For the Eyes of History, That They May Bleed

21 August

18^th year of the Reign of Constantine Augustus

Ploratus, son of Balatrus

Seguilavi, Gallia

I write today in mourning.  I have lost something far greater than a father or mother, far more substantial than a brother-in-arms, far more debilitating than a child.  I write not for my family, nor for my comrades, nor for my country; I write that history might someday look upon my words and realize the nature of the crime perpetrated upon my people by the whimsical and political motivations of mad men.  No audience exists for the eulogy I deliver today.  I pray that one will when the veils of presence are lifted by the gentle hands of the future.

The news was delivered by a boy on horseback who had ridden for four days without rest, and for many more than that without benefit of home.  He had been charged with the impossible task of declaring to fully one-fifth of Gallia the words of the Emperor, and to do so in one hundred days.  It was on the ninety-eighth day of his journey that he arrived in Seguilavi; upon seeing his face, cheek bones protruding, eyes hollowed and without light, and hearing his declaration, I saw in this messenger boy the last vestiges of what I knew to be Rome.  The faded finery of his vestments was worthy of weeping in itself.  Tatters were all that remained of what was once a testament to Roman magnificence.  As he dismounted his steed – or rather, fell from his malnourished mare – the fragile structure of underdeveloped muscle and bone beneath his riding cloak was revealed in his collapse.  My wife and I dragged him into our home while he deliriously delivered his proclamation, which we had initially ascribed to his severe state of exhaustion. 

To our surprise, and consternation, the boy remained vehement in his mission even after a night’s rest and the benefit of a meal.  I mention above the impossibility of the boy’s task; this sense of accepting the impossible has apparently permeated our once great Empire.  The boy’s message was that the Emperor has declared Rome a Christian Empire, embracing that religion that so happily embraces the impossible itself.

As I write this, I hope with all my heart that the idea of a Christian Roman Empire hits your ears, dear reader, with the same awkwardness and unpleasantness with which my pen bears witness to it.  I hope that this scroll stands as an artifact of absurdity.  I fear that neither will be true when hands other than mine uncover it some day.

My wife wept; I must confess a desire to do the same.  Here, in this man-child’s words, was the echo of our Emperor’s carefully calculated decision, made with all the thought in the world regarding his own position and none regarding his loyal citizens.  He has appeased the cultists at the expense of the rest of us.  He is a traitor to Rome.

You understand, of course, why my audience for this writing must be the future.  These words that fall readily and willingly onto the parchment can never fall from my lips as long as I value my life.

But there must be evidence – evidence that the abandonment of Rome’s great pantheon did not go unnoticed and unmourned by all.  When the great Gods do mete out their punishment, let them know that we did not all turn our backs on them so callously and casually.  We did not all accept this ridiculous notion of one god, and a god made man at that. 

Here, I eulogize those whom the Emperor has declared dead in his hubris.  Mighty Jupiter, fair Juno, wrathful Neptune, enchanting Diana, dark and cold Pluto, powerful Mars – all the deities who reign still in the heavens, beyond the touch of Man’s petty laws – know that you are not forgotten!  You who brought us the rising sun, who turned the wheel of the seasons, who sheltered us in life and death – we still stand indebted to you!  When time falls heavily enough upon the land to crack open our tombs, it is to you we will look with the eyes of our second lives.  I only pray that you will look back with favor upon those who remember your names.

I commit this testament to the ground, to be exhumed when the face of the world is far different than it is today, and when, I hope, reason and sanity have crept back into the minds of men.