The basilica of Frusino stood at the center of the settlement, a remnant of the Roman past that now served as a spiritual refuge for the community. Its façade, eroded by time, still bore fragments of Latin inscriptions, though some letters had been replaced by simple Christian carvings. The large wooden door, reinforced with iron bands, stood slightly ajar, allowing the echo of murmurs and chants to escape.
Inside, the morning light filtered through tall, narrow windows, casting colorful geometric patterns on the stone floor where the congregation had gathered. There were no pews; most attendees stood, some elderly leaning on canes, while a few women knelt near the altar, veiled in dark cloth.
In the main nave, the most respected men of the town stood at the front: the decurion, responsible for local administration, adorned in a tunic with purple trim; a few middle-aged merchants who supported the church with donations of grain and oil; and a pair of Ostrogoth veteran soldiers, their helmets and swords hanging from their belts. Behind them, peasants and artisans listened attentively, their faces weathered by sun and labor, while their wives and daughters stood to the side, some holding their children in their arms.
The priest, a man with a sparse beard and a simple tunic, stood in the apse on a worn marble platform. His voice resonated with authority as he recited passages in Latin, though occasionally he repeated them in simpler terms for those who did not master the language of Rome. He spoke of the resilience of faith in the face of a changing world, of the need to remain united against the uncertainties brought by the Goths and the Byzantines.
To one side, a monk copied passages from the Scriptures onto a parchment illuminated by the faint light of an oil lamp. Beside him, a young deacon with a censer walked among the faithful, filling the air with the scent of frankincense.
The images on the walls, faded but still visible, depicted scenes of martyrs and saints, some with stern faces, others with gestures of mercy. Beneath the dome, the Christ Pantocrator, painted in colors dulled by time, gazed down at the congregation with a solemn expression.
As the sermon ended, the priest extended his arms, and the congregation bowed their heads in prayer. Outside, the sounds of life continued: the blacksmith's hammering, the bleating of a lamb, and the rustling of the wind through the olive groves. But inside the basilica, for a moment, the world seemed at peace, suspended between the past and an uncertain future.
Throughout the day, the basilica of Frusino saw many of its faithful come and go. In the morning, women in dark veils came to light candles and whisper prayers, while merchants offered small gifts of bread and oil before heading to their businesses. Later, peasants arrived in groups, some with hands still stained with soil, bowing their heads before the altar before returning to their fields.
The priest, accustomed to the familiar faces of his community, noticed an unusual visitor out of the corner of his eye: a young man, tall and sturdy, standing motionless in a corner of the church like a statue. His hood cast shadows over his face, but the light from the candlesticks revealed a strong, clean-shaven jaw. He was no vagabond or ragged pilgrim. The fabric of his cloak seemed of good quality, though simple, and beneath it, his armor gleamed in the lamplight, exquisitely crafted. Its engravings evoked the ancient gods and lords of Rome, as if the stranger were a soldier from a better time, when consuls and emperors ruled from the Urbe.
Another detail caught the priest's attention: his sandals, studded with iron, and the short trousers visible beneath his tunic. A style that, in other times, would have been common in the armies of Rome, but now was almost a relic, as people had adopted the long garments of the Goths and Franks since the days of their grandparents.
The man did not move. He did not kneel or whisper prayers. From morning until the last service, he remained there, like a figure carved in stone, with his arms crossed beneath his cloak. Even when the faithful departed at nightfall, murmuring among themselves and hurrying home before darkness fully took over, he showed no intention of leaving.
The priest felt a chill, but not out of fear. There was something solemn about the stranger, something that did not entirely belong to this time.
When the last candle flickered in its holder and the deacon began to close the doors, the priest gathered his courage and, in a calm voice, addressed the stranger.
"My son, night has fallen, and everyone has left. Are you seeking shelter, or are you waiting for someone?"
The young man raised his head, and for a moment, the priest thought he saw eyes gleaming in the dim light. But they were not the eyes of a barbarian or a thief. They were the eyes of someone who had seen too much.
"I am waiting," the man replied in a deep, serene voice. "For something that must come with the night."
The priest felt his skin prickle. Outside, the wind began to blow more fiercely, and in the distance, a dog howled in the darkness.
The priest took a step back, surprised. Not only by the young man's response but by the language in which he had spoken. Pure Latin, not the worn variant heard in the streets of Frusino, but the refined speech of the ancient lords of Rome. It had been years since he had heard that Latin outside of sacred texts or from the lips of some aging noble.
The young man inclined his head slightly, allowing the light of a candlestick to illuminate his face for a moment. His expression was serene, but in his gaze was a strange intensity, almost inquisitive.
"This is not the god of my grandfather," he said in the same firm, clear voice. "Nor the god of my father. I was told that the Romans worshipped Jupiter Optimus Maximus, that his power illuminated the world. Who is this god who died on a cross, a punishment reserved for rebels and thieves?"
The elderly priest felt a chill run down his spine. He forced himself to remain calm, but his mind raced. Who was this man? A Roman lost in time? A traveler from some corner of the Empire where the old beliefs still clung to life?
He had to concentrate to respond. The purity of the young man's Latin compelled him to choose his words carefully, as if he were back in the halls of an academy in Rome.
"The world changes, my son," he said at last. "Jupiter and his gods fell when men saw the light of the one true God. He came to earth and suffered for us, and with His sacrifice, He saved us."
The young man did not react immediately. His gaze settled on the large cross dominating the basilica's altar. His eyes traced every detail: the figure of Christ with His head bowed, the nails in His hands and feet, the wound in His side.
