Eternal City, Chapter 4: Thus Passes The Worldly Glory

I was born in the countryside. Or, as some of my neighbors who will remain anonymous would say, in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. Not that I was supposed to hear them say so, or that it was socially acceptable for them to state such a strong opinion as opposed to someone who was expected to be pretentious and plainly wrong like an outsider, but it was kind of their fault for not choosing a more private spot to complain about their lives. Or for drinking enough alcohol to both loosen their tongues and lower their awareness of what happened around them that wasn’t obviously blatant or loud.

Where I was? Ah yes. Rural town surrounded by rolling hills and crops with a small river crossing it, the older folk go there during the weekends to fish. It tends to rain quite often. Reaching the closest city to it takes two hours by car, one with the train when the driver remembers it still works.

Needless to say, most of the town’s youngest population openly considered the town ‘boring’ and took every chance they had to either follow the latest trend from the big cities almost religiously or go there in person. I don’t know if they lied when asked where they came from or took the opportunity to endlessly complain about the town, but it wouldn’t surprise me either way.

I was one of the few odd ducks among the young generation that liked my birthplace. So what if it was in the middle of nowhere, that just made it relaxing and peaceful. There was a shopping district full of local family businesses that always had odd and interesting stuff on display, a department store that sold everything else that wasn’t produced locally, flood plains to run along with and large fields of grapes and peaches perfect for playing hide-and-seek.

My parents didn’t share my opinion. Mom was a housewife, and Dad worked at the local town hall as an accountant. Since I was able to walk on my own they would tell me I was destined to eventually leave the town and achieve success elsewhere. That it was necessary for me to do so, because the town had no future and I ran the risk of spending all my life at a dead-end job doing the same things every day for as long as I lived. It didn’t take me long to understand they were talking about themselves: aware enough to understand the flaws of their lifestyles, yet too used to what was essentially their entire world to find the strength to change. In their minds the only proper thing to do was to ensure their only son took a different path in life, no sacrifice was too great if it meant creating more opportunities for him.

Again, it didn’t take me long to understand. But I still obeyed, for I was a dutiful son. When not going to school I spent my days doing homeworks, reviewing my notes, studying ahead of the curriculum and going through a ridiculous amount of practice tests. Nothing too different from the average Japanese childhood, true, but the stress of it was felt all the more vividly in a place where expectations were much lower and it was considered acceptable for children to spend their free time frolicking outside. I was the standard in a town of expectations, thus it was no surprise I ended up isolated from the rest of my peers. I was the introvert loner, the one who always declined offers to hang out together to stay at home. The one who aced all tests and had the galls to not be incredibly happy when praised by the teachers, just calmly accepting it as the expected outcome. The other parents congratulated mine for raising such a hardworking child and complained about the laziness of their own, yet did nothing beyond giving out a few ‘Why can’t you be more like Osamu?’ and the like that made other children even more resentful towards me.

The only one who treated me differently was Uncle Yoshito. We weren’t really related by blood, but thanks to his affable and good-natured manners everyone who met him quickly came to consider Uncle a close friend. He was an engineer who transferred from a big city to open a small workshop, when questioned why Uncle replied that back home he always had so much work he ended up doing a barely acceptable job in order to meet the deadline, so one day he decided it would be much more satisfying to be the boss of himself and have enough time to make stuff that meet his very high standards. Most people came to view him more as an artisan than a mechanic, meaning it was acceptable for him to have one or two odd quirks. It helped that his prices were fair and he was able to repair literally everything.

Uncle baffled my parents. Dad and Mom never mentioned it, not even in the privacy of their own home, but I saw in their expressions when they talked to or about him that they were absolutely unable to understand his decision to move to such an isolated town, to leave behind a promising career to spend the rest of his life repairing old car engines and antennas. They didn’t tell me to not interact with Uncle, not explicitly at least, but they often reminded me to not disturb Uncle if I saw him because as a mechanic he often worked with potentially dangerous devices that children shouldn’t be near to. Every time I would reply I understood and they would nod in relief, for I was a dutiful and obedient son that proved he didn’t need constant attention.

That’s why, when Dad and Mom were both busy, it was so easy to sneak out of the house to go visit Uncle. I don’t know what made me decide to do so the first time, maybe I was at the age when children begin to be rebellious or maybe I was curious about this person that managed to confuse my usually stone-faced parents so much just by existing. I just know that I jumped out of my room’s window, an easy thing to do due to living on the ground floor, changed my shoes and then walked up to Uncle’s workshop, a garage he rented from an old couple.

When I arrived Uncle had his whole upper body inside the hood of a truck, doing something very loud with the engine. Despite that he somehow managed to hear my approach, because the moment I stepped inside he cheerfully pointed which parts of his workshop it was better to not touch and the reason why, from parts dirty with oil to the blowtorch being dangerous if accidentally activated, then asked me to wait a few minutes. Not knowing how to respond, rather realizing only then I came there without a single thought for what would happen next, I simply sat down on a chair and waited.

