Eternal City, Chapter 3: Fortune Favors the Bold

My sleep during the night is restless, yet I don’t wake up midway nor I still feel tired when I finally open my eyes, though neither do I exactly feel full of energy. I know I dreamed, yet I cannot remember about what: if I concentrate really hard I can vaguely recall a bright white flash, yet that alone is enough to push me away from trying to remember more. Some mysteries are better left well alone.

During breakfast Junko gives me a look of pity, which I guess is totally justified since Kota is sitting next to me and devouring his food like a bear about to go into hibernation. “It should be a question with an obvious answer anyone with eyes and a minimum of empathy can infer, yet I’ll still ask because life has a habit of being highly illogical at the most random times and surprises are not something I completely dislike: Osamu, how are you feeling?”

Amazed you used so many words to voice your concerns when, at the bare minimum, only four would have sufficed. But that’s to be expected from the all-knowing, all-chuuni star of our university who ace all tests and constantly scour books for the most niche and remote titbits of trivia. “He doesn’t snore.” So I don’t even try to imitate her. Beaside she’s already being silly enough for both of us, what a great friend I have.

“Thank God for small mercies.” The blonde takes in my deadpan reply with stoic acceptance and offers a small nod. Her trusty travel book is still by her side, and I can count a few new notes sticking out between the pages. No doubt she researches what we’ll see today with a zeal surpassed only by Ryu-sensei. Who I hope has a single room, nobody deserves to have him as a roommate.

Speaking about him, I see him sitting on another table and discussing something with Baresi-san. I can’t hear their words, but our guide looks relaxed and our sensei way too excited for so early in the morning. Hopefully they balance each other.

Casting a look around I make a quick headcount of how many people from our class are present, and I am surprised to see no one is absent. I expected at least a few guys to leave early, dodging any attempt from Ryu-sensei to stop them and enjoy the vacation on their own terms. Not a smart choice since none of us know Italian (as far as I’m aware of) and even with a GPS it’s not a small feat to navigate a completely foreign city, but it’s not like I have a great opinion of most people’s intelligence. It’s more neutral, in the sense I am generally not shocked when someone makes a stupid decision that could be avoided if they just stopped for a moment to think. I’ve done enough of them myself to recognize the signs.

“Ladies and gentlemen, a moment of your attention please.” Our mustached guide begins as he stands up together with Ryu-sensei. All of us have finished eating and we’re now drinking coffee. Fresh grounded coffee beans, what a luxury. The waiters called it espresso, despite being served in small cups the flavor is strong and it has a creamy consistency, like honey. They don’t even place the cup handle to the left, in fact the placement is completely random: Italians are so easy-going! “I hope yesterday all of you had a nice dinner and a pleasant night. Like it was mentioned, today marks the official beginning of your Rome field trip. Most of my colleagues would immediately bring you to the most famous landmarks like the Colosseum and Saint Peter’s Basilica, but while they’re without a doubt important I feel like it would be a disservice to reduce Rome to just that: this city, after all, has many symbols.”

He gives a slight chuckle. “Moreover, bringing out the main course right at the start often spoils the rest of the meal.”

“Really? I never had that problem before.” Kota whispers to us after he finishes eating for two and a half. People who joke about women who eat a lot and how all that fat must go to their breasts never had the honor of meeting the man blessed with the ability to shove all fat into his muscles. In fact, they can take mine. “Also, who doesn’t snore?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.” Junko replies with a quick wave of her hand, not even looking at him. Kota blinks a few times in evident confusion before looking at me with a raised eyebrow and mirth in his eyes, as if finding our shared friend unusually silly. He may even be wondering if the blonde girl is still half-asleep.

Like uncountable times before I feel the urge to open my mouth and speak the unadulterated truth, revealing to Kota and Junko how they’re a mirror of each other and that I always silently enjoyed the grade-A comedy they provide. Then the moment passes and I go back to sipping my coffee.

====

We take the bus again, still driven by the same driver, and after a short while we arrive in front of a building with a lot of columns. Just like a Greek temple they give the impression they’re holding up the roof, except those are on the second floor and the roof is flat.

“The National Museum of Popular Arts and Traditions of Rome.” Mario explains as we walk inside. “Located in the aptly named Palace of Folk Traditions, it preserves information about the traditions, culture and way of life of the Italian people. Founded thanks to the rich collection of the Italian ethnographer Lamberto Loria, the first exhibition was held in 1911 for the 50th anniversary of the unity of Italy. The exposition of the museum includes hundreds of thousands of exhibits to document the history of Italy’s traditions, from the 18th century till the beginning of the 20th century.”

We go through several thematic exhibitions, from agricultural transports to hunting tools and household items. There are also reconstructions of housing. The style is obviously foreign, some things are missing and others are used for a different purpose, but it doesn’t take me long to begin experiencing a small but comforting sense of familiarity. 

Carts are used to move heavy things along long distances. Plows and shovels to tend to the earth. Beds, cabinets, containers for storage and cooking are mostly the same no matter where you go, at least in function. I am not sure sheep breeding is something that happened in pre-industrial Japan, all I know is that the Serow is used as a motorcycle symbol, but it has a lot of fascinating facets.

