A hand lit a candle and in the darkness a flame illuminated two beautiful golden eyes, the vividness of which is unparalleled today. Varuclezia raised her quill and ran her hand through her long emerald hair, and with those two eyes she kept her gaze fixed on the paper in front of her. She held the quill up, ready to write, then raised it to her lips. How to begin? That is certainly an important question! She set the quill down and the ink began to flow.
It all began long ago, in a time only the gods could remember. There was the Hercynian Forest: its vastness, untouched by the world and immemorial in birth, surpassed the wonders of an almost immortal destiny. The hills met and lifted the roots of the trees, where the trees wrestled with each other and their branches arched, fighting for the little space and light.
This forest was so vast that it would take days to cross its northern borders, and months to cross its eastern ones, while animals never seen or heard inhabited it. Giant deer grazed beneath the foliage of the trees, and birds shone between the branches, bright as fires in the night. But its greatness came from the nymphs and satyrs who had made it their home.
They had built their kingdom there, digging beneath the roots and shaping the treetops. The branches bent to their will in strange and unusual shapes. Plants and animals not native to this world began to spread through these forests, some with bright natures, others with dark and blasphemous ones.
Precious gems and stones were worked in ways never conceived by the human mind. Fey things were plentiful in those days: now they flourish only in the legends of men who so easily forget what should not be forgotten.
Varuclezia raised her quill and inadvertently brought it to her lips again. Perhaps a little too pompous? No matter! After all, we are here to have fun reading stories about nymphs and dragons, thought Varuclezia. She put the pen down and the ink flowed again.
But not everyone forgets, and among them are those who, with curious eyes, dig between the cold earth and the warm papers that, through their letters and maps, make the hearts of young and old dream.
Among them was Marfisa, who longed most of all to rediscover the heart of the forest of Hercynia: its immense halls, its swords of fey steel and its goblets of unbreakable glass.
Marfisa's beauty was incomparable. She was as beautiful as the nymph's statues that adorn the squares of the empire. Rare and expensive gifts poured in from thousands of suitors from the farthest lands. Even Pandracon, lord and ruler of the distant kingdoms of Alania and Hyperborea, came to pay his respects.
But Marfisa's pride would not be so easily broken, for she had sworn that her heart would never yield to Cupid, nor was Pandracon a ruler accustomed to refusal and denial. This great king, who ruled the lands of the north beyond the Riphaean Mountains, was a ruler so mighty in realm, state and wealth, and so powerful in person, that all the world esteemed nothing.
And just as it happens to those great lords who want exactly what they cannot have, and the more difficult it is to get the thing they want, the more they expose their kingdoms to great dangers, so this king of Alania and Hyperborea coveted only Marfisa. So he gathered men in arms from all his dominions, knowing full well that he could not buy her with money or promises, and decided to cross the land of Scythia and invade Rome.
It is said that he chose as many as one hundred and fifty thousand foot and horsemen from among his people and his vassals. But Pandracon did not think of using them, for he himself boasted that he could fight the emperor Volusius and all his legions alone, to have the hand of his daughter.
Let's leave him alone for now. He goes to Rome alone, without waiting for the armies he has so painstakingly assembled. Let's go back to Rome to the Emperor Volusius, who is reviewing his great dignitaries, for every duke, count, consul and senator has presented himself to him for the reception in honour of the gladiatorial games of Mars. All the guests would attend, except the beautiful Marfisa, who preferred to dine alone, in her own room, with a good glass of wine.
Varuclezia stretched out her arms, smiling. The beginning of the story was not bad, but the time had come to put down the pen for good and continue writing without interruption.
The crystal goblet caught the light of the fire and scattered it into the corners of the room, while Marfisa Ulpia Vopisca swirled it between her fingers. It was exquisitely crafted: a work of art, like everything that came out of the famous glassworks of Aquileia, the gateway from the Adriatic to the Hercynian Forest.
Such a simple pleasure to dine on finely crafted tableware. Goblets like this adorned the tables of the king of kings of Persia, one the table of the lord of Kusana, another the distant tables of the rulers of Serica.
Serica... the land where ambitious merchants travelled to buy precious silk from the Seri, while the Seri bought at great expense from Rome miserable glassware that even the poorest plebeians could afford.
In a way, it was almost amusing to think that when the Romans travelled east to buy rare silk, they sold ordinary glass. Who knows how the king of Serica would have reacted to the discovery that glass could be made by burning sand at high temperatures? Solid sand in exchange for silk... but to be honest, no one in Rome knew how silk was made, perhaps it was an equally ridiculous product.
