Life Story: The Night He Walked Into the Fire
(Diary Fragment – Corduba, Anno CLXII)
I found myself standing before the Temple of Minerva as its roof collapsed in orange fury. Sparks danced like wounded fireflies, and the air trembled with the roar of timber giving way. Around me, the townsfolk fled—women with veils streaming, children wailing, priests casting anxious glances skyward. Yet in my hand I gripped the haft of my gladius, not in anger but in resolve.
The outer portico buckled under the blaze, columns cracking as though struck by thunder. Smoke coiled thickly, obscuring the marble floor’s mosaic. I took a single step forward. Each inhale tasted of brimstone; each heartbeat hammered a warning. Behind me, a crate of votive offerings exploded—wood and wax tossed into the inferno like kindling—and still I walked.
Inside, the glow revealed shelves bowed with scrolls: parchment scrolls inscribed by the temple’s scribes, records of oath and oracle. I saw one charred at the edge, its ink melting into the ash. My sandals sank into hot dust; the heat pressed against my breastplate as if daring me to retreat. I did not hesitate.
With careful fingers I lifted the nearest bundle—half-smoked but legible—and tucked it beneath my cloak. The embers clung to my sleeve; I brushed them free without pausing. A wooden beam crashed behind me, its crash a drumbeat of urgency. Still, I moved deeper, gathering two more scrolls before the ceiling groaned its farewell.
A final crack split the night: the central arch began its descent. I stepped back, turning on the threshold as a wall of flame lunged forward. The heat blistered my skin, yet I did not flee. Instead, I thrust the scrolls into my arms and sprinted through the veil of fire, emerging into the cool night air drenched in sweat and soot.
No one spoke. The saved scrolls lay in my grasp, silent testaments to a recklessness some would call folly. I knelt, set them gently on the ground, and gazed back at the ruin. In that glow, I felt only the weight of necessity—and something deeper still, though then I could not name it.
Marcus Domitius Sator