Five minutes later Uncle stood up, cleaned his hands and with a grin asked me what he could do for me. As if the presence of a child within his workshop was perfectly normal.

That was the beginning of my daily visits to Uncle Yoshito during the year that followed. Every time I would wait for Dad and Mom to not be at home before leaving, then spend at least a couple of hours watching Uncle work or listening to him tell me all sorts of stories: about his previous job, his acquaintances, his youth and so on. He had a talent for making even the most seemingly ordinary event worth a few laughs, and never once complained about my presence. When he asked me something, he just calmly took in my reply or my refusal to answer and then moved on. 

There was no judgment or expectations towards me, only simple acceptance.

I can honestly say those are memories I will cherish forever.

Alas, all things must come to an end... It’s just.

Why did it have to end that way?

====

Waking up feels like emerging from a pool full of pillows, my body slowly coming out of the pleasant softness enveloping it while simultaneously realizing how suffocating the experience truly is. Even without opening my eyes the crisp outside air makes me acutely aware of how parched my throat and how dry my lips are, but mercifully an unseen benefactor rubs a warm wet rag over the latter. They pull back before doing it again, the same set of actions repeating themselves with almost clockwork-like precision. The only downside is this sour, musky smell that makes me wonder if it’s the rag that needs an urgent washing, or my benefactor. I hope it’s the former, less awkward to point out in a conversation. My eyelids fight me for every inch, but eventually I manage to open them enough to be met by a slurry of light and colors that need a few seconds to realign into a coherent image.

The dog standing above me keeps licking my lips without a care, long ears flapping with every movement of its head.

I, naturally, do the reasonable thing and scream out in disgust while trying to drag myself away. The dog barks, having the sheer fucking gall to look affronted by my supposed ungratefulness, before trotting away. I leave him be, too busy gagging and spitting and rubbing my mouth raw to remove all the dog gob.

“Finally awake, uh? About time.” Looking up I see the girl-Caterina, resting on a bench while raising a water bottle to her lips, another one sitting next to her. Behind, surrounded by a metal fence, is both a children's playground and a building I identify as a Christian church by the cross on top of it.

There are a lot of things I want to say. But, as I am still reeling from the recent indignity, all I manage to do is to talk like a caveman while gesticulating in the direction the dog went. “Dog! Me! What!”

“Yeah, I know.” She huffs. “Kissing without even buying you dinner first? Cheapskate.”

I stare at her, moth flapping open but with no sounds coming out. She calmly looks back at me for a few seconds before breaking out in undignified giggles. “God, the look on your face! Here, catch.”

She picks up the water bottle next to her and tosses it at me. I fumble with it, but when I’m sure the bottle will not slip out of my grasp I waste no time opening it and using the water to clean my mouth. It takes some time before I feel clean enough to drink the remaining water, and by the end of it the bottle is empty.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you...” I slowly stand up, using my free hand to remove the dust from my clothes. The realization I was lying on a sidewalk is honestly just background noise at this point, it helps that we’re alone save for the occasional passing car. “I... I have so many questions.”

And isn’t that the father of all understatements? So much happened in what felt like centuries but couldn’t have been more than a dozen minutes, I don’t even know where to begin. It all felt like a very bad fever dream, but strange and unexplainable things kept happening since my arrival here in this foreign country and I can’t keep sweeping them under the rug. The bulge is almost higher than me now.

“Thought so.” She puts the cap back on the bottle and stands up, rolling her shoulders twice. “Name’s Caterina. Caterina Mazzi. What’s yours?”

Following the strict etiquette rules ingrained into me by society I give her a polite bow in return. “Ikazuchi Osamu. Nice to meet you, Mazzi-san.”

“Drop the Mazzi, Caterina will do.” She begins to walk away while making a ‘come hither’ gesture with one finger. “Now come along... Osamu, right? Asians put their surnames first. Anyway, I’m famished: let’s talk while taking a bite.”

I gape in disbelief before hurrying after her. “M-Mazzi-san, I can’t do that! It would be-”

“Caterina.” She firmly repeats without even turning around.

“But-”

“Call me Caterina or I’ll publicly embarrass you so much the pictures will be a hot topic on every social before the day ends.”

My mouth slams shut. How is one supposed to react towards a threat like that? But truthfully I’m more scared of what she considers public embarrassment worth that much attention than the possibility of people I know learning about it.

That’s how, fifteen minutes later, I find myself sitting inside a restaurant set-up within an underground floor. The tables are small, the brick walls are covered by either framed black-and-white photos or shelves full of wine bottles, and the only menu available is written on a blackboard placed at the entrance to the restaurant. Beside Caterina and I the place is empty, understandable since it’s still the middle of the afternoon, yet it was open when we arrived and the lone waiter showed us to a table like it was perfectly normal.

“We’ll take two carbonara.” Caterina orders without even asking for my input. Just like she ignored me every time I tried to tell her I just recently ate. “And a bottle of white wine. What do you have?”

