A witch who has defiled our community with her pagan rituals!
Marcela tried to defend herself, but her words were drowned out by Darío's shouts. With a rough gesture, he himself approached her and tore her dress at the neck, revealing a small pendant hanging from her chest. It was a delicate symbol, a stalk of wheat intertwined with a sickle: the emblem of **Ceres**, the goddess of agriculture and fertility. The pendant gleamed in the sunlight, but to Darío, it was irrefutable proof of her heresy.
—Behold! —he exclaimed, showing the pendant to the crowd. —She carries the symbol of the ancient gods, of those idols that have brought us misfortune and torment! She is a witch, and as such, she must be judged!
The crowd murmured, some in disbelief, others in fear. Marcela, humiliated but dignified, tried to cover herself with what remained of her dress, but Darío was not satisfied. With a swift motion, he opened her corset, exposing even more of her chest. The crowd held its breath. Marcela, with tears in her eyes but her head held high, fell to the ground, trying to rearrange her dress with trembling hands. Her gaze, however, was fierce, filled with a silent fury that seemed to challenge Darío and all those present.
At that moment, **Lucia**, who had been watching the scene from the edge of the square, could no longer contain herself. She stepped forward with determination, her face pale but resolute.
—Enough! —she shouted, stepping between Darío and Marcela. —This is madness! How dare you humiliate a woman like this, in the name of what god?
Darío looked at her with a mix of surprise and disdain, but then his gaze stopped at Lucia's neck. With a quick motion, he tore open her corset, revealing that she, too, wore a pendant identical to Marcela's: the symbol of Ceres. The crowd erupted in murmurs of shock and confusion.
—You too! —roared Darío, pointing a trembling finger at Lucia. —Another witch among us! They are everywhere, corrupting our souls and our faith!
Lucia, her face flushed but maintaining her composure, knelt beside Marcela, helping her cover herself and stand up. Her gaze, filled with indignation, met Darío's as he began to deliver an increasingly frenzied speech.
—These women are a cancer in our village! —he bellowed, his voice rising in pitch. —They have brought misfortune upon us, they have invoked the pagan gods to punish us with storms and famine! But fear not, for the purifying fire of the pyre will cleanse their sins and ours!
His words, initially filled with a supposed divine justice, began to transform into something darker. The lust that had been hidden in his thoughts began to seep into his speech, mingling with his fanaticism. He spoke of the witches and their supposed rituals in an almost lascivious tone, describing in detail how they should be punished, how the fire would purify them. His eyes gleamed with a madness he could no longer conceal, and his voice trembled with a mix of excitement and hatred.
The crowd, initially terrified, began to divide. Some nodded, convinced by Darío's words, while others stepped back, uneasy at the evident madness taking hold of him. Lucia, still standing beside Marcela, looked at the people with desperation.
—Can't you see what's happening? —she cried. —This is not justice, this is madness! Darío has lost his mind!
But her words were drowned out by Darío's shouts, who now ordered that the pyre be prepared. The sun, which had illuminated the square with so much hope, seemed to have suddenly darkened, as if the sky itself were dismayed by what was about to happen. Lucia, her heart racing, knew she had to act quickly if she wanted to save Marcela and, perhaps, the entire village from the madness that loomed.