“I don’t understand the need for all this performance.”
Dryantilla weighed the clay mask in her hand. Cybele’s empty eyes seemed to stare back at her coolly.
“Felix said we should all wear one of these masks,” answered Sibiam, placing Vulcan’s face over his own, “so do as he says and don’t complain. Besides, fate has given you a pretty good goddess.”
“And who have I been given?” asked Jago, running his fingertips over the outline of the one he was holding. The face of a faun with sharp features sparkled in the torchlight, its pointed ears and the prominent horns turning the Lusitanian’s mask into an imposing sculpture.
“It’s supposed to be Lubercus,” answered Sibiam, “but get a move on. I imagine everyone else is already at the villa and I don’t always want to be the one who arrives late because of you.”
The clivus up which they were walking was a gently rising slope floored with carefully arranged polished pebbles . At regular intervals along the sides, torches planted in the ground cast blue-tinged gleams whose shadows looked like poisonous polyps. At the top of the clivus was a villa surrounded by a modest plot of land and high walls in multicoloured brick.
At the end of the path, the guests were greeted by a courtyard of gardens in the centre of which was a beautiful circular pool of water. The cloister was almost completely surrounded by ivy-covered plane trees, and faced north overlooking hills which faded into the distance until they were lost to the eye, while to the south it offered a view of the sparkling lights of the city.
Victor Julius Felix had given his inner circle an appointment on the eve of the first vigilia of a cold autumn afternoon. The rain had been pounding down on the streets of Rome all morning and as evening approached the smell of damp that filtered through the bricks and the blocks of tuff of the city’s houses had permeated the air, giving it a sweetish tang. An unmistakable odour that was also noticed by the young prefect who was waiting in the villa’s porch for the last of his friends to arrive.
None of them knew the reason for that unexpected summons which had been sent to all the members of the group, scattered around the various Roman provinces, by means of a simple papyrus bearing brief instructions. As brief as they were, though, they were extremely precise. Once in Rome, all the guests had received a visit from a messenger who had given them a costume and a mask to wear before going to the villa. Each of the costumes represented a deity, for what the invitations had called “the feast of the twelve gods.”
In order to represent Cybele, Dryantilla had had to wear a green synthesis and a mask surmounted by a turreted crown. Sibiam, on the other hand, wore a red tunic that made his ebony skin stand out even more. Finally, and not without difficulty, Jago had put on the heavy mask of a faun which was evidently intended to evoke the god of the woods, and his robes were, naturally, in floral colours.
When the three youths arrived at the top of the clivus, they found four soldiers clad in unmistakable uniforms guarding the entrance.
“What are the Praetorians doing here?” whispered Dryantilla.
“Don’t ask too many questions, little girl, or you run the risk that sooner or later someone will answer you, and you might not like it. Do as I do – live life one day at a time.” Sibiam glanced at one of the Praetorians and nodded a greeting. “You’ve dropped your sword, soldier,” he said, looking at the weapon which hung from the praetorian’s belt. The sword slipped out of its hilt and fell to the ground with a clatter of iron that, in the prevailing silence, sounded even louder. With a curse the soldier knelt down to pick it up.
“When are you going to stop playing the fool with your powers?” said Dryantilla, stifling a laugh.
“I didn’t do anything,” Sibiam chuckled as he passed the soldiers with a bold gait. “It was the damp.”
The group entered the gate of the suburban villa and reached a large square courtyard whose floor was covered with a mosaic depicting a multitude of wild animals against a white background. At the centre of the courtyard was a nymphaeum dominated by a monumental fountain with an equestrian sculpture in dark bronze. The faces of the horsemen were covered with veils and upon their heads Phrygian headdress could be seen. They wore long flowing mantles that went down to their feet, and in one hand they held identical shell-shaped shields. The mouths of their mounts were open in grimaces.
The three stopped to admire the imposing artwork which had welcomed them.
“They are the Dioscuri. I imagine you know who they were.”
A voice with an unmistakable Suebian accent announced the presence of Victor Felix. The prefect’s servant followed his master closely so as to never lose sight of his hands.
“Many hundreds of years ago, a bloody battle took place near a large lake on the outskirts of Rome. Rome’s soldiers faced Tarquinius’ rebels, but soon the battle seemed to turn in favour of the Latins. Suddenly, though, they appeared: two young warriors known to none of the Romans. Mounted on splendid white horses, they set themselves at the head of the Roman army, urging it on to victory.”
“And then?” asked Sibiam.
“They disappeared. They came from nowhere and disappeared back into the void. But thanks to them, Rome had been victorious.”
A gust of damp wind made the leaves rustle, and Felix pulled more tightly around himself the frayed grey cloak which accompanied him everywhere. Although he could have aspired to precious fabrics and colours more in keeping with his military rank, he would not have separated himself from it for all the gold in the world.
He turned his back on the young people and gestured with his head for them to follow him. As he walked, his servant’s hand passed him a white-painted mask and shortly afterwards he too wore a terracotta face upon which Sibiam recognised the features of Vertumnus, the god of metamorphosis.