“For a carbonara, I have a Vermentino from Bolgheri that together is to die for!” He declares with a lot of pride while slapping a hand over his prominent girth.

“That one’s good.” Caterina suddenly leans towards the waiter while pointing a finger up at him, a suspicious expression on her face. “The pecorino is aged more than twelve months, I hope?”

“Avoja!” The man looks absolutely scandalized, as if Caterina just asked if he walks around naked during the day while kissing his sister. “Girl, do I look like a pataccaro?”

She winks. “Just making sure.”

“Less than twelve months, pecorino for a carbonara. Unbelievable.” The waiter grumbles as he walks away.

Seeing my expression Caterina waves a hand. “Don’t worry, I was just teasing him a little.”

“Ah, it’s not that.” This level of informality between strangers is still a little shocking to witness, even after being warned about it before the departure, but I understand that Italy’s culture is different compared to Japan’s. I shouldn’t judge how people interact among themselves within their own country. “Just surprised the waiter can speak Japanese so well. You too, Caterina.”

She gives me a strange look before nodding in what looks like sudden understanding. “You haven’t realized yet, uh?”

I blink in confusion. “Realized what?”

“We were speaking Italian. And so are you now.”

I confess, it takes me a few seconds for the full meaning of Caterina’s words to sink in. But even then, accepting it is a far more difficult task. “I never learned how to speak Italian.”

“It’s a perk of what happened to us. Italian, French, English and so on: if a language has its roots in Europe then you can now speak and write it like second nature.” She explains. Rummaging within her handbag Caterina takes out a small pamphlet and pushes it towards me. “Here. What is this?”

“It’s a promotion for a limited sale at a supermarket.” I easily answer, having seen many similar pamphlets in the past. And then it hits me: the words written on it use the Latin alphabet. There’s not a single hiragana, katakana or kanji to be seen, yet I understand every bit of it. “How...?”

“Like I said, it’s a perk.” The waiter returns with two glasses and a bottle. He uncorks the bottle and fills both glasses with white wine, then puts the bottle down and walks away without a word. Caterina picks up her glass and slowly swirls the wine within. “But far from the only one.”

A wave of distortion sweeps over our surroundings. What once was a rustic restaurant turns into a cellar full of trinkets and knick-knacks, barely illuminated by a small window and the open door. Our table stands within one of the few free spots, looking completely out of place.

“You experienced something similar before reaching the basilica where we fought against Eudon, right?” She hides her smirk behind her glass when I dumbly nod, taking a small sip of wine before continuing. “It’s sort of like moving backward in time. More precisely, we shifted into a memory of the past: a reproduction of how things once were in a specific place, shaped by the collective memories of those who personally witnessed it. How far you can go depends on a lot of factors, but you can sort of instinctively understand the limits. In this case I could only go back up to fifty years, I guess this cellar was dug only after that date. And I don’t fancy being buried alive.”

“So, it’s not truly traveling back in time?” I ask. This makes everything less outrageous, but it’s a meager consolation.

“Like I said, it’s just a memory. Which means that any change you make to it will just fade away as if it never happened, because every time you pull out a new recreation of the original. That’s useful if you want to have a private discussion like now, or to fight in a way that attracts no attention and leaves no traces.” She tilts her head. “Of course, you could use your powers without needing to Slip first. Good luck dealing with the consequences, especially if there are witnesses.”

I nod, that makes sense. I guess Slip or Slipping is a good term for this phenomenon. “What is the source of these powers? And, back when we fought that man, for a short while it was, it was like...”

“You were someone else.” I nod again with a grimace. Thinking back to it I can clearly remember everything I did and thought, but after Eudon attacked me there was a sharp change in my personality that became evident only now that it passed. It was me, yet at the same time not. Playing the part of a fictional character like an actor, taken to the extreme. “Right, you’ll need context to handle it properly. But first, I assume you saw it too? The story of Romulus and Remus.”

“If you mean I hallucinated having a front-row seat to their life, then yes. I got off the plane yesterday with my classmates, we took a bus to the hotel but there was a lot of traffic, so to pass the time our guide told us their legend.” I hesitate. “I thought it was just fatigue playing a trick on my mind. It felt like a dream: a vivid one, yes, but still a dream.”

“Understandable. When it happened to me I thought someone spiked my coffee with LSD.” She taps the fingers of her free hand over the table’s surface, a constant rhythm starting from the index and ending with the pinky. “I’ll not go with the ins and outs of what happened to me next, that’s personal and it’d take too long. I’ll instead tell you what I learned so far, both with some help and on my own. Are you familiar with the basics of Roman history? First Kingdom, then Republic and finally Empire that conquered most of Europe and the lands around the Mediterranean Sea, before splitting into two halves that lasted different amounts of time?”

“I didn’t know about the two halves.” I admit. “But I know about the rest.”

