It's December of the year 494 and there's a strong chill in the morning air.

It'll warm up over the course of the day, but for now there's a thin rhyme of frost covering

the worn flagstones of the Roman forum.

A courier rides into the city, his horse stepping carefully over the ancient pavement.

Some streets are empty.

Trees, their branches bare of leaves in the icy December sun-ling, poke through the ruined

roofs of empty houses and taverns.

Deserted apartment buildings, five stories tall cast long, mournful shadows over the cramped

narrow streets.

The smell of raw sewage wafts out of plumbing clogged from centuries of ordur.

There are no workers left to clean them, or public funds to pay the workers.

The vast edifices of grand baths, temples, and the coliseum still stand proud, jutting

up to the sky, but people are only rarely to be seen.

The occasional stray dogs skitters out of the way of the courier and is tired overworked

horse.

The memories of Rome's past glory are all around haunting the empty streets.

The courier finds no greeting and meets no one as he arrives.

It's just as well.

He's very tired, exhausted down to the bone.

It had been a fast, punishing journey, taking just two days to cover the 220 miles from

Ravenna, the capital to Rome.

His red cloak is stained with the dust and mud of the late fall trip.

...