Marfisa took a sip of wine and looked back at the goblet. It wasn't the glass that came from the east that interested her, but the one that came from the north, from the forest of Hercynia: the mysterious glass that was more transparent than crystal, that didn't break when it fell and that changed colour in the light.
Thanks to the hard work of the Greek and Egyptian alchemists, the Roman glassworks had learnt how to reproduce a transparent and unbreakable glass like that of the nymphs. Others had learnt how to make it change colour, but from time to time, in the collections of some rich patrons or in the hands of some rude shepherd who had unearthed them, appeared a goblet made centuries ago by who knows which satyr and with who knows which magical properties.
Some of these were works of art worthy of the best artists but were merely human creations sold to some inexperienced collector. Others had a kind of fey nature whose effects not even the most skilled craftsman had been able to reproduce.
News of these objects sometimes reached Marfisa's ears, as well as those of the plebeians, but more often they were stories without foundation. Stories born from the fear of ordinary people about everything that came from a world that did not always seem to respect the rules of nature.
Who knows what she would have done if she had discovered that the piece of glass she was holding was of fey origin? She would certainly have been happy, but how would she have reacted? Would she keep it in her collection in awe, or would she use its power to bring about a grisly end, as so often happens in theatrical tragedy?
The imperial palaces themselves were filled with works of art collected over the centuries. It was said that some of them were fey, but no one had ever dared to try them on their own skin. Her father himself had owned a few before he became emperor and handled them with the same care as a blade.
Even Pandracon had offered her gifts that were said to be of fey origin, but in the end, they were nothing more than stone carvings and reindeer antlers that, however beautiful, had nothing magical about them.
Surely Pandracon had found himself dimensioned when he visited Rome: he who thought himself king of the world had discovered himself lord of lands of mud and ice, whose most precious gifts were nothing more than small local curiosities.
The light filtered through the light burgundy of the goblet, painting Marfisa's arms the colour of flame. She almost felt as if she were being embraced by a loving figure wrapped in red, but Marfisa showed little interest in the colour. She held the goblet in her hand and gazed into its depths, intent on discovering the secrets hidden within the glass.
A sudden cool breeze pushed the curtains back. Marfisa got up, still holding the goblet, and went to the window to close it.
She looked down into the valley where the Circus Maximus lay dimly lit by the moon, and across the wide cobbled street that stretched before her. Beyond both was the Aventine Hill, where merchants from every corner of the Empire unloaded their wares. Surely one of them was unloading some crates at this very moment, perhaps containing items they hoped to sell to her as coming from the Hercynian Forest.
Suddenly, she noticed a horseman moving along the road at great speed. The moon, half obscured by clouds, reflected faintly on the horse's and horseman's equipment, but his face remained hidden by a wide cloak.
A horseman? At this hour? In the centre of Rome? Marfisa forgot the breeze that had chilled her and placed the cup on the windowsill. Her attention was fully focused on the swift rider approaching from the south gate of the city. It was clear that the horseman was no ordinary traveller, for the decuria of vigiles patrolling the street politely stepped aside to let him pass.
Voices echoed along the rider's path, thick and fast, as if everyone who had looked out of the window recognised the figure whose identity continued to elude her. Marfisa remained at the window while the voices continued to echo down the street, distorted by distance.
Strange, thought Marfisa with a shiver down her spine, is it already so cold at this hour? Though a natural observer, Marfisa was still puzzled by this figure, who seemed to her to be an anonymous and harmless knight, but in her soul, there was the same fear that drives all men to flee.
There was a gust of wind, and the hood was lifted, revealing long and magnificent emerald hair. The moment she recognized me, Marfisa knew at once that this was the time to act and that she had to act quickly, for she knew well how much truth there was in what people were murmuring about me. Everyone knew that if I rode like this at night without first announcing the reason for my visit, it was good practice to hide in the darkest recesses of one's home until one was certain of my true intentions.
Turning away from the window, Marfisa immediately headed for the door of her study. A flap of her robe caught on the crystal goblet as she crossed the room, and she pulled it to her. For a long moment it hung suspended, wobbling on the edge of the windowsill, then it crashed to the stone floor, bouncing away and leaving a trail of wine, curved like a fox pouncing on its prey: a black swan-shaped stain created by the play of shadows between the furniture and the moonlight.
Marfisa was shaken by this strange omen. Without meaning to, retreated until she touched the windowsill. Then, recovering herself, she ran back to her study. She was not there, she had never been there, she had never existed... at least until she understood that witch's intentions and victim.