A stocky but elegantly dressed tricliniarch came to greet them. His job was to handle the organisation of the dinner, and first of all he invited the newcomers to remove their sandals and choose from among the indoor footwear which was available to them in the atrium. Once this was done, he accompanied the guests to the heart of the villa.
The triclinium was a large room with walls painted with scenes of rural life and with floors dotted with fine brightly coloured mosaics. The vaulted ceilings, imposing and colourful, reflected the light of the torches, greatly increasing the brightness. Mirrors set in purple wooden frames contributed to the illusion that the room was larger than it actually was and an opening in the wall which went all the way up to the ceiling offered a panoramic view of Rome.
The centre of the room was occupied by a long rectangular table around which six other people, also clad in garments of garish colours and with their faces hidden by masks, were already waiting.
The entrance of Victor Felix and his entourage was the signal for the servants to begin bringing in large trays full of food to the table. The cooks had worked hard: spelt flour cakes filled with spices and two roast pigs waited patiently on the shelves at the edges of the main table, and in the adjoining room, other slaves were preparing compositions of dried fruit in the shape of exotic animals or other, more daring forms.
Once all the dishes had been set down and the servants had left the room, the guests’ eyes all went to the officer at the head of the table. With the assistance of a pair of slaves, the tricliniarch spoke a few words to ask the benevolence of the gods of the house and then abandoned the triclinium in which only eleven guests remained.
Felix adjusted the mask which hid his face and began to communicate in sign language.
“There is a reason why you were called here tonight. Indeed, more than one. But first, allow me to tell you about Rome.”
The masks looked at one another. The food remained untouched in the dishes.
“Today the eagle of Rome spreads its wings over a boundless territory that goes from the west coast of Lusitania to the sands of Persia and from the snows of the fjords to the oases of Africa. But to defend its citizens, Rome sacrifices the blood of its legions every day. The Pax Romana, they call it. But I prefer to call it the peace of civilization against chaos.”
Victor Felix took off his mask and placed it carefully on the table.
“Years have passed since Ab urbe condita, and the legions are no longer what they once were. They have modified their armour, improved their shields and adopted increasingly versatile and effective weapons. But their enemies too are no longer the same. Their gods are no longer the same. Once super partes, distracted and listless, they have today realised that they can obtain new conditions from men. Especially in moments of difficulty.”
The prefect picked up a piece of vegetable pie and sampled it absently.
“In recent years we have studied together how many battles have been resolved for or against our soldiers due to external… causes. Some of you have been witnesses.”
Victor Felix put his mask back on.
“To combat the new enemies of Rome, well-trained soldiers are often not enough. Sometimes a special talent is needed. People who know how to look beyond. People like you.”
“But you’ve never told us why. Why did you do it, Victor Felix?” A tall, thin boy who wore the mask of Janus spoke.
“Diodrio, my aeromancer. I’d recognise your shrill voice anywhere. Why, you ask me?”
The Roman officer paused and a slight smile, unseen by the others, appeared on his lips as his thoughts turned to the past.
“Because I too was a boy like you. Without a family. Without a home. Without affections behind which to take refuge. All torn away from me. Unexpectedly, cruelly, sadistically. My home was a small Gallic village. Its inhabitants were exterminated because they had decided to ally themselves with the Romans. My family was exterminated because it had preferred bread and peace to freedom. From one day to the next, my house, my mother and my brothers were gone. And in that moment, my family became a rough, stubborn Roman centurion who bore my name. I still jealously preserve his helmet and cloak in memory of a father. The rest, even that, was taken away from me with violence, along with the faculty of speech, in a remote forest at the foot of a besieged oppidum by a cruel and invisible enemy that few in the world are able to see. That you are able to see.”
The prefect clasped his hands.
“I sought you out, one by one. I travelled for years through all the provinces, turning my quest into a mission, the fulfilment of an oath. Abandoned children, orphans, forced to run away or to beg but to whom nature, fate, had granted a gift. Some might argue that with its choices, Rome too contributed to destroying your lives. Perhaps it is true. But it was Rome that welcomed you back into her arms, and it is thanks to Rome that today you are free men and women. Today you can hope for a future of glory by serving her.”
The soldier’s face was hidden by his mask but the movements of his hands, interpreted by the man had at his side who never tired of following him, suddenly seemed to slow down and lose fluency. Almost as if prefect Felix were… crying.
“Before he died, that Roman centurion wanted to give me dignity. And I swore I would do the same with everyone who could prove they deserved it. All those who deserved to be called children of Rome. Because it is not the cobblestones of the streets of Rome that make Rome, but the sweat and the blood on the sandals of the marching legionaries. And of those, like you, who from today will be destined to follow them.”
A tremor shook Victor Felix’s frame.
“Searching for you became a mission. I found you. I made you grow and taught you how to hone your particular skills. Around this table there are the best of you. Those destined to take another step forward. I was the first. I knew. And I have borne the burden for all this time.”