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Quote by Tapio Tiihonen

“And Romulus? The lad who once wore the crown of Caesar drank the holy water, bowed to Severinus’ spirit, and put on the sandals of the monks. No big speeches. No lightning bolt from Jupiter. Just quiet steps in a ruined garden. That’s how the last emperor of Rome became the first Knight of the Twilight — a monk without cloister, walking the broken empire with memory in his satchel.”

Quote by Tapio Tiihonen

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Tapio Tiihonen

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“State land shrank. Bit by bit, province by province, diocese by diocese, Rome was selling itself away. Wouldn’t be long before we’d sold every field, every vine, every memory.”

“Faunus? That merry old spirit who once filled the glens with whispers and wild birds and good honest fruitfulness? Gone. Chased out like a rat at a monastery banquet.”

“Once she’s dressed — radiant and armored like Venus in court shoes — she floats into her litter or down the palace hall, face veiled just enough for mystery. She’s crowned with a diadem, or sometimes a turban twist, or that curious cone-shaped tutulus that juts from the forehead like a temple spire. There’s a neck-scarf for grace, a handkerchief for dust and sweat (and occasional nose-blowing), and a peacock-feather fan to shoo away flies and men alike. On bright days, an umbrella flutters above her, green as spring, carried by a maid or gallant. And of course — the sacred handbag.”

“When I emphasized how desperately the Huns needed trade with Rome — to get iron weapons, real shields instead of bone, real bits and stirrups instead of wood — Rome the rooster suddenly reared up, opened its golden beak, and crowed loud enough to shake the rafters. The signal horns joined in with a blast. Tubae signiferæ uno impetu concrepuerunt. And Honorius... burst into gleeful, childlike laughter. "My golden-throated Rome crows at the start of the third hour every day — just as it does at the third hour of night. My Rome, Roma gallus cordis mei, crows twice, three times a day! And my Rome... is a prophet. A divine seer!”

“Bureaucracy? Dead on arrival. Military coordination? Like herdin’ greased geese. Economy? Flatter than a barmaid’s singing voice. City systems? Hah. Might as well be carved in fog. All them noble forms of Roman order? Gone fishin’ — and forgot their pole.”

“Before I leave that peaceful Latinum hill, I sneak a few Salvan Cross seeds into the earth. ‘Cause someday, when all this dust settles and if the gods got a sense of humor left, I’ll come back here and find a garden of truth bloomin’ where the Empire once bled. Aliquando, cum haec omnia pulvis sedebit, et si dii adhuc risum habent, hic redibo et inveniam hortum veritatis florentem ubi olim Imperium sanguinem fundebat.”