More than symbols of a culture, this museum narrates the everyday life of people that in the end were just that, people. They lived, worked, loved, hated, celebrated, mourned and in the end moved on with their lives. For me this is a past I have nothing to do with, merely a spectator from another time, but to those people it was their present, just how things were and nothing more. It must have been a slower, less complicated style of living.

How enviable.

Mood slightly spoiled, though I am nowhere petty enough to hold a grudge against a bunch of inanimate objects and ghosts that exist only inside my head, I accelerate my pace and enter the new exhibition. This one is full of mannequins wearing what seem to be costumes, either for theater or some kind of festival. Well, I may be wrong because I cannot read the signs and Mario, together with the rest of the group, is still in another room but to me they give off the feeling of costumes. It’s the bright colors and zany designs, not to mention the masks and the headgears that are like miniature artworks. Is this some sort of ancestor of cosplaying?

I thought I was alone in the room. That’s likely why I freeze in surprise when I step past a mannequin and see her. A young woman around my age, wearing an open brown coat with a red shirt under it and a black leather skirt that reaches below her knees. Her long, wavy auburn hair reaches halfway to her back, green eyes like leaves ignoring me completely as she stares up at a mannequin dressed with a voluminous gown seemingly made of black feathers. There’s no interest in her gaze, only a dull feeling of passivity like someone watching the TV or observing their surroundings just to pass the time during a long wait. The fact she’s waving her handbag back and forth, not for any specific purpose but just to keep her arm moving, confirms it.

I spend a few more seconds that is considered polite watching her, silently wondering if like me she’s visiting the museum only because someone dragged her here, followed by the realization I better go back to the others before they leave me behind.

The girl’s gaze immediately snaps towards me the very moment I take a single step, the sheer intensity in her eyes that replaced the previous dullness so unexpected I freeze up again. The more rational part of me wonders if she noticed my staring and was offended by it... Another, unfamiliar but quickly rising in volume, can’t help but compare the handbag in the woman’s hand to a drawn-out knife and her posture to one that is perfect for a quick lunge and stabbing. What the hell brain, why are you suddenly worried about a random girl shanking you out of the blue? This isn’t America!

She begins moving towards me, her steps slow and deliberate. Not in a sensual way, for whatever I know about it that doesn’t come from movies or anime, but more reminiscent of the female wolf within my ‘episode’. That’s when I understand: she’s not walking, she’s stalking.

The auburn-haired woman comes to a stop before my flight instinct overwhelms the paralysis, her gaze roaming over my body as if searching for something specific. The fingers of her left hand are closed around the handbag’s handle save for the index and middle ones, both extended. The head of the silver ring around her middle finger has a curious design, I note absentmindedly, like it’s made of different parts fitted together. Finally her eyes stop on my face, making me squirm with a mixture of embarrassment and wariness. She raises an eyebrow, expression turning into one of surprise, and speaks. “Still asleep, uh? That’s a dangerous game you’re playing.”

I open and close my mouth a few times, utterly failing to understand the meaning of her words. “...Excuse me?”

“No idea what I’m about? Just give it time, it’s inevitable after all.” She looks almost amused. She seems to consider something before giving a slight shake of her head and taking a step back. I feel the tension leave my body, making me realize just how much wound up I was. All of that from a pretty girl approaching me? I may be truly hopeless, but if the next thing I see is a portal in reality or a truck I’ll turn in the opposite direction and never stop running. “No sense in starting something with how things are right now, and it would be more troublesome than it’s worth. Consider it one of the last strokes of good luck you’ll probably get from now on.”

Lady, what the ever loving fuck are you talking about?

It’s what I don’t say. But I am sorely tempted to.

The auburn-haired woman turns around and walks towards one of the room’s exists, all five fingers now clenched around her handbag’s handle. She stops just before stepping into the next room, looking over her shoulder at me. “Enjoy your everyday life while it lasts. The past has a bad habit of catching up to you when you least expect it.”

And with those ominous words as a parting gift she departs from the exhibition, leaving me alone. I blink repeatedly in bewilderment of what just happened, stumbling around until my back hits one of the walls. Nothing remains of that girl’s presence, not even a hint of perfume in the air. She appeared out of nowhere, acted in a way that completely goes against common sense and then just disappeared. Rubbing my eyes I wonder if it was yet another hallucination. That, that would be a very bad sight: once is a coincidence, two is a pattern, three would be enemy action.

I probably mangled a quote or two, good thing I didn’t post it online or said it out loud.

“Ah, there you are Osamu.” Junko’s voice comes as needed as a lifeline during a shipwreck, and I cling to it with little hesitation. She finishes writing something on post-it before marking one of the pages of her travel book. “You couldn’t wait to see what else the museum has in store? How unusual.”

“...Something like that.” I reply vaguely. Just like I cannot tell anybody about witnessing a legend, I doubt speaking about a random Italian girl saying strange things would be taken seriously. Much more likely to be believed, yes, but the others are surely going to dismiss it as a prank. I gesture to the mannequins. “Those costumes caught my eyes.”

