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Description

Falling into the clutches of Neapolis slaver - after enjoying an exhilarative month of oarage and scanty meal and punching and cursing and other amenities of galley hospitality - young Brennus found himself on this island of marble and copper. One grows and battens on another. Marble of haughty polises and harbours and copper of miles-deep mines where, as he believed, he would be buried alive.

But he was wrong - instead the market, the slaver took him to a silent shrine within a suburb built from crude stones. Here he passed Brennus to a bald priest waiting for them. This one had iron fingers in spite of looking so old that his wrinkles got wrinkles. He grabbed the boy by the chin and pulled his face up into the light.

"What you devote to Lord The Giver is what your soul tells you - not a pity to throw out", he said at last, "With each passing year it gets poorer and poorer. He glares at me like a wolf. What hole did you pull this Gallic cub from?"

"From one called Neapolis, you know," the slaver replied mockingly, "Don't be so peevish. The boy, although born a slave, grew up in a decent house. He is literate and speaks both Latin and Greek. And can even recite some insolent verse from Vergil's or Aristofan's ones if you give him a good hiding."

The priest cast a sarcastic eye on Brennus' back and shoulders and nodded:

"I see you're an admirer of good poetry."

"Well, sort of defiant slave, I admit, but those bruises will soon disappear. He's a tough lad. Strong and nimble! He will prove himself worthy there, below when the very day come. After all, who cares if the trophy of Taurus..."

"Do not call old names!"

"My apologies," the slaver made a dutiful bow, "This is the old land and the old names themselves are on the tip of one's tongue... Anyway, you have what you have and I bid you farewell, Your Eminence."

"You wait now," the priest command Brennus when slaver left them, "I'll send someone to look after you. You will be fed and bathed. And you will stay here, atop, until the time comes..."

"What time?" Brennus forced himself to ask. His voice sounded husky, partly out of long silence, but also because he was of full misgivings. He had seen familiar things on the way here. The columns, tributed to Caesar Nerva and Caesar Trajanus and cobbled squares, the arches and basilicas, and triumphal friezes with eagles and chariots. Like Janus, the city had two faces. One, exposed to the sea and imperial triremes at anchorage, was marble and Roman. But the further north they went, the second went through, and it was the copper mask of bull.

"What time?"

"As has been said," the answer was, "This is the old land. We are not in a hurry here."

Brennus had heard already that it always was an ancient land. Older then Empire and older then Neapolis (as rightly so, since Neapolis itself means the "New City"). Humans settled here ages ago for the sake of their god, Jupiter the Thunderer, born, if someone still believes the tales, amidst these hills and vales. That's exactly why the land abounds in copper ore, old Callixtus said him in a past life. The Mother-Earth was bleeding with copper when newborn thunder wounded it at the dawn of time. He was a mystagogue and scholar - the last owner of Brennus - and sought the legendary method for turning copper into the gold. But much earlier he stumbled upon the contiguous method for turning gold into the wine and, as is common with scholars, was too carried away by this new discovery. The science is a costly affair and still more for one who has inherited just the stunted olive garden with half a dozen slaves. At least, in that spirit Callixtus bleated while subscribing the bill of selling.

"I see you devoted yourself utterly to a cause, Your Omniscientness", the slaver said in a suave voice, keeping a wary eye on Callixtuses trembling hands, "Owning such useless property like a boy is a burden for genuine wiseman, so you've made the right decision to get rid of him. Speaking of which, bestow me your grace and let me help you to dispose of the other stuff. I mean those old men pottering around the garden. I will buy them from you at a loss, and you will choose young, strong slaves in the market. The concern for philosophers is a holy duty of every educated man in our age of ignorance and despondency! But if you doubt my care of you..."

"Оh, no!", Callixtuses exclaimed, being in a sort of fever, "Such a generous offer! It's very fortunate for me to meet an aware person like you - possessing both fine mind and culture! As Aristotle said, there again: practical wisdom and excellence of the moral character are very closely united. Now I see it's your portrait! Let's unseal the amphora of Falernum, my soul mate, and talk things through!"

Brennus, who was listening them gloomily, could not stand it any longer and said through his teeth:

"Master, put those donkey's ears down! With the money he has in mind, you won’t even buy a cat!"

And for this, he immediately got such a shattering smack, that made his ears ring.

"I'm your master now, whelp", the slaver murmured with no change of good-humoured expression, "Better get used to it, until I sell you to some miner in Cyprus."

"But..."

"So, you're sailing to Cyprus", Callixtuses listlessly stated, his head still in the clouds, "What a fantastic opportunity to travel the world at your age, boy. Hmm. As Aristotle said, life requires movement and so on..."

"Hell with you, then, old fart!" - the youth thought instead of farewell - "Why should I care if this scammer diddle you to the grave?"