“Good enough. According to what I learned several people during Roman history, usually important ones like generals and statesmen, experienced similar visions of their country’s mythological birth. They were rarely identical to each other, the legend of Romulus and Remus has different variations and which one was more popular changed with time, but they always end up the same way: Remus dies upon the Palatine hill, and from his spilled blood grows a mighty tree that symbolize the history of Rome. A part of the legend that only those who received the visions knew, thus it became a secret kept within a very restricted circle. In time those people interpreted the death of Remus, who was a Demigod, as a sacrifice to the Gods themselves to bless the new country that would be created by his brother: thus, Rome was gifted with the destiny to become the greatest empire the world had ever seen. Blood containing divine essence, fueling the pinnacle of civilization.”

Caterina shrugs. “At least, that’s how they saw it. Romans had a bad habit of treating everyone not born within their borders as barbarians, though they were hardly unique.”

That sounds like a wacky conspiracy, the type supported on the web by people who are either professional trolls or who live in a basement and eat only canned food. But it was a time when people still believed in magic and the supernatural, what I first considered a hallucination would be seen as a vision sent by the Gods to an ancient Roman. Discovering other people had a similar experience surely reinforced their beliefs.

“Until one day, after trying for a long time to understand the reason they were shown those visions, someone had a brilliant idea.” She raises a finger. “The blood of a Demigod created Rome. And yet, Remus had a twin. Correct?”

“Yes?” I answer, not quite sure where this is going.

“Doesn’t this mean that, if one were to obtain the blood of Romulus, they would be able to create a new Rome? Or maybe an even greater civilization, since the Gods favored him more than his brother?”

“...That sounds like a stretch. A very big one.” Obtaining the blood of the mythological, half-God founder of your country in the hope it would allow you to do the same? Sure, why not. That makes perfect sense. 

It’s like someone once decided to search for Emperor Jimmu’s lost tomb, planning to use his bones to make an impressive-looking trinket. If it fails, you lose time. If you succeed, people will compete among each other to obtain the privilege of skinning you alive for the sheer disrespect.

“For us, modern people born in modern times.” Caterina points first at me, then at herself and repeats the motion a few times. She finishes the rest of the wine in one go and refills her glass. Hearing movement I watch as smoke pours out of the wall on the back of the cellar, where one day there would be a door to the kitchen, quickly solidifying into a man wearing rough, farmer-like clothes. He bears a passing resemblance to the waiter, and he’s carrying a heavy sack. “Here’s the food.”

With another invisible trigger, I can only assume the decision to Slip requires but a thought, we return to the restaurant and the farmer becomes the waiter, a plate in each hand. As he puts down one in front of me I get my first good look at this so-called carbonara: noodles served with a yellow cream, grated cheese, diced bacon and, yeah, a lot black pepper. The portion is generous, to say the least.

“Here, carbonara. With pecorino aged twenty-four months.” The waiter snorts haughtily. “Unless you want to contest it?”

“Uhm...” Caterina picks up her fork and taps it on the plate’s edge, an impish grin on her lips. “Maybe. But I think I’ll wait until the bill.”

“Typical.” He snorts imperiously before leaving again, transitioning midway into a soot-covered miner as we return to the past.

Giggling in amusement Caterina spears a piece of bacon and puts it into her mouth, humming in approval while chewing. She raises an eyebrow when she sees I have yet to move, still staring at the food in front of me. “Don’t worry, it’s safe to eat. That guy’s not going to spit in our food just for some light-hearted teasing.”

“I sure hope not, and I’m willing to trust you on it, but that’s not the problem.” I wave at my cutlery. “I don’t know how to use a fork.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” She reacts with genuine astonishment. “It’s a fork. It should be obvious.”

“I think my countrymen say the same thing when westerners ask how to use chopsticks.”

“Ugh, right. You guys use sticks to eat.” She slaps a hand over her face. “Look, do it this way. Stab the fork in the middle, spin it around a few times to wrap the spaghetti around the tines-”

It takes me some time, during which I gain a newly found respect for those who grow up needing to use such an unwieldy tool to avoid starving, but I eventually become skilled enough to move food from the plate to my mouth without spilling it. The taste is... something else. Certainly tasty, but without a doubt more rich and savory than most dishes I ever tasted before. It’s the kind of food to eat before braving a snowstorm, knowing you will need all the calories you can possibly get to survive. It’s a good thing I quickly find out to be absolutely famished, else I would not be able to stomach more than a few bites.

Oh, and it’s not bacon but cured pork jowl. Caterina is quite adamant on that.

“To be clear, the part about someone suddenly having a brilliant idea? That’s my personal interpretation.” She begins when we both are three-fourths through our food. “No one I spoke with truly knows how it began, but that a vessel containing Romulus’ blood exists and is hidden somewhere was a very popular topic of discussion among Rome’s upper echelons, though you will find no mention of it in the history books. Romulus’ Heart-Blood, they called it. And for many of them it became an obsession: they fought, schemed, loved and hated, all the while secretly lusting after this mythical object that with each retelling became capable of more and more. They had the vision as proof that it was real, that they have been chosen. It mattered little that others could claim the same, all they needed to do was ensure they were the only one to obtain the Heart-Blood. Often through violence.”