“Mmh.” She hums, apparently taking my words at face value. If Junko doubts them, I have no idea what kind of face I’m currently making, she makes no mention of it. Turning a few pages of her travel guide she reads first it and then one of the tags below a mannequin before nodding. “I agree, those Carnival costumes are noteworthy.”

“Carnival?” I look at the costumes again. I thought they would be at home during a festival, and I was right. But at the same time they don’t quite fit with what I’m familiar with. There’s a... dignity to those costumes, an elegance I don’t often see. “I would never have guessed.”

“You’re probably thinking of the Asakusa Samba Carnival?” I nod at her question. “That takes inspiration from the Brazilian Carnival. Here in Italy, and the rest of Europe, Carnival is a festival with very ancient roots and a long tradition that goes as far as eight hundred years ago. Oh, I don’t doubt you can still find half-naked girls shaking their butts at the rhythm of fast-paced music, but not as much as Asakusa.”

The rolling of her eyes expresses with brazen honesty what she thinks of that. It’s okay Junko, women who dress in a sensible manner can be attractive too: no need to be envious of girls who, despite being the same age, are somehow more ‘gifted’ and bold than you. I will not think less of you just for that.

“How odd.” She drones with a dangerous glint in her eyes. “I suddenly feel the urge to hit you where it will hurt. A lot.”

Moving on! “So, what kind of Carnivals does Italy have?”

I hold my breath, praying to whoever bothers listening that she takes the bait. Junko glares at me for a few more seconds before clicking her tongue and opening her travel guide again. I know this isn’t over, but as long as I can survive to see another sunrise then that’s enough. “Italy’s most famous Carnival is held in the city of Venice-”

And yet, as I listen to Junko telling me of a place where people celebrate Carnival by throwing oranges at each other, a question refuses to leave my mind.

Who was that girl?

And why does her attitude kind of piss me off?

====

Our visit at the museum continues for the rest of the morning, after which we collectively decide to take a break for lunch. Ryu-sensei is the last one to agree, and truth be told I expected him to insist we choose a place where they serve food that can be eaten while walking (while privately thinking it would have been even better to just skip lunch altogether and fill our bellies with culture) but he likely realized he would be the absolute minority in that case. Also, I like to think even his reserves of will have a limit and he cannot hold back hunger to keep going indefinitely. That would be too scary otherwise.

We still end up eating what looks like street food, but seated on the outside tables of a small and homely diner. The rice balls on my plate are unlike onigiri, having a slightly stretched spherical shape, deep-fried and with a crispy brown surface I have been told is made with egg and bread crumbs. Using my fingers I break one in half, melted white cheese drawn out in a string between the two. Looking inside I also see tomato sauce and pieces of meat mixed with the rice. I blow air on it a few times to cool it down and then take a bite. The crispiness reminds me of okoge, especially the mild nuttiness, but the texture of the rice is slightly different compared to what I’m used to. Not worse, just different. The cheese, tomato sauce and meat give the whole morsel a deep flavor that I find surprisingly enjoyable.

“Good stuff, it fills you quite nicely for a proper workout.” Kota comments in approval, already on his second plate. I’m surprised he’s still willing to eat so much without burning the fat away first, was all the walking around enough for him? Or did he manage to find a secluded corner to do exercises while I wasn’t looking? Kota the Ninja doesn’t sound as improbable as it should. “What’s the name again?”

“Supplì.” Junko answers after cleaning her lips with a napkin. “There are regional variants, like Arancini in Sicily, but the gist is this: local rice cooked with broth, cheese that melts easily, tomato sauce, covered with a mixture of egg and bread crumbs and then fried. They’re mostly used as snacks or appetizers.”

I swallow and then ponder on her words. “So, we could have eaten them on the road if they served them in a bag?”

“Quite.”

“Does Ryu-sensei know about it?”

“Going by how he’s looking at his food with disappointed longing, I’d say he does.”

Kota and I snort in amusement, while Junko simply smirks. I know, I know: we really should tone down the bullying, but sometimes Ryu-sensei just makes it so-

The smell of something burning reaches my nose. An acrid, pungent and oily stench that clings to the inside of my nostrils and mouth like tar, my stomach rebelling violently at the unwelcome intrusion. I drop the remaining piece of rice ball and start coughing into my hands, trying desperately to keep down the bile.

“Osamu?! Hang on!” Tears are clouding my vision, but I still manage to see two blurs coming to my sides and holding my shoulders. “Kota, you know how to use the Heimlich maneuver right? Do it!”

“That was only one lesson, but I’ll do my best!”

“Not!” I raise a hand to stop them, coughing one final time before holding my nose shut and taking a deep breath through my mouth. The stench is still present, but this way it’s more manageable and doesn’t make me want to puke everything I ate in the last twenty-four hours. It also thoroughly killed any appetite I had left. “Not choking... smell. There is an awful smell... made me want to puke.”

“Make way! Make way!” My friends don’t look too convinced by my words, but before they can say anything Ryu-sensei comes barreling towards our table, gently but firmly pushing people aside. Mario is right behind him, one hand holding a phone and thumb ready to push a button, likely to call an ambulance.

