CHRONICLE SMITH
The valley stretched like an emerald cradle along the Tagus River, its gentle curves sheltered by rugged hills to the east and open plains to the west. This fertile basin had nurtured generations of farmers who toiled beneath a sky that changed its hues with the seasons. In early spring, the air was rich with the scent of olive blossoms and the earthy undertone of freshly turned soil. Vineyards clung stubbornly to the terraced slopes, remnants of Roman ingenuity, while the lower fields glimmered with young shoots of wheat and barley, their green tips swaying in rhythm with the wind.
The village had different names, it was called Fons Frigidus by those who insisted on using Latin, but also Kaldathal by those who came from east. Nevertheless, the village was named for the clear, cold springs that bubbled up from the hillside, lying nestled in the heart of this valley. Twenty-seven families called it home, their lives woven together like the sturdy fabric of a loom. The homes were simple, built from stone and mudbrick with thatched roofs, clustered around a central square. At the square’s edge stood the chapel, its sturdy walls were constructed from repurposed Roman masonry. Inside, a simple wooden cross overlooked a space that served as both a house of worship and a gathering hall for the villagers. The priest, an elderly man named Father Servatus, presided over the mass and rites, some that blended echoes of the old Roman faith with the austere teachings of Arian Christianity.
A Roman road, worn by centuries of travel, cut through the village like an artery, connecting it to the grand villa of Lucius Fabius Valerianus, perched on a hill above the Tagus. The villa’s silhouette, with its columns and red-tiled roof, loomed over the village as a shadow of the old mighty empire. Though slightly weathered by time, its structure still exuded an air of dominance, a stark contrast to the more modest dwellings below.
The small village thrived on its connection to the river. Beyond the fields, small boats ferried goods along the Tagus, bringing salt, fish, and the occasional luxury from distant lands. The river’s edge was a hub of quiet activity, with villagers washing clothes, fishing, or guiding their animals to drink. In the distance, the faint sound of a millstone grinding grain echoed, powered by a stream that branched off the river and ran through the valley like a silver thread.
Life in Fons Frigidus moved with the rhythm of the land. At dawn, men gathered with their tools, discussing the day’s work before heading to the fields or grazing pastures. Women and children bustled about the village, tending to gardens, weaving, or preparing food. In the evenings, the square came alive with laughter and conversation as neighbors shared the news of the day, debated rumors, and told tales of old.
Yet beneath this hum of daily life lingered a tension. While the villagers appreciated the stability brought by Lucius Fabius’ oversight, his demands for tribute—grain, labor, and livestock—were a constant burden. The older villagers, like Gundemar, saw these obligations as a small price to pay for the peace that allowed their fields to prosper. The younger generation, however, often murmured about the inequity of their toil enriching the villa while their own families scraped by. Many of them regarded the Romans and their ways as something of a past age.
The village square served as a meeting point, not only for the exchange of goods but also for the exchange of ideas. Here, old Roman customs mingled with Suebi traditions. Some villagers still whispered invocations to their ancient gods before setting off to plow their fields, even as the chapel bell called them to prayer. It was in this mingling of the old and the new that Kaldathal found its unique identity—a place where the remnants of empires and the resilience of tribes forged a community of their own.
As the sun began to set, painting the valley in shades of gold and crimson, the distant cry of a herdsman’s horn signaled the end of another day. Smoke curled lazily from the chimneys, and the first stars began to blink in the clear sky. In the fading light, the village seemed timeless, caught between the past it remembered and the future it hesitated to embrace.
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Aderico sat on the edge of a low stone wall that marked the border of his family’s land. The evening sun cast long shadows over the wheat fields, their golden heads swaying gently in the breeze. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, his fingers calloused from a day spent tightening fences to keep the goats from wandering. Though tired, he felt the quiet satisfaction of seeing his work take shape. At twenty years old, Aderico was a man of his village—tall and broad-shouldered, with dark curls that clung to his brow and sharp blue eyes that often seemed to look past the horizon.
The sound of laughter drew his gaze to the house, where his younger brother, Rechiar, darted around with a stick in hand, slashing at imaginary foes. “Come fight me, Aderico!” Rechiar called, his twelve-year-old voice both a challenge and an invitation.
“Finish your chores first,” Aderico called back with a grin, waving him off. “A warrior’s spear won’t plant the crops.” Rechiar groaned dramatically, but the boy’s energy was infectious, a reminder of the lighter burdens of youth.
Their house, modest but sturdy, stood at the edge of the village’s eastern boundary. Built from stone and timber, there was smoke rising steadily from the chimney, a sign that their mother, Brigantia, was preparing supper. The scents of barley stew and freshly baked bread wafted on the breeze, carried with the sound of a hymn hummed in their mother’s melodic voice.
Inside, Brigantia presided over the hearth, her figure tall and commanding despite the soft smile she often wore. She was forty-five and these years carried an air of authority that came not from force but from her unwavering faith and wisdom. A deeply devout Catholic, Brigantia found solace and purpose in her faith, often reciting scripture aloud as she worked. She marveled at the writings of the Church, speaking of the order and enlightenment they brought to their lives. Her fascination sometimes verged on fervor.