She stares straight into my eyes, the most serious I had seen her being so far. “That obsession continued even in death. That’s what you, Eudon and I are: people possessed by a ghost, or something so similar to one that it makes no difference. We are Returned.”

Oh.

That would kind of explain me behaving like a completely different person and possessing knowledge I had no way of learning before.

It’s also completely and utterly insane. “Are you fucking with me?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. Almost immediately I slap a hand over my mouth, a blush of mortification spreading over my whole face.

“I wish!” The auburn-haired woman throws her hands in the air, gesticulating wildly like a petulant child, then aggressively finishes eating the rest of her food. I do the same but much more meekly.

Alright. Think Osamu, think. Ghosts stretch disbelief, no matter how many legends of them and other Youkai exist in Japan, but people with superpowers outright shatter it and I bore witness to a live demonstration with my own eyes. Hell, I took part in it.

I shiver at the memory, quickly checking my arms. The fact they’re still whole and not carbonized stumps only reassure me a little.

“Is that a phobia?”

Caterina’s sudden question startles me. I look up, the auburn-haired woman staring at me with a somber expression. “I realize it’s none of my business, but if it hinders you so much I need to know more to help you. Eudon isn’t going to stop chasing after me, and now you’re his target too.”

Just what I needed, a psycho after my head because the ghost possessing me decided to mock him. If you can hear me, asshole, thanks a whole load of nothing. “No, no need. I’ll just find some excuse to anticipate my return, pay the-”

“Won’t work. You think I haven’t tried already?” She interrupts me. “Try to leave Europe without a plan to return soon, and you’ll find yourself back without a clear idea of how it happened.”

What.

“Ever heard the saying ‘all roads lead to Rome’? In our case it’s literal: likely due to those ghosts believing Romulus’ Heart-Blood is hidden within what once was the Roman Empire, they take poorly to us leaving Europe or its immediate vicinity. In my case I left for the United States to stay with a friend, then blanked out some time later. Next thing I know two days have passed, I’m back here and my friend told me on the phone I suddenly packed up my things, made a withdrawal at the bank and bought a ticket for the first flight to Rome without offering a single word of explanation. Tried a second time, but the same thing happened.”

Are you fucking kidding me?! I live in Japan, on the other side of the world. I am here on a vacation paid for by my university, when it ends I need to go back. Then I need to take my final exams and finish my graduation thesis, immediately after that I’ll be expected to start searching for a good job and hopefully spend only a limited time doing non-stop interviews.

I know this. All of it.

Then why do I almost feel relieved by the thought that the choice has been taken from my hands?

“...An exorcism?” I dare ask in a last, desperate hope. For what kind of answer, I dare not admit even to myself.

“Tried that. Multiple times, and I assure you the Christian Church takes this issue very seriously. Didn’t work.” She sighs. “You’re free to try the practices of your homeland, good luck with that and if it works please warn me so I can come there as fast as possible.”

I push the plate and cutlery to the side so I can rest my face against the table in abject defeat. At this point I would totally be fine dealing with the consequences of going to a Shinto priest asking for an exorcism, I’m even confident it can be done with minimal fuss, but if it fails then I would either need to hurry back to Rome or let my jackass ghost do the same with far less discretion. It’s just not worth the effort, and considering my luck so far finding a Shinto temple here in Italy is as likely as flying to the Moon by waving my arms really hard. “Why lightning? Why do ghosts have superpowers? Why did it possess me of all people? Who even are those people, and what do they expect us to do?!”

“All good questions. Alright, we’ll postpone the matter of why you freaked out for now.” Taking the bottle of white wine she fills up my glass and pushes it against me. “Come on, drink and loosen up.”

She forces me to drink that and another full glass before beginning her explanation. I'm now more than a little tipsy, but I confess the artificially-induced serenity is nice. Of course, getting absolutely smashed so I can forget about my woes for a short while is very tempting, but with a pyromaniac after my ass being drunk is the last thing I need.

“Let’s go in order of importance. I don’t know why or how the ghosts of ancient Romans possess superpowers, but older Returned in the past - and yes, this has been going on for a long time, more later - started to call them Genius and the name stuck. A Genius, in Roman mythology, is the individual instance of divine nature that is present in every individual person, place, or thing. Much like a guardian angel, the Genius follows each man from the moment of his birth until he dies. The Greek equivalent is Daimon, a generic term for minor gods or spirits. When speaking about a Genius, a Returned means both their possessing spirit and the special powers bestowed upon them, like Slipping.”

The auburn-haired woman presses the side of her ring, triggering the blade. Without even flinching she presses the tip of her right index finger over it until a bead of blood comes out. The crimson droplet falls on a paper napkin, turning it into a minuscole paper legionary that begins marching around the table.