She threw the whole room up in the air, rummaging through it with the same wild frenzy typical of those who never find what they are looking for when they need it, until luck came to her rescue.
From a corner of the room, she pulled out an oil lantern made of glass and metal. She dipped the end of an iron skewer into the oil and lit it through one of the lamps that illuminated the dining room. Then she used the skewer to light the lantern. Finally, with the same haste, she picked up the first book that came into her hand.
It was not the first time she had read late into the night. Nor the first time she had sought inspiration in one of the many rooms of the Imperial Palaces. At worst, she would pretend to have read until dawn, oblivious to the passing hours, only to ask in the morning if strange visitors had arrived and with what malevolent intentions. The question was: where to hide now?
She moved cautiously towards the hanging garden, which was accessible from her study. The air was cool and bearable for most. No one would come there to disturb her at this hour.
Hidden among the cypresses, she would appear like a shadow, indistinguishable from anything else, if she stayed away from the lantern. But this way reading would have been a problem.
She certainly could not stand still in the shadow and do nothing all night. Perhaps, if she found the right corner or spot, she could have remained invisible while keeping the lantern lit to read.
She stepped forward, as cautiously as one would move through a dark forest, until she reached the balustrade that overlooked the garden.
There was a magnificent view of the Circus Maximus. Its marble was reflecting the light of the moon but also something else. Looking out, Marfisa could see a street lamplighter passing by, lighting the lamps that lined the street.
The green-haired witch was on her way to the Imperial Palaces, and that man was unaware of how lucky he was to be on the cold street instead of the Imperial Palaces.
"Can't you sleep?" said a male voice she recognised.
Marfisa gasped, but without even looking back, she calmed down and became quiet. She smiled and turned around, then confidently leaned her back and elbows against the parapet.
Without looking in any particular direction, she said, "Are you going to hide forever, or are you going to make me look for you? I really need an excuse not to be found at home, but it can't be that I want to play hide-and-seek. I'm not a child anymore."
"Uh! Do you have an appointment with a lover I don't know about? Or perhaps, Gods forbid such a scandal, a real fiancé?" the voice said from a direction not easy to identify.
Marfisa broke away from the parapet and grabbed the lantern, but no matter how she turned around, she couldn't see anyone, and just to flush him out, she started talking: "A fiancé? Me? Are you trying to insult me, or are you naive enough to think that could happen? You should know that there is no man or woman who can put a ring on my finger."
Marfisa continued to look around. But this garden was not so big; there were not many places where someone could hide.
"Neither man nor woman? A very lucky choice of words for me..." said the mysterious voice, "...after all, I am not human."
A rustle appeared to her right, and from behind it a hand appeared, too small to be human, at least not adult.
The voice, though not deep, was too mature in tone and timbre to be that of a child. Yet this creature so much resembled a child that few would have sworn it was anything else.
He was no more than a meter tall, with a high forehead and a small nose, his body slightly stocky. His body was about four and a half times the size of his own head: a proportion more suited to a child than a miniature adult. But up close, it was clear that this was not a human being. His ears were too large and too pointed.
He was a catizus from Thule. His hair was a blonde and his deep blue eyes were proud, wary, and confident. His skin, on the other hand, was pale, as it was common among the catizus of Thule, who spent little time in the sun.
He was the son of Aimon, a close friend of emperor Volusius, and a childhood friend of her. He was probably the person that knew her more. They shared the same curiosity and passion for the Hercynia forest. But in that moment, he was just an old friend, noticing something was wrong with her and lighting the mood with a joke.
"Anyway, going back to my question..." said Rolandus, "...are you hiding from a fiancée?"
"May I know what this fiancée thing is about?" said Marfisa.
"Mah! I don't know how it started, but apparently, it's become a topic of conversation as to who might be your ideal boyfriend. Many are still betting on me," said Rolandus. "Anyway, back to us, what are you doing in the gardens at this hour? It seems too cold for reading."
Marfisa looked down at the book she was holding under her arm, then back at Rolandus and said: "I could say the same to you. Are you running from someone?"
"There are flowers here that open only at night..." said Rolandus, pointing to bushes beyond the cypresses, their white flowers giving off a scent that reached even Marfisa's rooms, "...it is a plant that comes from the continent across the Atlantic, from Vesperia. Perhaps there is nothing like it anywhere else in the Empire. Anyway, are you hiding from anyone?"
"From the green-haired witch," said Marfisa.
"Varuclezia?"
"Why? Do you know another green-haired witch?"
"...!"
"Don't worry, she's not here for you ... at least I don't think so."
"...!!"
"In fact, she may have already come here to the palace."