The priest saw a shadow of doubt on the young man's face. Not ignorance, but something deeper. As if the man were comparing what he saw with something he already knew.
Outside, the wind struck the church doors, and the priest felt, for the first time in a long while, that he was not entirely sure in which century he stood.
The elderly priest narrowed his eyes, weighing the young man's words. In the faint light of the candles, the steely glint in his gaze seemed even more intense, as if his contained fury found an echo in the shadows dancing on the basilica's walls.
"The night before, I walked the streets," the young man continued, his voice firm but low, as if he still did not fully believe what he had witnessed. "I saw thieves stab a man and hide in the ruins of Roman temples. To my surprise, I learned they were soldiers... barbarians. Soldiers! Men who should protect this place but have been left here as scavengers on the corpse of Rome."
The priest exhaled slowly, not interrupting.
"Tell me, old man," the stranger pressed on, "where are the military legates? Where is the Magister Militum? What has happened to the emperors, to the legions?"
He straightened with greater authority, his armor reflecting the candlelight, his voice tinged with disdain.
"What do you mean by salvation, if you have been subjugated by underdeveloped parasites? I see no salvation anywhere. The streets are broken, the people do not walk with joy or hope."
The young man's fingers tightened slightly on the wooden bench he leaned on, his defiant tone contrasting with the solemn stillness of the church. The priest watched him silently, measuring his words. In that gaze burned something more than mere disillusionment: it was the rage of a man who saw a world reduced to ruins, a witness to lost greatness.
The priest felt a chill run down his spine. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the basilica's walls, and for a moment, he thought he stood before one of those statues of ancient consuls, brought back to life to judge the decay of his time.
The elderly man, whose voice usually filled the temple with strength, now seemed weaker, barely a whisper trying to hold its ground before the imposing presence of his interlocutor. He swallowed and, with downcast eyes, replied:
"My son... Rome is no longer what it was. Its legions have vanished, its emperors have fallen, and the Magister Militum is but a title without an army. The world has changed."
He raised his gaze, trying to find a glimmer of understanding in those gray eyes that pierced him like daggers.
"You say you see no salvation, but I tell you that salvation does not always come in the form we expect. Rome, in its glory, worshipped gods of marble and bronze, but those gods did not answer when the city burned. This God..." he pointed to the cross above the altar, "this God did not promise empires or conquests, but redemption amid suffering."
The young man narrowed his eyes. There was no mockery on his face, but neither was there acceptance. It was as if he weighed each of the priest's words against his own conviction.
"Redemption?" he repeated, his voice low but sharp. "And what redemption is there in misery? I have seen beggars dying of cold in the very streets where centurions once marched. I have seen fallen temples, forgotten gods, men who call themselves Romans but dress like their ancient enemies. Is this what you call salvation?"
The priest bowed his head, feeling his own smallness before this man whose mere presence exuded authority, a pure and solemn authority, as if he embodied the Rome the priest himself believed lost. He took a deep breath and, with a final spark of determination, replied:
"Perhaps Rome did not die... perhaps it only sleeps. And perhaps you are proof that there are still men who can awaken it."
Silence stretched between them, heavy as the marble pillars. Outside, in the night, the wind howled through the broken streets of Frusino, like the whisper of an empire refusing to be forgotten.
The priest watched the young man closely as he closed his eyes and offered a faint smile. It was not a smile of joy, but of recognition, perhaps even resignation. This stranger must have traveled a long way without finding anyone who could speak his language effortlessly, without responding with looks of confusion or mocking laughter.
"I thank you, Father. You are the only one with whom I can communicate," he said, opening his eyes slowly. His gaze softened for a moment but soon regained its intensity. "The villagers babble something different, like a barbarian dialect, coarse and broken, with only traces of the language of my ancestors. Has Rome... fallen so far?"
The priest sighed and glanced around the basilica, ensuring no one else was listening. Then, in a low voice, he replied:
"It is not easy to answer you, my son. Rome... Rome still exists, but it is not the Rome you knew or expect to find. The emperor in the West is no more. The last one, Romulus Augustulus, was deposed almost half a century ago. Now it is Odoacer, a king of the Heruli, who rules from Ravenna."
The young man narrowed his eyes.
"A barbarian king? On the throne of the Caesars?" His tone was dry, cold.
The priest nodded with regret.
"Yes... but he is not the only power. To the east, in Constantinople, Emperor Zeno still sits on his throne, and some say he seeks to reclaim these lands, but his influence here is weak. As for armies..." he sighed, "there are none you can call Roman with pride. There are troops, yes, but they are bands of Goths, Heruli, and other barbarians who now serve Odoacer. They maintain some order, but more out of convenience than duty."
The young man remained silent, as if each word were a dagger piercing his spirit.
"So... there is no one left. No legions, no senators, no generals loyal to Rome. Only ruins and foreigners playing at being masters."
"There are men of faith," the priest replied, a faint hope in his voice. "And there are those who still remember."
The young man lowered his head, as if pondering his words. Then, in a firm tone, he asked again:
"Is there an army nearby? A Roman one or an invader's?"
The priest shook his head slowly.
"Not here, not in Frusino. But to the north, in the lands of the Goths, there are rumors that a man named Theodoric is gathering forces. He is an Ostrogoth, but some say he seeks more than plunder..."
The young man nodded, and for the first time, his face reflected something more than contained fury. There was purpose. There was direction.
"Then that is where I must go."
The priest looked at him cautiously.
"And what will you do, my son?"
The young man turned toward the basilica's entrance, where the night stretched like a black mantle over Frusino.
"I will see with my own eyes if Rome sleeps... or if it can still awaken."