“My Genius is Julia Domna, the first empress of the Severan dynasty that ruled between 193 and 235 AD. She was famous for accompanying her husband, the future Emperor Septimius Severus, on his military campaigns and staying in the camp with the army. Because of it and her political influence she received the title of ‘Mother of the Invincible Camps’. She allows me to animate not-living matter by infusing it with a small amount of my blood, though what I can make is limited to elements of a Roman army like soldiers and weapons.” Caterina shows me her finger: the wound is already closed, not a single trace left of it. “While I need to bleed to use this power, thankfully the pain is greatly dampened and wounds close quickly. Oh, and it also makes me hungry afterwards: gotta replenish the blood loss somehow.”

“Is that why you insisted on having lunch in the middle of the afternoon?”

“That, and I was in the mood for something tasty.” She shamelessly admits with an easygoing shrug. “Anyway, before becoming emperor Septimius heard a prophecy of a woman who would marry a king, so he sought her as his wife: that woman was Domna. This is the reason Eudon is obsessed with me, in that swamp he has in place of a proper brain he believes that if we marry he’s guaranteed to win this little competition. Or he’s confusing me with one of his old flames, either works I guess.”

Yeah, this thing that hijacked my life and has likely been going on for centuries is just a ‘little competition’. Nevermind the ghosts and the blatant disregard for the laws of physics. I wonder how many Returned existed until now, is this an ongoing issue or are there periods of quiet? I refuse to believe it did not give birth to several urban legends. But, speaking about Returned, there is something that has been bugging me for a while. “Is Eudon just a Returned who also happens to be a scumbag? Because I noticed his behavior was strangely erratic.”

She tilts her head. “You mean he was blatantly crazy? Out of his fucking mind? Completely bananas? The wheel is still turning but the hamster’s gone?”

“Well, not in such strong terms but pretty much.” I mentally write down the last metaphor, it’s neat and I’m sure I can find a use later on.

“Good you mentioned it, because there’s another downside to hosting a Genius.” Oh joy, another one! Yes, please give me more. Drown me in misfortune world, can’t you see from my dead eyes and crushed spirit that I’m an irredeemable masochist? “And Eudon Belrose is a prime example of said danger. He’s also French, but that is a different reason to pity him.”

“Are you English?”

“Nope, full Italian. But complaining about stuff and making fun of people are our national pastimes.” Caterina chuckles before growing serious. “Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus. That’s the Genius possessing Eudon. Fifth Emperor of Rome and a direct descendant of your own Genius. Nero is quite the controversial figure; most ancient sources describe him as an impulsive tyrant who spent his days scheming against his enemies or engaging in debauchery. While historians find those same sources either overly biased or contradictory, the general picture of Nero as a mad tyrant persists even today. During the fire of 64 AD, Rome burned a lot of times but what can you expect from a place where most buildings were made of wood, it is said Nero played the lyre from the balcony of his villa while admiring the flames. Some say he personally ordered the fire to clear the space for a new theater dedicated to himself.”

“So, as a Genius, he became capable of creating and manipulating fire through music.” That explains why Eudon kept playing his lyre during the whole encounter, and in a grim sense why his flames carry such a disgusting smell. Thinking about it... yeah, I never saw his fingers stop moving, even if he was just playing a single string. It must mean the flames go out if the music stops: like a car, you can save up time if you keep the engine turned on even if the vehicle isn’t moving. Does his pyrokinesis have another cost? Calories? I saw the flames burning even without fuel, but maybe they require oxygen?

Questions for later, I guess.

“The stories are either true, in life Nero was truly mad, or enough people remembered him as one that his Genius was twisted by humanity’s collective belief. Whatever the truth is, you saw the effects being possessed by him had on Eudon.” She clicks her tongue, both loathing and distress in her eyes. “The more you draw upon the Genius’ personality and memories, the more you become like them and the more powerful you grow. But doing so means losing awareness of your real self, slowly forgetting your own past until the only stuff you can recall are things that happened centuries ago to someone else. Drowning in your Genius is one of the worst fates a Returned can suffer, a meat suit puppeteered around by a dead man driven only by an all-consuming delusion.”

Caterina shudders, and I find myself doing the same. “I’ve been a Returned for three months, Osamu. I had to fight for my life more times that I ever wanted to, and I wanted to see another Returned Drowning in their Genius until they became incapable to understand it’s the twenty-first century and starving to death because they refused to stop Slipping even less. I don’t want the Heart-Blood, I couldn’t care less about reviving my country’s glory days. What I care about is freeing myself from the ghost of this dead bitch preventing me from having a normal life. You may dismiss everything I tell you today, that’s your decision, but at least keep this in mind: never forget who you are.”

“...I’m sorry.” I reply lamely, not knowing what else to say. Rather, what can one say to this? How do you even begin to explain this kind of existential horror scenario to someone else? 

You can’t. You need to experience it for yourself. That’s why, after a short pause, I bow my head until my forehead almost touches the table. “But, thank you. You weren’t obliged to help me, yet you still did it. Without you I would be dead or still ignorant of the dangers involved. So, once again, thank you: I am in your debt.”

