We don't write history.
We are history.

No one dies gloriously in Rome anymore — only discreetly and sick, in an airless palace or a forgotten camp. His death came in January, like a letter lost in a courier’s pouch. The men in the forum heard late, and the priests delayed the sacred fire. No one rushes for the gods anymore.

On the insula walls, rumors arrived before the edicts: “The plague has returned!” — “It was poison!” — “He’s not dead, he’s retreated to a temple in Thrace!”

Later, on official parchment, under the imperial seal, I copied: “Claudius Gothicus, benefactor of Rome, has been called among the gods.”

In March, Aurelian was born. Not of gods, but of discipline.

They say he wears his sword on the inside. That he has plans for walls and for new gods. I only say this: his signature is sharp, and his edicts have no spelling errors. A rare thing.

Rome breathes heavily. The winter was dry, with halved bread and sour wine at the edge of the forum. Marcius quarreled again with a drunken legionary, Rufus said it was a bad omen and that Aurelian would bring fire. Prisca lit four candles instead of three. She didn’t say why.

Me? I write. The gods will decide what’s worth preserving.

I have reread today — for the how manyeth time? — the words of Marcus Tullius Cicero. I found them in a dusty manuscript, kept in a leather chest that smells of mildew and old ink.

“Non viribus aut velocitate aut celeritate corporum res magnae geruntur, sed consilio, auctoritate, sententia.”

“It is not by muscle, speed, or physical dexterity that great things are achieved, but by reflection, force of character, and judgment.”

How few still believe this, here in Rome in our year 270. The city groans under its own weight: noise, shouting, the daily carnival of those who run, fight, cheat, or flee. The Forum is no longer a place of debate, but of bargaining. No one speaks of virtue unless it serves as a mask for some deceit.

Cicero was a man of words and ideas, yet he too was undone by the raw iron of politics. They cut off his head and hands, and his voice fell silent—yet the echo remains. I wonder, at times, if he truly believed in the power of reflection to the very end. Or if, facing death, he realized that Rome is not built on reason, but on fear of weakness.

—

Today, between two documents I had to copy for the praefectus urbi, I paused and looked through my narrow window toward the Tiber. The water flows as if it knows nothing of the many souls who look to it daily for answers. A boatman shouted at a slave, and the slave said nothing. I wondered: is his silence a sign of weakness, or a mark of character? Perhaps he knows, deep inside, what Cicero wrote with such clarity. That not strength nor swiftness will save him, but judgment. Or perhaps he is simply afraid. In Rome, it is difficult to tell the difference between virtue and fear.

I often feel torn between two worlds: the world of ideas, of those who still read, write, think—and the world of the others, those who live simply to survive. I understand both. Julia, if she were here, would tell me to come down from the clouds and buy more oil. But Julia is not here. She is in Campania, five years and counting. I wonder if she still believes anything I used to say.

—

In the scriptorium of the administration, I saw a new young scribe. His hands are quick, but his mind drifts easily to lighter things. When I mentioned Cicero, he chuckled and said those days were gone, that now one must be cunning, must know whom to flatter. I smiled, but something twisted inside me. Rome does not lack for hands—it lacks spines.

Sometimes I wonder if Cicero was wrong. That perhaps great things can no longer be born of reflection and judgment. Not in our age, where emperors change like seasons, and cities burn in provinces no one cares for anymore. And yet, I read him again, and I feel that he did not speak of Rome the city, but of Rome the idea. The idea of order, balance, of power born from thought.

—

Today, Saturn was heavy in my thoughts. The god of time, with his silent sickle, watches all our steps. I wonder how much longer this Rome will last. Not the Rome of marble, but the Rome of flesh and words. I have seen how the old are no longer heard, how tribunes are mocked, how senators sell favors. And still—a boy reads a passage from Cicero, an old man comments on it, a scribe like me copies it again, with round letters, onto a scroll. That is the Rome that does not die. The Rome of ideas.

I often think of Fausta. How she used to listen to me speak of philosophy, leaning against the wall behind the school. She would smile and say I was too serious for my age. Now I am older than I ever imagined, but Cicero’s words make me young again. Perhaps because I still hope the world can be thought—not just endured.

