The sun was beginning to set behind the gentle hills that separated Arnara and Pofi, tinting the fields of tall grass with golden hues. It was a peaceful afternoon, like so many others, and Tullio, a humble shepherd, watched over his flock. The goats and sheep grazed in silence, oblivious to the world, while the southern wind caressed the valley with a warm breeze scented with wildflowers.
Leaning on his olivewood staff, Tullio scanned the horizon. Wolves rarely descended from the mountains, but it wasn't uncommon for bandits to try to steal a goat under the cover of dusk. Everything seemed calm until a strange change in the air made his hair stand on end.
The wind stopped abruptly, and an ominous silence covered the field. Then came a peculiar smell, a mix of ozone and burnt earth, making him look up at the sky. There, between the hills of Arnara, the clouds began to swirl into a dark vortex. Tullio took a step back, gripping his staff tightly. Something inexplicable was about to happen.
A column of light descended from the sky like a divine spear, illuminating the grass with a blinding glow. The flock bleated in panic and scattered, but Tullio remained motionless, unable to look away. Where there had once been only grass and stones, something impossible now stood.
An army, as if pulled from the dreams of the elders, occupied the field. Soldiers clad in iron armor—some made of interwoven rings, others of solid plates, and some of delicately assembled scales—marched forward with unwavering discipline. All the armor was silver, gleaming as it reflected the last light of the sun. Their tall, rectangular shields, like small towers, formed a compact defensive wall. Their spears ended in sharp, gleaming tips, and on their feet, they wore sandals reinforced with metal studs or sturdy battle boots, designed to withstand any terrain.
The discipline in their ranks was absolute. The soldiers, nearly identical in posture and equipment, moved like a perfect machine, each step echoing the glory of a past era.
At the center of the formation, mounted on a black steed as muscular as a bull, a man dominated the scene. His dark armor, decorated with intricate golden patterns, shone under the celestial light. A crimson cape draped over his shoulders, and his presence radiated authority. The horse, its eyes glowing with an inner fire, bore an ivory horn rising imposingly from its forehead, as if it were a mythical creature from ancient tales.
The rider, the legate, pulled the reins and observed the landscape carefully. Then, he raised his voice in an authoritative tone:
—Haec Britannia est?
His Latin was archaic, heavy, and solemn, yet still recognizable. Tullio, frozen in terror, stammered incoherent words in an attempt to respond.
—E-e… This is… no… I don't know… It… Italy, sir… —he murmured, haltingly, barely aware of what he was saying.
The legate turned his gaze to the shepherd, frowning. Tullio's words were barely comprehensible, distorted by centuries of linguistic evolution.
—Italia? —the legate repeated, his voice filled with skepticism and surprise. He looked at his standard-bearer and then back at the landscape. The valley, though fertile and beautiful, did not match the image of the peninsula he held in his memory. Something was deeply out of place.
The shepherd, still on his knees, trembled as he watched the legate and his army step down from the pillar of light. The glow faded, but the imposing figure of the army remained, tangible and real.
The Ninth Legion had returned—not to the misty lands of Britannia, but to the very heart of Italy.
The legate approached the peasant with determined steps, his imposing figure looming over the man like a shadow at dusk. Every movement of Octavius Petilius Duces, clad in black armor with golden details, emanated authority. The peasant, feeling the weight of his presence, could barely remain standing. Octavius' gaze left no doubt—he was a man forged in war, discipline, and centuries of history. When he finally stopped in front of him, the peasant, breathing heavily, couldn't help but shrink, as if he were in the presence of something far greater than himself.
Octavius stepped forward, staring at the peasant intently, and his voice resonated in the air with a deep, controlled tone, as if each word were a military order.
—My name is Octavius Petilius Duces, legate of the Ninth Legion. —he declared, his voice filled with solemnity. His gaze hardened as he scrutinized the man. —Tell me, commoner, where is your lord?
The peasant, nearly trembling, raised his hand toward the north, pointing at the horizon where the shadow of a distant castle stood.
—Frusino… the lord of these lands resides there… —he murmured, his voice hesitant, unsure of how to address such a figure.
Octavius frowned, and his impassive face showed a flicker of fury upon hearing the name. Without taking his eyes off the peasant, he asked in a lower tone, as if chewing over each word:
—Who is this lord?
The peasant, fearful of the answer, barely dared to speak.
—It is Viderico, sir… they call him 'The Thunderbolt of the North'… —he said, unaware that his simple response would ignite a fury that, in past centuries, would never have been unleashed.
Upon hearing the name, Octavius exhaled deeply. A minor noble, he thought. Viderico, 'The Thunderbolt of the North'… a barbaric nickname… His face, accustomed to the discipline and order of Rome, paled for a moment, but his gaze immediately hardened. He knew what he had to do.
—That is a barbarian name so far south? —Octavius asked, his tone filled with disdain as his gaze bore into the peasant. The legate's eyes narrowed in contained rage, his hands gripping the hilt of his sword, awaiting an answer that might calm him.
The peasant, confused and with a face marked by fear, stammered as he tried to grasp the magnitude of the question. With a nervous sigh, he began to recount what he knew, his words slow and trembling, as if trying to weave together memories of a distant past.
—My grandparents… —he began, looking at the ground— told me that the barbarians came for centuries, invaded Rome, took everything. The emperors became weak, fell into decadence. They integrated the barbarians as mercenaries… to save the empire from chaos. The mercenaries stabilized the government, but then… —the peasant paused, clearly feeling the weight of his tale— then, they themselves became the rulers of the land.
Octavius, listening without moving a muscle, felt his anger grow at these words. Rage pulsed through his veins like a furious flame. His gaze turned sharper, and his voice resonated even deeper, like thunder shattering the silence.
—And you, commoner? Are you one of these barbarians? —his voice carried the weight of a command.
The peasant, trembling, shook his head quickly.
—No, no, sir. I am a Roman Iberian… —he said, head bowed, still fearful but with a hint of pride in his voice. —I am not one of them… nor do I wish to be like them. The Ostrogoths… I hate them, sir…
Octavius studied him for a moment, still unsure if he should trust his words. He knew the barbarians had invaded Italy, but how had it come to this? How had this tribe reached the south of Rome?
—Barbarians tend to marry among themselves… —the peasant continued, as if trying to justify his feelings, as if those words could lighten the burden of history.