Sensei stops and gives me a once over, raising an eyebrow at how I keep my head raised and nostrils closed, but when he sees I’m not dying he relaxes. “Ikazuchi-san, what happened?” He asks me with a soothing voice I’m not used hearing from him.

I take a few more breaths with my mouth before answering, to make sure the urge to puke is really gone. “I was eating, when suddenly there was this stench. It was so disgusting, I almost puked.”

“A stench?” Sensei looks perplexed, exchanging glances with Baresi-san who silently urges him to keep going. “What kind of stench?”

“It was-”

A slab of raw meat sets on fire until it becomes a carbonized stump.

Rotten wood turning into a cloud of poisonous ashes.

A whole building lights up in a blaze. Bricks hiss and crack, stone melts into lava, glass shatters.

Screams and the roaring of flames fill the air, the people running away swallowed by the conflagration and turned into human torches that keep going because they have yet to realize they’re already dead.

Trees. Walls. Animals. Clothes. Houses. Filth. Human bodies. Even the air itself.

Everything is burning.

It’s illogical. It doesn’t make sense. Surrounded by people concerned about me my gaze falls on the other tables of the diner, the other customers having paused in their activities upon hearing the commotion and now watching in our direction to witness further developments. The only exception is a man seated alone on a table, earphones on and eyes closed. He’s wearing simple white pants and a white t-shirt with branches full of orange flowers drawn on it, a folded blue jacket and a beret hanging on the back of his chair. Orange are also his hair and thick but impeccably-groomed beard, coming close to red around the tips. Completely isolated from the outside world he listens to what must be music, smiling as fingers pluck the chords of either a guitar or another string instrument.

There is something wrong with that smile. It’s just a touch too wide, just a touch too sharp, and the glimpse of teeth I catch makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up as if I’m in front of a hungry wild beast. The faster his fingers move the stronger the stench clinging to the back of my mouth becomes, to the point it feels as if I’m breathing molasses.

With mounting dread I watch him come closer to a climax– only for everything to come to a screeching halt. The mysterious man sits up straight, opening his eyes wide and revealing pale gray irises lacking any warmth. For a moment he appears surprised, but in a positive manner, then with a regretful scowl he turns off his DAP and removes the earphones. He stands up and sharply looks around, searching for something, his eyes passing past me as if they completely fail to notice my existence. 

The man eventually stops, having evidently found what he was looking for, a smile both childish and wicked in equal measure almost cutting his face in half as he stares into the distance. I follow his gaze, yet I am unable to notice anything that could hold the man’s interest. He takes out a wallet and pulls out a few bills he leaves on the table, then picks up both jacket and beret before departing with all due haste.

“...Burning.” I finish lamely. Part of the tar-like smell still lingers within my mouth, but it’s quickly fading away. “I smelled something burning.”

“Burning, you say?” Thankfully Ryu-sensei doesn’t look skeptical, but he is definitely puzzled. That makes two of us, I personally experience it all and still cannot believe it really happened. How am I supposed to say I think the source of the smell was a man playing an imaginary guitar?

“Thank goodness it wasn’t the food, otherwise we would have to bring our grievances to the cook.” Baresi-san chuckles, referring to the very muscular man that served us our food. I saw him lift a crate full of glass bottles with one arm and hauling it around on his shoulder without much effort, I don’t want to go and say his food almost made me puke to his face. That would be rude, and I like having my nose not broken. “Well, it’s embarrassing to admit it but even a city like Rome is not immune from instances of urban decay. It is possible Ikazuchi-san got a whiff of burning trash carried by the wind. An unfortunate incident, but one that I hope will not ruin your vacation.”

“Ah, yes. You’re right, Baresi-san. It was just bad luck, those kinds of things sometimes just happen.” Sensei nods his head before patting my back. “Ikazuchi-san, you good to continue? I know it takes more than this to put you down.”

I cannot decide if that is genuine faith in my health, or just Ryu-sensei trying to stealthily persuade me because he doesn’t want a delay. Didn’t Mario say we would visit some catacombs next? Sensei, why are you so eager to go to a century-old tomb? A Buddhist monk would say it’s bad karma, I’m sure of it.

But, that man... No, you can’t judge people simply on a hunch. His expressions may have appeared shady but that doesn’t make him a criminal. It must be like Baresi-san said: I just caught a whiff of burning trash, or something similar, carried by the wind and my imagination did the rest. 

And for the orange-haired man’s behavior, I should just forget it. He was just some guy who loved music and played an invisible guitar while listening to it, people like that are a dime a dozen.

“Yeah, I’m good. I lost any appetite, but that can’t be helped I guess.” I reply, forcing a small smile on my face. “I could use something to freshen my throat, though.”

No good will come from getting involved in something that doesn’t concern me.

====

I know what I thought, and I stand my case, but somehow it seems I have not suffered enough and my resolve needed further testing, despite me having no idea what kind of purpose it would serve. After leaving the dinner with my wallet unspoiled, hearing about my incident both the bodybuilding cook and the owner refused to accept money and even gave me a bag of free Supplì as an apology, Baresi-san brought us to our destination for the afternoon: I remembered right, they are indeed catacombs.

And to reach them we followed the same direction the orange-haired man took when he left. 

