Strength of Will
"Si, certo . . . I mean yes, of course." the dark haired man replied, "Are you alright, I didn't see you there. What were you doing anyway?" he asked suspiciously.
"I was trying to read this." came the mournful reply, "But I don't know any of the words."
"Oh, you're interested in our monument signore. You are an archeologist then . . . or a professor of history?" came the interested reply.
"Oh no, nothing like that . . . just an art student." he replied bashfully, and those worried eyes sharpened, studying him intently.
"Oh, I'm so sorry." came a shocked gasp, "I thought you were a lot older . . . it's your hair." the dark-eyed man finally stammered.
"I know . . . it's always been this color." came the almost wistful reply as the artist fingered his steely locks, "My name's Trey, by the way, Trey Saunders."
"Luciano Favelli, but you can call me Luc." the dark-haired man responded with a smile. "So, would you like me to tell you the story behind this monument."
"Please." Trey replied with delight, "It's so beautiful."
" It's supposed to be Trio Valerius . . . the first warlord to unite the warring city-states and petty kings, around 500 BC." Luciano began in a lilting voice, "It is said he was assassinated because of his humanitarian policies . . . as a result, slavery was abolished for a time." He carefully looked his audience up and down before continuing in a husky voice, "They say he did it because he fell in love with his slave . . . that's what this line says, Potere trova il suo Lucius amato sull'altro lato, May he find his beloved Lucius on the other side." he continued animatedly, warming to the story . . . and his audience as he smiled broadly, "Would you like to hear more?"
Prologue
The young man wandered deeper into the oldest part of the city, winding his way down narrow streets as he gradually worked his way toward the center of the maze. He lingered at times, stopping to have a drink and sketch whatever had caught his eye. He'd been traveling aimlessly for well over an hour before he realized he had no idea where he was. Guess I should figure out how to ask for directions, he decided, dialing up the appropriate section in the Italian lessons currently residing on his mp3 player.
"Come prendo all'ostello della giovent?e muttered over and over, how do I get to the hostel, "Lei parla degli inglesi?" he continued hopefully, do you speak English . . . that's the one I really need.
His attention was diverted, yet again, when he finally emerged onto the expansive square at the heart of the ancient district, a broad smile sketching across his face at the sight of the monument contained within. So beautiful, he thought, immediately reaching for his notebook to capture the image.
He slowly moved around the statue, carefully drawing various detailed views, before finally kneeling in front of the plaque at its base, squinting as he tried to make out the writing. Eventually inspiration struck, and he pulled out a piece of paper, laying it over the fading words and rubbing with a stick of charcoal until the text could be clearly read. Not that I understand what it means, he concluded mournfully.
Just then he was jerked from his perusal when something impacted his left side hard, knocking him to the ground and slamming the air from his lungs. "Sono spiacente, mi perdona per favore." a smooth voice murmured . . . and he looked up into a pair of worried chocolate eyes.
"Lei parla degli inglesi?" the artist asked hopefully.