Cato called for the young ones and gathered them together. Dirty and vicious, spitting and clawing. Tell who reared this one, Cato said, pointing from child to child. When Cato saw that the children were bastards, he spoke to the warriors. While your people cannibalized each other in the field, you could not. Something inside rebelled against that custom, and you found solace in strength, order and spirit. The forests whispered to be tamed. And you took up the camp bed and cloak as a fish in the stream is compelled to follow the current. Though few, you are worthy captains all. You are the fathers of these, and if any other say no, show them spear tips.

You, the others, you shall not eat your leaf today, nor work up a vicious sweat. This day you shall sweat sweetly. Go forth and build a great hall. Before the door erect a monument of a woman as such. In her are vibrant eyes which conjure in men a will to do great things. A right straight posture with the gaze of an eagle. She holds a shield. Painted on the face is the great owl clutching a sword. Her beauty is serene and made modest by a simple tunic, a broad helm, the locks secured for war. A confidence of one who has warded off the molestations of your kind. She is posted at ready with a spear in her white hand, a snake coiled about the bare feet. Cato’s heart swells with remembrance of a time not far removed when he gazed upon her. This goddess shall be your mother, and the mother of all to come.