So instead of distracting me with the sight of rows upon rows of ancient mortuaries this tour keeps me worried I’ll end up meeting that man again. Which for some reason I really don’t want to. It’s not because I have something against a perfect stranger, or because I’m afraid of smelling the same disgusting stench of burning despite the fact there is no wind blowing underground. It’s difficult to put into words, but I feel like I cannot bear to look at that man’s face.

“The Catacombs of Domitilla are one of the largest cemeteries in underground Rome. They originally were burial grounds set up on land belonging to the Domitilla family.” Baresi-san explains as we enter an almost completely bare chapel. There are no decorations beside the columns rising from the floor but ending before they reach the wooden ceiling: only two rows of pews and a pulpit at the end, a simple wooden cross set within the recess behind it, marks this as a place of worship. Not that I am an expert in Christian churches or anything, for all I know it’s missing something absolutely necessary to perform religious rites here, but it does have an air of quiet solemnity. This is not a place for a flashy ritual, but for contemplation and private praying. Fitting, since we’re above a cemetery.

“The catacombs are situated sixteen meters underground, with 15 kilometers of tunnels and more than 26.000 burials.” Our guide continues, his usually energetic tone turning somber and respectful. “They were actively used as a cemetery for five centuries, only to be rediscovered in 1593. Restorations are proceeding even today, but so far only twelve out of about 70 rooms have been restored, revealing both pagan and Christian inspired frescoes.”

15 kilometers. That’s, that’s a lot, and right under a highly populated city no less. I have read of places like the Yokoana catacombs and the Daisenryo Kofun in Osaka, but this goes even beyond that. This is a whole city of the dead under a city of the living. Even Kota seems to have calmed down, he’s barely fidgeting.

The entrance to the catacombs proper is right behind the chapel, down a long series of ancient stone stairs. There are other visitors present, but the majority are simply standing in front of the burials with their heads lowered and fingers folded together in prayer. Among the murals I see many figures taken from Christian holy books, but there are also scenes of ordinary life like a baker preparing bread and a farmer collecting grapes. I also see female figures with wings, which Baresi-san explains are representations of Spring and Summer, and characters from Greek mythology like Orpheus playing his lyre in front of birds, sheeps and other beasts. No idea who Orpheus is or what’s his deal. Well, besides that he was a musician. If after we leave I’m still curious I can just ask Junko, either she already knows or will not rest until she does so that she can lecture us about it.

I turn away from the fresco.

And the sound of strings being plucked reaches my ears, a few soft notes that nonetheless echo within my chest like the gong of a great bell.

I freeze, the blood within my veins turning into ice. That, that was just a ringtone right? Nothing more than a visitor forgetting to mute their phone, right?

The music comes back, now a full melody that drifts from far away. It is both austere and spirited at once, fast one moment and slow the next without any rhyme or reason, as if the performer only cares about pouring their everything into the music until they’re a hollowed husk. This is not music made to entertain the masses but a monument to the musician’s massive ego that stops at nothing, not even death, if it means becoming an unforgettable memory.

I should walk away quickly, or even leave the catacombs altogether.

Instead I find myself walking towards a side corridor, leaving my group behind. This is not due to a conscious decision, my body is just moving on its own. I know this is wrong, yet I cannot muster the will to stop. My soul is half a step out of sync with my body, the former trailing behind the latter... Or more accurately being dragged by it towards the music. I am Odysseus, and my trial of the Sirens is awaiting me.

Joy, more stuff I shouldn’t know and yet now I do.

I see a lone visitor with a sketchbook, intent on copying the mural of a shepard surrounded by sheeps. There’s a brief distortion in the air, like the one caused by the heat during very hot days, and now the drawer is barefoot and wearing a simple tunic. A simple drawing brush in hand, made with wood and animal hair, he collects dye from a small ceramic jar and draws on the still gray alcove.

A tripod lamp turns into a body wrapped up in linen, its family kneeling around it and praying to the Messiah to welcome the deceased’s soul in Heaven.

I pass by a couple of legionaries, their faces haggard as they discuss something I cannot hear. One of them notices me, his eyes widening as I am the very last person he expected to see here.

A draft coming from no apparent source blows away the dust of a thousand years, leaving behind a tunnel still smelling of freshly dug limestone. At the beginning it’s cold, but the more I move towards the source of the music the hotter the air becomes, until it’s almost suffocating. The burning stench is back, yet now it mixes with the limestone and something else: a tang of metal, leather, stone and human bodies being warmed up under the sun all blending together to form something that isn’t exactly pleasant, but still bearable if one finds a way to distract himself.

The tunnel ends and I find myself inside a large room, similar to the chapel at the beginning but much bigger. One end of the rectangular shape has been carved from the stone, the other is made out of bricks and a few windows let the sun light up the interior. The moment I spot someone else inside the spell that took hold of me finally breaks and I waste no time hiding behind a column, heart beating like crazy.

“Ma chérie, why do you resist so? Can’t you see we’re meant to be together?”

“Meant by who, Eudon? Don’t answer that, I would like to sleep tonight.”