“Good to know! Then when Eudon comes knocking next keeps him busy while I flee: if you can get at least a mutual kill I’ll consider your debt settled.”

After a few moments I slowly raise my head to stare with a clearly unamused expression at Caterina, who is the complete opposite. “I would like to repay my debt in another way, preferably one that doesn’t end with my demise. I insist.”

“Don’t worry, I was joking: with how green you are Eudon will probably wipe the floor with you if I’m not there to help.” She chuckles before growing slightly melancholic. ”Someone helped me when I first awakened my Genius, so it’s only right I return the favor.”

That’s very praise-worthy.

“Though I still want you to help me break every bone in that creep’s body and send him to the hospital for a few months. I need a break, and it might lead to him kicking the bucket without involving me.“

That’s less praise-worthy, but understandable.

“Let’s get back on track. I talked about my Genius, and Eudon’s, but not about your own Osamu. You’re actually playing host to a big shot.” Caterina grins, folding her arms over her chest. “But I’m sure I don’t need to spell it out to you.”

No, she doesn’t. I know his name as well as my own. In fact, if I’m not careful, that name comes to mind faster than the one given to me by my parents. It’s like he’s pushing to get out, yet nothing good will come from letting him loose. “Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus.”

“Also called Octavian by later historians to distinguish him from his adoptive father, Julius Caesar.” Even I have heard of the name Caesar before, a general of antiquity famous for his military exploits. He also often gets compared to Alexander the Great, another ancient general. That should be as far as my knowledge goes, yet if I concentrate I can almost make out a face from a memory that isn’t mine. I quickly give up and focus back on Caterina. “He was the first Emperor of Rome, the one who turned the Republic into an Empire, though technically speaking he never called himself one. Simply put, he took for himself most of the highest offices of the state until he was emperor in all but name. Later he did such a good job improving Rome as a whole and establishing peace, if you exclude the expansionary wars, that after his death people just kept the changes he made and formally turned Rome into an empire.”

She pauses for a moment before making a so-so gesture. “Granted, by the time of Octavian’s birth the Republic was corrupted to the core and you already know what became of his lineage: Nero was the last Emperor of the Julio-Claudian dynasty that Octavian started. Still a net positive, at least by the time’s standards.”

Sounds like he played a similar role to Tokugawa Ieyasu, taking control of the country after a period of instability and then reforming the government. “Out of curiosity, what happened after Nero died?”

“An entire year with four different Emperors, each one murdered by the previous one.”

Yikes.

“Regarding why your power is, apparently, releasing electricity from your arms...” Caterina taps her lips with one finger, leaning against the seat while deep in thought. As I wait for her to finish my gaze drifts around the cellar, taking in the scattered and stacked objects that reveal this place has been used as a storage room in the past. Ghostly figures briefly come into existence, performing a few actions before scattering again into dust: the farmer, the miner, a woman dressed in simple but dignified clothes, a sullen-looking child and so much more. All of them existed at one point and stood within this cellar for one reason or another.

Caterina implied Slipping is an ability that all Returned possess. Does that mean I can do it too? Within my mind I visualize a clock face suspended in the air and will the hands to move backward. As they do so the cellar acquires a blurry quality, the details changing like the scene of a film going in reserve. But then the clock hands suddenly stop without my input, leaving our table inside a large hole in the ground that several workers are still digging. I instinctively become aware this is as far as I can go, because nothing existed here before this time. So I make the clock move forwards, focusing on a date twenty years before the current one. The hands spin at great speed, my surroundings turning into an indistinct blur for a few seconds before they focus again into a storage room, the items now in different places.

Easy. So easy, I don’t even feel winded or suffer another type of side-effect. The reason behind this ability may be inherently unpleasant, but it’s still seriously cool.

A sudden thought pops up in my mind unbidden: what would happen if I use Slipping in my hometown?

It’s an idea that will do a lot of harm and little good, so I shove it back where it came from. A memory’s just a memory, I better not forget it.

“Typical boys, give them a new toy and they’ll start playing with it.” Caterina’s voice breaks me out of my reverie. I rub the back of my head in embarrassment, not quite willing to meet her eyes. “Not that I wasn’t any better. Anyway, I think I have a clue why Octavian’s power is electricity. On the Palatine Hill, yes the same one once chosen by Romulus, lies the remains of the Temple to Apollo Palatinus. According to tradition, while Octavian rested in Rome after a successful military campaign a lightning bolt struck a part of the hill he owned. In Roman life thunder and lightning were seen as ill omens, with the Senate having a special law that required sessions to be canceled should the forecast call for a storm. Octavian, however, emboldened by his recent successes took this as a portentous occasion. He declared that portion of his property to be public land and ordered the construction of a temple dedicated to Apollo, god of a great many things like the sun, oracles, archery, healing, music and dance.”

