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.