The man who listened to music at the dinner and the woman I met at the museum. They’re facing each other, with the first sitting on a pew like he owns the place and the second standing, arms crossed and a venomous glare in her eyes. It’s not the first time I see someone trying to flirt with a girl only to be harshly rebuked, there’s nothing strange with that.

What makes me doubt my sanity, and is frankly the cherry on the cake, is twofold: the fire surrounding the man called Eudon and animated stone statues arranged in defensive formation between him and the woman. The flames have burned a perfect circle around Eudon, splitting pews in half and crackling over the floor despite lacking any discernible fuel. Those behind him rise drastically in height and spread out like curtains.

The stone statues could pass for simply elaborate sculptures if it wasn’t for them making small but noticeable movements. They’re shaped like ancient roman soldiers, wielding semi-cylindrical shields in one hand and a long spear with the other: the shields are aligned together at the front and top of their formation, the spears poking out from the gaps between them. Like the shell of a tortoise with the spines of a hedgehog. Taking a closer look, or as close as I dare without giving my hiding spot away, I notice their features are not very detailed. As if they were made in a hurry.

The girl sighs in exasperation, raising a hand to pull back her hair. Her eyes never leave Eudon, blinking sparingly and quickly. “Can you please go back to trying to kill me? I’m more used to that than being hit on.”

That’s horrible! Why doesn’t she warn the police if she has a dangerous stalker after her?! 

I look at the flames again and realize why the answer should be obvious.

“No no. That would be an utter waste, and also a travesty.” Eudon shakes his head with a dramatic flair as he stands up. The fingers of his right hand keep moving as if plucking invisible strings. “My beloved Caterina, please see reason. You are meant to marry a king! Non, an emperor! And you will find none as revered or as great as I.”

“That is one of the many reasons I want nothing to do with you, Eudon.” Caterina makes the face of one who just bit into a lemon, yet there is also pity in her gaze. “We are meant to skirt the border, not fully jump over it! Do you even hear your name when people say it, or is it all white noise when compared to the sound of your own delusions?”

“My name? My name is sung far and wide!” The crazed laugh that escapes his lips chills the blood in my veins. It’s not the stilted, awkward tittering of the deranged and the mentally ill, but the self-assured chortling of someone who is so sure of their convictions, believing wholeheartedly they alone know and understand the objective truth, that nothing can persuade them of the contrary. “The people clamor for my return, and my enemies fear my very shadow! I am an actor, poet, athlete and musician beyond compare, on par with Apollo himself!”

Eudon’s left arm moves up, as if holding something against his chest, while his right hand shifts just above it. Each movement of his fingers produces a spark, gathering together to form a U-shaped harp made entirely of compressed fire. A lyre, a part of my mind supplies. The flames that surround him grow in size, the wooden pews turning into ash almost instantly and the stone floor splintering with loud cracks. A veritable inferno is now swirling around him, beating and flaring in tune to his music.

“I answer to the name of Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus! Fifth Emperor of Rome, rightful successor of Claudius.” Eudon bombastically declares. “Nero Redivivus is now! Oh Poppaea, my Poppaea! I have come for you!”

“You called me Caterina not even five seconds ago!” She screams in frustration. “You truly are a lunatico!”

The flames surge forward, slamming into the stone soldiers like a tsunami over a beach. Their formation manages to endure, yet their shields and the limbs holding them are already starting to melt. The spears, by contrast, are nothing more than slag.

Caterina, despite the choking heat surely assaulting her, refuses to budge from her position or to break into a sweat. There is panic in her eyes, yet it’s held back by unwavering determination. With a thumb she presses one side of her silver ring, causing the top to unfurl into a small blade, then without hesitation uses it to cut open the palm of her right hand. The girl sweeps her arm in a large arc, causing droplets of her own blood to stain the ground before her. “I carry the name of Julia Domna Augusta! Mother of the Invincible Camps! Legionaries, form the testudo. Raise your pila. The one who stands before you is the enemy and he must be brought down!”

Shapes emerge from the ground, the blood spilled by Caterina fusing with the stone to form more soldiers, more legionaries. Some go to reinforce the shield formation, the rest raise their spears and hurl them in the air toward Eudon. The madman, gotta agree with Caterina on that one, merely plays more notes. Each one causes a fireball that collides with a spear and diverts its course.

An epic battle between living fire and stone statues is unfolding in front of my eyes, making me wonder just how hard I hit my head and why my brain decided to show me this of all things as I lay dying in a pool of my own blood. That’s the only explanation that makes sense, because the alternative is that my life just became an anime and it’s terrifying. No, I don’t care how many otaku disagree with me: anyone with more than two brain cells to rub together would say the same.

I need to leave. It doesn’t matter what’s going on between those two, or what dragged me here, I need to leave. Fantasy or not, I’m risking my life with every second I remain here.

But in the middle of stepping away from the column I’m using to hide my foot hits a raised section of the floor, making me lose balance and fall. Right on top of a piece of rubble, the thankfully not sharp shard digging into my side like the jab of a mean boxer. “GAH!” I scream out in pain, rolling away and holding the sore spot with both hands. When I open my eyes I realize with horror that the sound of fighting has stopped, and now both Eudon and Caterina are looking straight at me.

Oh shit. I’m so screwed.