She pauses to pick up the bottle of wine, notices it’s empty and puts it back down with a snort. “Whatever. That’s probably why you’re a living taser.”

I blink slowly. “That’s it? If it’s due to Octavian building a temple dedicated to a god, wouldn’t it make far more sense if his power was related to said god? Like, I don’t know, manipulating light?”

Of course, while it sounds cool on paper for all I know it would just turn me into a giant flashlight. Or jump to the other end of the spectrum and let me shoot laser beams... What the hell, I want that. I could just stand on a high platform and rain fiery death upon that French asshole, laughing maniacally all the while. And then lose due to my own arrogance, as it always happens in manga and anime. Thank you, artists of my homeland, for the many precious life lessons you continue to impart to us all.

“Look, you’re right! Hell, I think I remember Octavian once dressed as Apollo for a banquet, guy was definitely his favorite deity.” Caterina throws her hands in the air. “That’s not the only temple he commissioned, maybe it was the one dedicated to Jupiter? He’s the one famous for flinging lightning bolts at people he didn’t like.”

“Oh, I see.” In hindsight, it was unfair to just assume the auburn-haired woman had all the answers I needed. Sometimes, you can just make educated guesses. Could I get something more definite if I try to recall more of Octavian’s memories? Yeah, probable.

Do I want to? Absolutely not. “Still not sure what I have in common with an ancient emperor, even if he just wanted the power and not the official title, who liked building temples.”

“You know, that’s a good question. As far as I know all Returned tend to be either European or American due to being the most direct descendants of the ancient Romans. And I mean everyone that was at one point considered part of the Empire, not just people born in the Italian peninsula.” Caterina taps her fingers over the table as she gives me another inquisitive look. “Do you have a, what’s the word you Japanese use, Gascin in your family tree?”

“Gaijin. It means ‘outsider’.” I correct her. “And I doubt it: my hometown is an insular place, it was only during my grandfather’s generation that they began to open up.”

And, judging from Dad’s stories, that was only out of necessity due to Japan being an awful mess after WWII. I would need to check my family registry to be absolutely sure, but that isn't going to happen anytime soon so it’s a moot point.

“Mh. You mentioned classmates, what you’re studying?”

“Finance. I’m scheduled to get my degree very soon.”

“So an accountant.” That’s a gross oversimplification, but neither can I say it’s wrong. She squints one eye at me, her gaze suddenly intense, before shrugging in apparent dismissal. “Octavian was a very accomplished statesman, and to do that kind of job knowing how to manage large amounts of money is necessary. Point is, Octavian saw something in you he liked and took residence in your head. Regardless of the why, that’s what happened.”

She sighs. “Now, your last question before we get down to business. What a Genius wants? Obviously to find the Heart-Blood of Romulus: that’s the main thing all of them want, they wouldn’t have lingered on the mortal plane even after their death otherwise. And for what to do once you have it, I guess it varies between Genius. Julia had two sons who were both Emperors, but the eldest one murdered his sibling and then died in battle so Julia committed suicide. Now she hopes the Heart-Blood can bring them back and re-create the empire they should have ruled together in harmony. You’ll have to find out by yourself what Octavian wants.”

Julia’s wish is understandable, who doesn’t have regrets? I’m sure Octavian and even Nero have a reason to desire the Heart-Blood they think it’s perfectly justified. However, the whole ‘dragging innocent people into their maniac search for what is likely a hoax’ kills any sympathy I may have felt for them. Also, Eudon is a dick and wants to kill me. I clench my jaws. “And if the Heart-Blood doesn’t exist? And if it exists but I’m unable to find it?”

“Then my suggestion is to join me into finding a way to get rid of those assholes possessing us.” Caterina laughs at the shocked face I make at her statement. “I said I tried an exorcism and it failed, not that it’s the only way. I have only rumors so far, nothing concrete yet, but Returned have been around long enough to develop quite the rich underground culture. And thank God, the crazy ones like Eudon are not the majority.”

She holds out a hand. “You help me with Eudon and assist me in finding a way to get rid of a Genius, and in exchange I share the latter with you. What do you say, Osamu?”

“...I mean, do I have any other choice? But even so, I hope this partnership will be long and fruitful.” I reach out and shake Caterina’s hand. It’s a small, uncertain hope but I’ll take everything I can at this point. “No wait, I take back the ‘long’ part: it would be great if we could find a solution before I need to return home.”

“Wishing costs nothing.” She grins. “Now, tell me why you have astraphobia.”

“U-Uh?”

“Your fear of lightning, that’s the scientific term. I think.” Caterina shrugs and makes a ‘go on’ gesture. “Come on, spill the beans. I need to find a way for you to use your Genius without freaking out, you’re dead weight otherwise. Remember what I told you? The past has a bad habit of catching up to you at the most inopportune times.”

“No, I know what that means. I just...” I sigh, stomach twisting at the memory of that day. “That kind of saying, I really hate it.”

Nonetheless, I begin speaking about the worst day of my life.