"Are you sure you don't want to go to Hyperborea to marry King Pandracon?" said Rolandus worriedly. "Perhaps taking me with you as a brideman?
Marfisa laughed heartily and then said: "I think we've wasted enough time chatting. We'd better start looking for some hiding places before she finds us."
Marfisa took the lantern and re-entered the buildings, passing through a small corridor that led to a circular nymphaeum. Looking for a hiding place? As if there is a safe place against that witch, Marfisa thought.
She took a deep breath and placed the lantern on the edge of the circular pool in the centre of the nymphaeum. The water reflected and refracted the light from the flame, illuminating the statues of nymphs placed in niches at the four cardinal points. But the most important statue was the one placed in the centre of the room, emerging from the water like a nymph about to bathe.
Her snow-white robe and long hair were so realistically wrapped around her body that it looked as if she was soaked in water. Long snakes were coiled around her body, their mouths spurting out merry water games.
But it was neither the robes, nor the hair, nor the snakes that caught Marfisa's eye. That marble face, those delicate features, belonged to someone she knew well: her thorn in her side.
Come now, dear readers, there is no need to judge me like that. You too, if you had been in my position, would have asked for a statue sooner or later. And then, I more than anyone else, need to prove my looks, to silence the rumours that I am misusing my pen to give myself a beauty that does not belong to me.
Yes! The curves you see in this statue are all mine. Even the mathematical proportions that all sculptors strive for and that you see in this statue are all natural: mine by birth and without the aid of any file or chisel.
Anyone who visits the imperial palaces can tell you that I am indistinguishable from this statue.
Perhaps it is too indistinguishable, because when Marfisa approached it, she said: "Mah! You may be made of marble, but I still don't trust you. Who's to say you're not Varuclezia in disguise, because when you're involved, you're not to be trusted. You may be cold and hard as marble, but that, more than dissuading me, confirms that you could be the real Varuclezia, playing a trick on me."
Marfisa got down on her knees and kept looking at my statue, with the typical look of someone who doesn't want to show her back, lest she get stabbed.
"Yeah, yeah, go ahead and play dumb. I know you're meditating something anyway. I don't know against whom or what, nor when or how, and the gods know where and why, but it will be more inevitable than death."
So she said, sitting on her heels, knees to her chest, looking suspiciously at my statue, until a familiar male voice appeared behind her.
"I can't be sure, but I'm pretty sure the statue won't move from there."
"...?" (Marfisa)
When Marfisa turned around, she found herself facing another catizus, but with natural brown skin instead of the pale complexion of Rolandus. His hair was dark brown, while his light brown eyes betrayed a completely different character than Rolandus'. If the former always tried to maintain a stern tone, as if to compensate for his short stature among so many humans, the latter had a more relaxed approach.
Savius?" said Marfisa, surprised at his presence.
"Savius Salvius Oto to you, miss!" said Savius, before the nymphaeum fell silent.
They were both silent for a few seconds, then both burst into loud laughter.
"Now, come on! You're not my Persian teacher anymore..." said Marfisa, catching her breath, "...shouldn't you be translating at the reception? Perhaps to some ambassador from Scythia?"
"From what a pulpit. You are the emperor's daughter. If I'm not there, no one will notice, if you're missing, people will ask questions, especially considering that you're taking part in the gladiatorial games tomorrow..." replied Savius, "...don't tell me it's true that you've found a boyfriend?"
"No!" said Marfisa, red in the face. "Who spreads this rumour?"
"Oh, come on! People are getting a bit tired of your one-night stands. Discussing who your ideal boyfriend might be is much more interesting. I still go for Rolandus, you made a nice couple..." said Savius, chuckling, "...and besides, you know how it is, your fault for not being at the reception. If only you were there, no one could talk behind your back."
"My father sent you, didn't he?" said Marfisa, looking at him with suspicious eyes, to which Savius could only reply: "That may be... and then calm down. You won't find Pandracon at the welcome party. He is still in Hyperborea, plotting who knows what in his ice palace."
"Deh! It's not who's plotting from afar that worries me..." said Marfisa, turning her head back to my statue, "...I saw Varuclezia outside the window."
"The green-haired witch?!" said Savius in sudden panic.
"I saw her coming this way, so we'd better hide before..." Marfisa turned around again, but there was no sign of Savius, "...what the hell? Look at the little rascal, he's already run off," said Marfisa before raising her head and shouting at a now distant Savius, "What? You had an important appointment and couldn't invite me?" then she lowered her eyebrows and sighed, "Whatever! Let's throw ourselves to the lions."