“And who might this one be? A stray scurrying around in the hope of witnessing my magnificence?” Eudon is staring at me with condescending amusement, as if I’m a mischievous child who tried to set up a prank but messed up halfway before being discovered. He doesn’t stop playing his fire lyre, but the music is less intense now. “Dear Poppaea, is this one of yours?”

“Never saw this guy before.” She replies with a shrug, either lying or having completely forgotten my face in the last few hours. The auburn-haired woman appears disinterested in me, yet there’s something in the tightness of her expression that suggests the opposite. She’s keeping both me and Eudon within her field of vision, ring blade close to her palm. “Hey you, buzz off. This doesn’t concern you in the slightest.”

“My future wife is right. This is a very private moment you have intruded on, civis.” Eudon sighs dramatically, playing a few sorrowful notes. Thank you God, maybe I’m not screwed anymore. “Normally, trespassing has a specific punishment. But to commit such a crime against your Emperor? Nothing less than the death penalty will suffice.”

Fuck! I try to scramble back to my feet as fast as possible, but by the time I manage to do so a wave of the madman’s flames is but a few meters from me. There is no way I can dodge. Having seen what they can do, I hold no delusions that they will either incinerate me completely or inflict such horrifying burns that my survival will only be a matter of minutes. All I can do, no matter the screams of my survival instincts, is to stare my death in the face. Caterina is grimacing, regret flashing in her eyes along with the grim understanding there is nothing she can do to help me. Her stone soldiers are too far away to shield me, and throwing spears will do nothing to stop the flames.

Is this it? Is this my end? The end of Ikazuchi Osamu? After everything, I’m going to die burned to death by a madman with superpowers who thinks he’s some sort of ancient Roman emperor? They’ll never recover my body, people will probably think I escaped and spent the rest of my life as a hobo in a distant country.

Will my parents think the same?

I guess in a few seconds it will not matter anymore. The wave of flames leaps forward to engulf my body-

Only to be blown apart with an ear-splitting thunderclap.

“And who do you think you are, boy, to cast judgment without the presence of a Praetor?” I speak without meaning to, my mouth moving on its own. The heat and the burning stench are gone, replaced by the smell of ozone and a sort of persistent but oddly pleasant prickling over my entire right arm. My head turns to stare at a gobsmacked Eudon, my eyebrows narrowing and lips turning into a disappointed frown. “So boorish. Is this what became of my dear Julia and Tiberius’ descendancy? A manchild that openly flaunts his power as if he’s owned the entire world just because of his birth? How utterly disappointing.”

“You! You’re another Returned!” To his credit the redhead recovers quickly, schooling both his body language and expression even as regards me with caution. His flames have pulled back, forming a thick ring around his feet. Caterina looks surprised too, but less so than Eudon and it lasts for only a few moments: she’s eying both of us with wariness, as if planning to make a break for it at the first opportunity. Honestly I cannot blame her, I would like to do the same if I could move as I wish. “Introduce yourself! What is your name?”

“Do not think you can give me orders, boy!” My body laughs mockingly. “The throne you sat on, the laurel wreath you wore, the very power you wielded! Just as all roads lead to Rome, everything you possessed led back to me!”

“What are you- Wait. Before you mentioned Julia and Tiberius’ descendancy...” His eyes widen comically. “It cannot be... the First?!”

“Ah, so you’re capable of at least that much. But with all the hints I gave you it’s not really worthy of praise.” I find myself giving the two a theatrical bow, my eyes never leaving Eudon, before straightening up and raising my right arm. Palm facing upward. “I answer to the name of Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus! Divi Iuli Filius, glory to my Divine Father! I am the Princeps Civitatis!”

As I speak those words a feeling of irresistible, bursting power flows through my body, starting from my right arm. My limbs are light as a feather, my heart thumping powerfully like the engine of a race car. I feel like I can do anything, all of my previous doubts and fears cast aside like worthless junk. I look at this whelping infant, the one that ended my dynasty, and wonders what madness possessed the Praetorians to make them support such an undeserving candidate for the throne. Clearly the quality of recruiting standards have sharply gone down after my passing. “Now then, oh great-great-grandson of mine, I am listening. Explain why you were bothering this young lady, and most importantly why you attacked me.”

“Ave great ancestor! I mean no offense, please believe my words! Was I aware of your noble identity beforehand I would never have dared to raise my hand against you.” Nero puts his clenched right fist over his heart. “It is all but a truly regrettable misunderstanding. I was just putting on a show of affection for my Poppaea, to demonstrate the earnestness of my love, and lost myself in the fugue of creative passion.”

“So you say. Yet, my eyes saw and my ears heard more than a few inconsistencies. To start with, I truly hope Rome’s degeneracy didn’t grow to the point where burning people alive is now considered standard courting practice. That would incense me, and not a little.” I step forward, moving closer to the auburn-haired woman. Putting a hand on one of the surviving pews for support I give her a respectful nod. By the way she guides those simulacrums I can tell she has first-hand experience with how legionaries fight, odd knowledge for a woman to have but Livia once remarked wisdom is a weapon fit for both genders, and she was often right about many things. “Please forgive the necessity to involve you in such troublesome matters Domina, but I would like to once again hear your name from your very lips.”