But now he remembered the old Callixtus almost fondly. A week went by and a second one. No one spoke with him. His skin became smooth and even by the bathings and rubdowns with a sort of fragrant salve. His muscles got stronger by a lot of hearty dinners. He began to study the height of the walls in the courtyard and the juniper bushes growing along them. As well as the solidity of chain he was never without. One day he decided - it's time! And that was it - at the noon the old priest sent for him...

They wore strange masks and togas. They were singing a strange anthem while descended downstairs - deeper and deeper, as their own voices were getting. They anointed Brennus's forehead with olive oil as though he was the Princeps Iuventutem himself - faced the Senate and empty throne. But there was no throne in this chamber - only a sacrificial burner he was chained to. Then they left him alone, lowering the massive bronze door.

The chamber was deep beneath the ground but it seemed a bit of daylight still entering here through the secret array of mirrors. With the burner, it was enough for Brennus to look around. There was a pillared gate and then a long passageway, leading to somewhere and shrouded in shadows. Every time the draft blew cold, Brennus was shivering despite the burning flame and clothes he had worn (if you could call such ornate scrap of nothing a "clothes"). And there was a rack with a set of armour which no one wears anymore and a leaf-shaped sword. But to reach the weapon his chain was lacking just a few links - and, whatever it was, nobody's much good at sword-waving with his hands tied behind. Brennus tried to kick the burner down to win some inches of freedom but with no avail except skin burns. Well, at least, rocking the burner, he had figured out that it was attached to some gear, rotating underfloor, but the mechanism was locked. So there was no chance to slipping the ties other than thrusting them into the fire with his own hands like some Mucius Scaevola of today's crazy world. And on top of all of the bulling, he had to manage to do this standing with his back to the flame. Brennus was a resolute youth however thinking through such madness he hesitated. But at that precise moment when he was almost resolved to injure himself, two things had happened. At first, with a loud snap the rotation gear had been unblocked and the burner lightly turned around its axis, as if hinting at a way to get the freedom. At second, the distant bellow of rage shook the air in a passageway. As yet so distant, as far as it had ran up here from the other half of underworld, but meanwhile so relentless as if someone or something uttering it vowed to cross this underworld entirely if only to rip Brennus' throat out.

In a daze, the boy stood and gazed steadily into the dark passageway with a mixture of despair and contempt and horror...

All characters depicted are 18+ y.o.

Description

Falling into the clutches of Neapolis slaver - after enjoying an exhilarative month of oarage and scanty meal and punching and cursing and other amenities of galley hospitality - young Brennus found himself on this island of marble and copper. One grows and battens on another. Marble of haughty polises and harbours and copper of miles-deep mines where, as he believed, he would be buried alive.

But he was wrong - instead the market, the slaver took him to a silent shrine within a suburb built from crude stones. Here he passed Brennus to a bald priest waiting for them. This one had iron fingers in spite of looking so old that his wrinkles got wrinkles. He grabbed the boy by the chin and pulled his face up into the light.

"What you devote to Lord The Giver is what your soul tells you - not a pity to throw out", he said at last, "With each passing year it gets poorer and poorer. He glares at me like a wolf. What hole did you pull this Gallic cub from?"

"From one called Neapolis, you know," the slaver replied mockingly, "Don't be so peevish. The boy, although born a slave, grew up in a decent house. He is literate and speaks both Latin and Greek. And can even recite some insolent verse from Vergil's or Aristofan's ones if you give him a good hiding."

The priest cast a sarcastic eye on Brennus' back and shoulders and nodded:

"I see you're an admirer of good poetry."

"Well, sort of defiant slave, I admit, but those bruises will soon disappear. He's a tough lad. Strong and nimble! He will prove himself worthy there, below when the very day come. After all, who cares if the trophy of Taurus..."

"Do not call old names!"

"My apologies," the slaver made a dutiful bow, "This is the old land and the old names themselves are on the tip of one's tongue... Anyway, you have what you have and I bid you farewell, Your Eminence."

"You wait now," the priest command Brennus when slaver left them, "I'll send someone to look after you. You will be fed and bathed. And you will stay here, atop, until the time comes..."

"What time?" Brennus forced himself to ask. His voice sounded husky, partly out of long silence, but also because he was of full misgivings. He had seen familiar things on the way here. The columns, tributed to Caesar Nerva and Caesar Trajanus and cobbled squares, the arches and basilicas, and triumphal friezes with eagles and chariots. Like Janus, the city had two faces. One, exposed to the sea and imperial triremes at anchorage, was marble and Roman. But the further north they went, the second went through, and it was the copper mask of bull.

"What time?"

"As has been said," the answer was, "This is the old land. We are not in a hurry here."

