Young Writers Society

A little background for those who have never heard about this part of history: near the end of the Roman Empire, the Ostrogoths and the Visigoths, two very peaceful Germanic tribes (sounds like an oxy-moron, haha?), were frequently attacked by the Huns, and thus asked the Romans for permission to move across the Danube River, were they would be more protected, and they could better grow food. The Romans allowed them to cross, but on what terms they did not say. The Goths were taken as slaves, and very poorly treated, until the rebellion in the Battle of Adrianople, led by Alaric of the Visigoths.

I came in ragged clothes, and they laughed; laughed with their upturned noses, the sun of this warm new land gleaming on their gold-hemmed dresses. Were I not a slave, Italy would be beautiful; but now it stands hence as prison, and I am in chains.

The year is 395, and for too long we have been bound by Roman law. Promises they once made to us are not fulfilled, for we crossed the river with the promise of food and protection: we are now but possessions.

These Romans--I suppose they do not hate us, but neither do they value us. On a whim we do their bidding:

"This man threatens my land. See to it, slave, that he is forgotten."

Regrettable, yes, and I will always refuse to rid an innocent for another's greed.

Though I am bitter to admit, these Romans are a most talented people, skilled in all they do. The shining, bustling cities sometimes make it hard not to become enamoured in their lies and wonder if they do need us here, to keep the city alive. Then flooding back comes the truth that we are more needed at home, and that I long to go back. I do not mind that it is colder there, for one only freezes when alone. Even in this balmy city of Rome, I walk a frozen path, isolated from all I once knew as a Visigoth. Warmth will only return to my soul when I return to the snowy embrace of home, though I am farther away than I can fathom.