Unlike the infant she adapts quickly to the changed situation and addresses me without needless platitudes. “Ave Princeps. The name bestowed to me is Julia Domna, born in Emesa from the House of Sampsigeramus. My father was Julius Bassianus, high priest of divine Elagabalus.”

“My thanks, Julia Domna. I met your ancestor Iamblichus I and his son, both were great and honorable men.” I turn back to Nero and smile in a way that is just two steps short of mocking. “As you can see, my foolish twice-removed grandson, there is no one by the name of Poppaea here. Thus, your actions are quite troubling. Or rather, I dare say they’re unsettling.”

Of course, I hardly need more proof that this descendance of mine has been blessed by Dionysus. A problem that, I believe, was also present with his predecessor.

Truly a pity. It turned out Tiberius may not have been the most inspired of choices as successors go, but in my defense I trusted nobody else to do a good job in my absence. Clearly I needed to also craft plans and contingencies for the successors of my successor, a useful lesson for the future.

But first, I must stop this whelping infant from being even more of an embarrassment to the family. “So, I would like you to explain. And, please, try to use something more original than ‘there must be some sort of misunderstanding’.”

Seconds trickle by. I watch as all sorts of interesting emotions and thoughts, many of them clashing violently with each other, war within his eyes. Just like an experienced Senator his mind is working fast to find an acceptable course of action to both protect himself and advance his goals, possessing just enough logic that it cannot be immediately dismissed. 

Except a true Senator would never let someone else, especially their rivals, see their inner conflict: their expression and eyes would be like a cold mirror, giving away nothing and beguiling observers with phantoms conjured by their own minds.

So it’s with an extra dose of disappointment that I observe this mildly entertaining spectacle come to a close, the tightening of Nero’s features and the growing snarl on his lips telling me he chose the saddest one among a list of only wrong answers. “I think, great ancestor, that as someone who already forfeited all privileges and responsibilities this is none of your business. Your opinion on the matter is duly noted and summarily discarded.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Julia Domna mutters under her breath as the petulant infant starts playing the lyre again at a frenzied, mad pace. Within his rampaging flames I see the faces twisted in agony of men, women and children from all paths of life. Their lives tragically cut short before they could put them to good use for the glory of Rome. Unsightly. Unsightly. How unsightly.

“My descendant, you chose poorly.” I raise a hand, power gathering at the tips of my fingers. Quoting my Divine Father would be appropriately poetic I suppose, yet the mere thought of comparing this family’s embarrassment to Brutus fills me with a deep loathing.

“Does it matter?” Nero scoffs. Next to me Julia Domna is reading her stone constructs, it’s not a legion but having legionaries on my side it’s always comforting. “After all, there can be only one victor.”

I hum in a noncommittal way. Was this a foregone conclusion since the start? Maybe. But those are thoughts for later, now there's something more important to hold my attention.

An especially harsh note sends a fireball screaming towards me. I flick my fingers, and with another thunderclap the blow is swatted aside like an annoying fly. A holy blessing dances over my skin, taking the form of divine lightning-

“Someone calls a medic!”

My breath hitches. I feel as if I’m naked under the cold rain, my whole body trembling uncontrollably. Splotches of pure white appear in my vision, staining the world in a terrible emptiness.

“He’s not breathing anymore!”

Bile fills my throat as I look down in horror at my arm, arcs of electricity traveling over my now bloodless skin. My ears are filled with the sound of thunder, too close too close too close!

“Don’t look Osamu! Don’t look!”

And then it’s not my arm anymore, but a still smoking stump with pieces of burned bones poking out of the blackened surface, so brittle it turns into dust at the smallest touch.

“Oh God, the smell!”

A wordless wail of pure terror erupts from my throat. The lightning is still there, crawling towards the rest of my body like a zombie craving for the flesh of the living. I flail with all my strength, trying desperately to remove this foreign thing that doesn’t belong to my body.

“Uncle! Uncleee!”

I cry, because the smoke stings my eyes. I puke, because the smell is unbearable. I weep and scream and beg for this nightmare to end. But it doesn’t end, it cannot end because Uncle-

“Porca puttana!” I feel a pair of slim but strong arms wrapping around my torso and pulling up my body. Then I gag when one of those arms shifts under my chin and pushes against my jugular, half-threatening to choke me as their owner drags me somewhere else. “Of all times, you had to lose it right now?”

Paradoxically the lack of oxygen to the brain partially clears my vision even as I feel the tendrils of unconsciousness slowly swallowing me, allowing me to catch a glimpse of Eudon battling the stone legionaries. The whole room is now enveloped in flames, the columns and one wall having collapsed while the ceiling looks ready to be next.

Yet his gaze is firmly locked on me and something just slightly above my shoulders. Despite the fact it’s like the whole world is burning around him, the orange-haired man stands unafraid and untouched as he plays his gruesome music. His cold, pale gray eyes swirling with madness and wrath but also enough intelligence to turn both into a scalpel ready to deliver a surgical strike against his enemies.

At that moment I understand a single but absolute fact: this person will not rest until he has killed me.

And then I know no more.