William Vaughan was the Lord Mayor of London some time in the 13th Century. He compiled an account of his pilgrimage to Rome in 1205, with the help of his two companions. The account is of much interest to historians, filled with fantastic tales of ancient magic and narrow encounters with death.
Little else is known about the man, save that he was somewhat of a wandering vagrant and a wayward vagabond before saving the life of King Richard I. He was also said to have had an intense hatred for King John.
William awoke to the rising of the sun, a clear day, and full of birds in the air. A good omen, he was sure. He departed from the inn post-haste to make it to the cathedral. He received penance and the Eucharist from Archbishop Boniface, and being granted a pilgrim’s staff, made his way towards Dover.
Ioannes and Caracatus knocked on the door. “Huh, look at that. No reply!” Ioannes said. “I guess we’ll just go ho-“
“Oh no you don’t,” Caracatus snapped. “We are going in there and we are going to give the invitation.” Ioannes grumbled slightly, but he knew he had to deliver this message.
Caracatus banged on the door. “OPEN THIS DOOR!” He shouted. “WE ARE MEMBERS OF THE IMPERIAL HOUSEHOLD, HERE TO A DELIVER A MESSAGE TO SENATOR LEMONS– I mean SENATOR PUBLIUS CURTIUS PROBUS!” No answer came forth. “I guess he’s not here.” Caracatus began to turn around.
“No, nuh-uh. You’re going to try again, since you were so adamant before,” Ioannes told him. The slave gave him a glare that seemed to last an eternity, but he relented soon enough.
“SENATOR PUBLIUS CURTIUS PROBUS! WE COME BEARING A MESSAGE FROM THE EMPEROR. WE–”
Caracatus was cut off by the rushing of the door, and the words of a servant.
There was once a soldier in the Praetorian Guard named Decimus. Little is known of him. Records of the man are scant. All that is known is that in the reign of Paternus, a soldier named Decimus was promoted at a young age by the Prefect Fraternus to the post of Centurion, then later on to Tribune. No one knows what happened to this Decimus after the violent end of Paternus’ reign.
He was said to be an upstanding, loyal soldier, and one of the few Christians to rise to such a high rank before the reign of Constantine.
Young Decimus looked around to see if there was anyone around. No one. Good. He closed the door and took out a small scroll from his satchel. He began to read:
… Respondens autem IHS dixit ad eos, Numquam hoc legistis quod fecit David quando esurit ipse et qui cum eo erat? Intro ibit in domum Dei et panes propositionis manducavit et dedit et qui cum erant quibus non licebat manducare si non solis sacerdotibus?..
Suddenly, he heard a knock on the door. Scrambling to hide away the parchment, he managed to tuck it under the pillow before weakly answering, “Enter.” Inside walked one of his fellow soldiers.
Before, she was a nameless beggar on the streets of Deva. Now, she is well on her way to becoming one of the most powerful sorceresses in all of Britain.
Aradia, named by her mentor Ulpia for the mythical witch of Tuscan legend, was but a poor girl on the streets of Roman Chester. Abandoned as a child by her Romano-British parents, she taught herself Latin by hiding by the window of the nearby school. Life as a forager was hard, but she has found much kindness from the soldiers of Legio XX Valeria Victrix, whose main base is in the town. Mostly, she was much enamored by a young yet popular soldier named Davidis.
The girl first learned of her magical abilities when she, upon accident, cast a spell in her newly-learned Latin. She set fire to a whole storage of hay, but luckily escaped before she could be caught.
Aradia knows little of Ulpia, though. Where did she come from? How did she gain mastery of the arcane arts? All she knows is that she is a kind woman, and one to be trusted.
It was the dead of night. A young girl looked around for signs of life. There were few. All she could see was the carriage taking the young soldier away. She had always liked this soldier. He was a reserved young man who would always take kindly to the people, especially to her, in her poverty. He always offered a place for her at his table when she grew hungry, a place to sleep when the nights grew dark, a place to stay when the weather grew unbearable. He was always kind, and now they were taking him away to his home, the far-off City of which he always spoke. She would probably never see him again. Nevertheless, the girl held back the tears. She knew she had somewhere to be.
It was another normal day for Fefera. Her mother was out in the early morning, negotiating with the clientele. Her father was out by mid-day, accompanied by Eridanos. She was left all to her lonesome, with just a handful of guards and a few servants. As usual, she had her lessons with the tutors her father had hired, which were boring, and the training with the warriors her mother had hired, which intrigued her far more.
Ever since they were exiled, it had always been this same routine. Five years had gone by with no trouble from the outside world. Five years had gone by since the narrow escape from Rome and the burning streets of Brundisium. Five years of imperial responsibility. Five years without incident. And it would all have been unbearable…