Brennus had heard already that it always was an ancient land. Older then Empire and older then Neapolis (as rightly so, since Neapolis itself means the "New City"). Humans settled here ages ago for the sake of their god, Jupiter the Thunderer, born, if someone still believes the tales, amidst these hills and vales. That's exactly why the land abounds in copper ore, old Callixtus said him in a past life. The Mother-Earth was bleeding with copper when newborn thunder wounded it at the dawn of time. He was a mystagogue and scholar - the last owner of Brennus - and sought the legendary method for turning copper into the gold. But much earlier he stumbled upon the contiguous method for turning gold into the wine and, as is common with scholars, was too carried away by this new discovery. The science is a costly affair and still more for one who has inherited just the stunted olive garden with half a dozen slaves. At least, in that spirit Callixtus bleated while subscribing the bill of selling.

"I see you devoted yourself utterly to a cause, Your Omniscientness", the slaver said in a suave voice, keeping a wary eye on Callixtuses trembling hands, "Owning such useless property like a boy is a burden for genuine wiseman, so you've made the right decision to get rid of him. Speaking of which, bestow me your grace and let me help you to dispose of the other stuff. I mean those old men pottering around the garden. I will buy them from you at a loss, and you will choose young, strong slaves in the market. The concern for philosophers is a holy duty of every educated man in our age of ignorance and despondency! But if you doubt my care of you..."

"Оh, no!", Callixtuses exclaimed, being in a sort of fever, "Such a generous offer! It's very fortunate for me to meet an aware person like you - possessing both fine mind and culture! As Aristotle said, there again: practical wisdom and excellence of the moral character are very closely united. Now I see it's your portrait! Let's unseal the amphora of Falernum, my soul mate, and talk things through!"

Brennus, who was listening them gloomily, could not stand it any longer and said through his teeth:

"Master, put those donkey's ears down! With the money he has in mind, you won’t even buy a cat!"

And for this, he immediately got such a shattering smack, that made his ears ring.

"I'm your master now, whelp", the slaver murmured with no change of good-humoured expression, "Better get used to it, until I sell you to some miner in Cyprus."

"But..."

"So, you're sailing to Cyprus", Callixtuses listlessly stated, his head still in the clouds, "What a fantastic opportunity to travel the world at your age, boy. Hmm. As Aristotle said, life requires movement and so on..."

"Hell with you, then, old fart!" - the youth thought instead of farewell - "Why should I care if this scammer diddle you to the grave?"

But now he remembered the old Callixtus almost fondly. A week went by and a second one. No one spoke with him. His skin became smooth and even by the bathings and rubdowns with a sort of fragrant salve. His muscles got stronger by a lot of hearty dinners. He began to study the height of the walls in the courtyard and the juniper bushes growing along them. As well as the solidity of chain he was never without. One day he decided - it's time! And that was it - at the noon the old priest sent for him...

They wore strange masks and togas. They were singing a strange anthem while descended downstairs - deeper and deeper, as their own voices were getting. They anointed Brennus's forehead with olive oil as though he was the Princeps Iuventutem himself - faced the Senate and empty throne. But there was no throne in this chamber - only a sacrificial burner he was chained to. Then they left him alone, lowering the massive bronze door.

The chamber was deep beneath the ground but it seemed a bit of daylight still entering here through the secret array of mirrors. With the burner, it was enough for Brennus to look around. There was a pillared gate and then a long passageway, leading to somewhere and shrouded in shadows. Every time the draft blew cold, Brennus was shivering despite the burning flame and clothes he had worn (if you could call such ornate scrap of nothing a "clothes"). And there was a rack with a set of armour which no one wears anymore and a leaf-shaped sword. But to reach the weapon his chain was lacking just a few links - and, whatever it was, nobody's much good at sword-waving with his hands tied behind. Brennus tried to kick the burner down to win some inches of freedom but with no avail except skin burns. Well, at least, rocking the burner, he had figured out that it was attached to some gear, rotating underfloor, but the mechanism was locked. So there was no chance to slipping the ties other than thrusting them into the fire with his own hands like some Mucius Scaevola of today's crazy world. And on top of all of the bulling, he had to manage to do this standing with his back to the flame. Brennus was a resolute youth however thinking through such madness he hesitated. But at that precise moment when he was almost resolved to injure himself, two things had happened. At first, with a loud snap the rotation gear had been unblocked and the burner lightly turned around its axis, as if hinting at a way to get the freedom. At second, the distant bellow of rage shook the air in a passageway. As yet so distant, as far as it had ran up here from the other half of underworld, but meanwhile so relentless as if someone or something uttering it vowed to cross this underworld entirely if only to rip Brennus' throat out.

In a daze, the boy stood and gazed steadily into the dark passageway with a mixture of despair and contempt and horror...

All characters depicted are 18+ y.o.