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Tapio Tiihonen

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“And that, my friend, is how the Huns write history — with hooves, hide, and a hell of a throw. Καὶ οὕτως, ὦ φίλε, ἱστορεῖ τὸ γένος τῶν Οὕννων — πόδεσίν, δέρματι, καὶ ῥίψει τις ἐκ τῆς κολάσεως. Book I, How I, Earl Jenkins, Got Mixed up with a Bunch of sword-swingin´s Saints”

“Gentlemen," she says, "wherever y’all go, plant these early in the season. Wait a couple of weeks and watch. They’ll survive sun, shade, and drought. And come the second year? They’ll bloom, and that cross’ll shine. It’ll mark your victory. Every seed’s got a soul, and that soul lives in another world. These lil’ brown specs — they’re stardust with roots." We kiss the air above her hand — as one does — and that’s the last we see of her. But Lord, how could we ever forget her? Book I, How I, Earl Jenkins, Got Mixed up with a Bunch of sword-swingin´ Saints”

“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.”

“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.”