—

When my workday ended, I walked past a stone insula where laborers live. They shouted to each other, laughed, drank cheap wine, and played dice. I wondered: do these men not reflect? Do they lack judgment? Or perhaps they hide it beneath their sun-beaten skin and weariness? Maybe deep thinking is not the luxury of the idle, but the silent decision not to strike back, not to steal, not to betray. That is character. Often quiet, invisible—but real.

—

In my room, I lit the oil lamp. I watched the flame tremble and thought: if Rome were a flame, then each of us is a drop of oil. Some burn fast, others smolder. But without us, the light would die.

Perhaps the Rome of today is unworthy of Cicero. Perhaps I am too. But that is why I read him again. Because amid the noise, despite the decay, there is still hope in the idea that great things are not born of brute force, but of reflection, character, and sound judgment.

And if we can no longer change the world, perhaps we can still guard our soul. That may be the last form of freedom we have left.

Vivat Roma. Vale.

The shouting in the marketplace has quieted, and more and more I hear talk of Aurelian. He came like a bolt of lightning from the Balkans and struck down upon the heads of the Juthungi and the Vandals. They say Mars himself guided him through the northern hills, and the earth trembled under the hooves of Illyrian cavalry. Whether that’s true or just tavern gossip, I’ll never know. But I do know that already on the city’s walls, the words “Germanicus Maximus” are being scratched, and old Aurelian is being summoned into the splendor of emperors past.

May the gods keep him alive.

In a single autumn, Rome turned back from the brink of death and breathed again. And I, a bent-backed scribe hunched over his tablets, felt the stir of this breath even here, on my second floor, where the rats have grown more polite than the tenants.

From the banks of the Tiber, I watched the cohorts return with dust on their cloaks and heavy eyes. Some staggered, others lifted their spears with the pride of bearing the standard of Rome itself. But the wonder is not in them — it’s in how, after so long, people seem to believe again. The word “imperator” no longer sounds like a threat.

—

Aurelian… They say he’s harsh. That he beats the soldier who sleeps on watch and beheads the one who flees. But Rome was not built with caresses. People forget quickly, but I remember — Claudius died in Pannonia, and the Empire’s body was already rotting. Every tribe of barbarians dreamed of wearing the purple, and our senators hid under their togas like under a cold blanket. Aurelian did not ask for permission. He came with lightning, with the sword, and something rarer: will.

Some say he’s a simple man, the son of a peasant, born near Sirmium, raised among cattle and foot soldiers. He comes from no noble line, has no senatorial blood. But he needs none of that. His blood is hot, and he sheds it where needed. That is what makes him emperor — not his rank, but his wounds.

—

Today, a grocer in the Subura showed me a new coin. The emperor’s face is there, severe, with a brow cut like marble. On the reverse, a Victory trampling a barbarian. The grocer told me, with his mouth full of salted fish, that he’ll keep the coin as a charm. He laughed, then glanced around and whispered: “Maybe this man really will save us.”

Salvation… What a heavy word. We speak it in every prayer and forget it between two measures of cheap wine. But Rome does not only need saving. Rome wants order. Rome wants walls, bread, and safe roads. Aurelian, it seems, understands this.

The walls have already begun to rise — that great stone belt dreamt of by emperors long past. Never before has Rome been thus encircled. Some call it a disgrace — to admit that even the Urbs can be attacked. I see it differently: it is a sign that the Empire wants to live, even with fear in its ribs. We are no longer young, but we are not dead.

—

In the chancery, my superior, Secundinus, sighed today as he looked at a map. “Felix,” he said, “if the gods keep Aurelian alive two more years, perhaps we won’t have to move to Alexandria.” We both laughed bitterly. We’ve grown used to the idea of Rome falling, but now, somehow… something flickers.

I don’t drown myself in illusions. The grain is scarce, prices climb faster than carts on the Via Sacra. The coinage is devalued, and senators secretly sell off gold to pay the guards. And yet, there’s a strange calm, a hope in low tones. When a man like Aurelian climbs the throne, even beggars grow alert.

—

They say that after defeating the barbarians, Aurelian refused a golden statue. He said the gold was better used to pay his soldiers. Perhaps it’s only legend, but if it isn’t, then this man is Roman to the bone.