“You must taste this, Suanila,” Brigantia said, offering her seventeen-year-old daughter a spoonful of stew. Suanila leaned in, her soft features illuminated by the firelight. She was the gentlest of the family, with a contemplative nature that often drew her to question the teachings her mother so dearly cherished. “A bit more salt, perhaps?” the daughter offered, her voice light but thoughtful. Brigantia laughed, nodding in agreement.
At the table sat Oria, the eldest sister, six years older than Aderico. Her nimble fingers deftly wove a length of woolen cloth, her gaze occasionally flicking toward the door as if expecting news. Oria was pragmatic and sharp-witted. “Aderico better not be late for supper again,” she muttered with mock irritation. “He spends so much time staring at the horizon, he might miss the stew entirely.”
“Maybe he’s just dreaming of adventure,” Fridomar quipped from the corner, where he leaned against the wall, sharpening a knife. Two years older than Oria he was the boldest of the siblings, with an ambition that often led him to speak of joining the warriors loyal to Lucius Fabius Valerianus. “Or perhaps he is dreaming of something more exciting than planting fields.”
The faint sound of footsteps signaled Aderico’s return, and the siblings fell into a rhythm of chatter as they prepared to eat. Gundemar, their father, entered soon after, his gait steady but heavy with the weight of responsibility. At fifty, he was a much-respected man of the land, his hands as weathered as the tools he carried.
As the family gathered for their meal, their conversations intertwined—Oria’s sharp observations, Fridomar’s bold declarations, and Rechiar’s relentless questions. Brigantia’s calm voice offered balance, weaving faith into their discussions, while Suanila listened more than she spoke, her gaze distant as if lost in thought. Aderico, as always, sat quietly, observing his family with a mix of pride and unease. He loved them fiercely, yet he couldn’t ignore the pull of something beyond the life they knew.
Their meal was punctuated by stories—of ancestors who had crossed the Rhine, of Roman legions who once ruled the land, the life of the messiah and of the promises and challenges of their present. Brigantia spoke with reverence of the Arian faith that had unified their people, while Gundemar added cautionary tales of pagan heroes.
After their meal, Gundemar enlisted Aderico’s help to make a last tour around the farm. He had this custom of checking the hens and goats, before finally being able to make his mind rest. As both men stepped outside, the cool air agitated their hair.
Aderico walked beside his father as his eyes glanced at the edge of their wheat field. The faint hum of crickets filled the evening, blending with the distant trickle of the stream that fed the mill. Gundemar carried his staff, its gnarled wood a companion as much as a tool, tapping it against the ground with each measured step.
They paused on a small rise where the land sloped gently toward the valley. From this vantage, the Roman villa firelight could be seen in the distance. The sight was a familiar one, yet it always stirred something in Aderico—a mix of admiration and frustration.
“Do you think it’s fair, Father?” Aderico asked at last, breaking the silence. His voice was steady but tinged with a questioning edge. “That we give so much to Lucius Fabius while we struggle to keep what little we have?”
Gundemar sighed, leaning on his staff as he surveyed the villa. “Fairness,” he said slowly, “is a strange concept. We have our fields, our home, and our lives. These are not small things.”
“But they’re not enough,” Aderico pressed. “Fridomar talks of earning more by fighting for him, and Oria spends her days weaving just to make ends meet. We give our grain, our labor, our time. And for what?”
“For peace,” Gundemar replied, his voice calm but firm. He turned to Aderico, his gaze steady. “You may not see it now, but this life—this valley—is a blessing. I have heard of my father, who heard from my grandfather and so on, that our ancestors lived through winters so harsh they buried their children in frozen ground. They crossed the Rhine, not out of choice, but out of necessity. Hunger and war drove them, and the Roman legions, once enemies, welcomed labor in exchange for protection. Here, the land provides, and the villa provides order and shield. Would you trade that for the chaos they left behind?”
Aderico hesitated, caught between his father’s words and the restless stirring in his chest. “You speak of the past, Father, but what of the future? How long will this order last? And at what cost to us?”
Gundemar’s expression softened, and he placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You’re not wrong to question, Aderico. A man must always think of what lies ahead. But he must also carry the weight of the present. Lucius Fabius may demand much, but he keeps the roads safe and the raiders and our neighbors, the Visigoths at bay. These are things worth giving for.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the villa a distant silhouette against the deepening night. Finally, Gundemar spoke again, his tone reflective. “I have heard stories past by many of our ancestors. Your grandfather once told me that he remembered endless forests, fierce warriors, and winters that spared no man. ‘We were wolves then,’ he said, ‘and now we are men.’ He meant that we traded wild freedom for a chance to grow roots. Look at the fields, Aderico. They are our roots.”
Aderico followed his father’s gaze, the wheat shimmering in the moonlight. “I understand, Father,” he said quietly. “But sometimes I wonder if we could be more.”
Gundemar nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “Every man wonders that, my son. Even Lucius Fabius, I imagine.”
After finishing the route around the farm, they began walking back to the house, Aderico glanced once more toward the villa. He thought of his father’s stories and the sacrifices made to leave the harsh world beyond the Rhine. Perhaps their life here was better—but still, the restlessness in his heart refused to be quieted.
The light from their hearth glowed as he passed the door. He took a last drink of water and made his way to a shared room. As he passed, he looked at his siblings, feeling warmth and familiarity. So another day came to an end, as Aderico dreamed of the journey ahead.