Maybe he remembers what we have forgotten: that Rome is more than marble and amphitheaters. It is discipline. It is order. It is a sharp sword and a law clearly written. The rest — the shows, the splendor, the gladiators — are all dust without a firm spine.

—

Iulia wrote to me from Capua. A short, cold letter. She says a new priest has arrived at the temple of Sol Invictus and preaches about light, about rebirth. Aurelian is devoted to this god. It seems he will elevate Sol to imperial rank.

To replace a whole pantheon with a single disc of fire… I don’t know what to think. But perhaps Rome needs a central flame. It has scattered in too many directions. Maybe it’s time to gather under one sun. Or at least to try.

—

Last night I dreamed I was walking with Fausta along the Via Flaminia. It was summer, and the air smelled of pine and new wine. I don’t know why it came to mind, but perhaps it’s a sign. Perhaps, deep down, we all dream of returning — not to a place, but to meaning.

Perhaps Rome, with Aurelian, is not merely returning to victory, but to the idea that life here still has purpose.

—

Night falls upon the city. I hear the dogs, and now and then a drunken voice shouting the emperor’s name. The children in the insula across the way are playing with a broken spear, pretending to be soldiers. I haven’t the heart to stop them.

I write by the weak light of Minerva’s lamp. I wonder what the goddess would say about these times. Perhaps she smiles wryly, like I do.

But I won’t end this journal entry in sadness tonight. I want to believe. I want to see Aurelian enter Rome not as a tyrant, but as a shepherd — with a straight staff and clear eyes. He may not last forever, but if he brings us a little order, a little dignity, it will have been enough.

Vivat Aurelianus. Vivat Roma. Vale.

By the immortal gods, who poured red wine into my head?

Me, obviously.

I stumbled through the door with dignity—because how else should a man wear his toga if not like a drunken gladiator’s cloak? I saluted the lamp of Minerva, tripped over the tripod of Mercury (he smiled, I cursed), and collapsed at my desk like a free citizen should. Time to record my thoughts—or what’s left of them after four amphorae of Falernianus and two rounds of “Guess Who Belched?”

I drank with Rufus. Yes, that Rufus—friend, poet, and walking disaster. Remember, O Journal, that fateful night he fell through the ceiling? He lived in one of those sky-high flats that get neither sunlight nor shame. Trying to perform a verse by Horace (or maybe just reaching for more wine), he stepped on a basin and crashed gloriously into old Livia’s apartment below.

Straight into the arms of a marble statue of Pudicitia.

And as he later grinned, one tooth short: “The only chaste woman’s arms that ever embraced me.”

Left hand clutched an amphora, right hand flung wide for drama:

“Vita brevis, vinum longum, hic cecidi.”
— “Life is short, wine is long, here I fell.”

Slightly better than “Oops.”

—

I tried to tally my monthly budget. Official salary: 2,000 denarii.
But I suspect part of it vanishes into “sewer maintenance taxes” (read: wine for the aedile).

Here’s what I’ve spent so far this month:

• Goat cheese (eaten once, dreamed about thrice): 120 denarii
• Salted fish, as salty as my life: 230 denarii
• Wine (unknown quantity, but deeply cherished): 540 denarii
• Parchment, wax, reeds—because without work, there’s no bread (or wine): 180 denarii

Remaining: 930 denarii

Rent: 1,000 denarii

Conclusion: I’ll be writing extra funeral inscriptions. Maybe even my own.

—

At the tavern “Apud Porcum Lautum” — famous for its suspicious smell and dirty jokes — we heard this gem:

— Why don’t scribes ever marry?
— Because no woman wants to be called his tablet for life!

And:

— What did the Vestal say when she saw the statue of Priapus?
— Come in… but quietly.

I laughed like a drunken donkey. Rufus laughed into the table. A veteran vomited in a cup.

It was a fine evening.

—

And if I die tomorrow, let the future know:
It’s no shame to drink cheap wine, only a shame to have no one to tell your dreams to after drinking it.

My reed trembles. I shall sleep beside Apollo’s statue.

Perhaps a virtuous woman will dream of me.

Or at least one with a tray of olives.

Vivat Roma. Vale.