[ WP ] You begin experiencing an unusual sense of deja vu when you visit new places , but you realize there 's something more than just an eerie sense that you 've seen it before . These memories were ...

Why? Why do I get the distinct feeling I ’ ve been here before? The professor is completely and utterly wrong. Scipio didn ’ t die here; he died out in Liternum, near the southern end of Italy, far from the city he called home. In old age, the general-turned-tribune had come to despise Rome, so much so that he ordered his body be buried far from his “ ungrateful city ”. I ’ ve read about this before, committed it to memory as befits an Ancient History major. 
 
 So why then do I remember the feel of a sword grip in my callused hands, the tears staining my cheeks as I watched the great commander die before my very eyes? 
 
 “ Mark Cato? *Mark Cato! * Are you *quite* done daydreaming yet? ” 
 
 “ H– Huh? ” 
 
 The iron smell of blood fled my nostrils as, blinking, I realized that my hands—soft things which had rarely even held a kitchen knife, let alone a sword—were clenched into fists in front of me, one in front of the other as if reenacting the grisly scene. Unclenching one, I lifted disbelieving fingers to my cheeks, noting the coolness of my drying tears only in passing. As my fingers came away, memories rushed forth that I shouldn ’ t have possessed. Unthinkingly, I spoke. 
 
 “ I ’ m sorry, but you ’ re wrong, Dr. Demeter. Scipio Africanus didn ’ t die here in his own home—He died abroad, intentionally, for he wanted no more of the city that had betrayed him in old age. ” My hands began to shake slightly as even more impossible tears—and words—spilled forth. “ I… I remember killing him with my own two hands. I remember the fist he raised, the words he said to me, but addressed to Rome. * ‘ Thankless country, thou shalt not even possess my bones. ’ * ” 
 
 Though the words I spoke were English, it was ancient Latin I heard in my head, in the aged but still imperious voice of the general himself: *Ingratae patriae tu ne quidem ossibus meis. * Even in the end, Scipio Africanus had remained the consummate Roman soldier: proudly devoted to his country as it had been, even if its current heads of state were not. But even here, the words made little sense. While I ’ d taken a couple Latin classes before, the form of this statement was too archaic to have been covered in any of them. 
 
 Following my strange revelation, my classmates kept a decidedly large distance between me and themselves. I didn ’ t mind in the least. I ’ d thought that giving voice to the strange sensations I ’ d been experiencing ever since our Europe trip began would make them go away. If anything, however, they intensified. It started in Andalucia at the Strait of Gibraltar, worsened in Seville, and came to a head in Cannae, on the other side of the boot from Liternum. Actually, I ’ ve been assaulted ever since setting foot in Italy—assaulted by memories. At least, that ’ s what I ’ ve been calling them, since the images have a decidedly antiquated “ past is past ” feel to them, but I ’ ve never actually done or seen those things in my life. Wield a sword? Threaten high-ranking politicians with it in court? Those were feats best kept in legends, or in video games. 
 
 By the time we returned to our hostel late at night, I didn ’ t join my classmates in mobbing the bathroom for a shower. Instead, I plunked myself down in front of my computer and pulled up the family tree I made in Andalucia. From my own name and my parents ’ names, I knew my heritage lay in Italy, but when I entered my family history into the database, all I got was nothing. I had no ancestors beyond those two, and they had no ancestors themselves. Stunned, I ’ d shot an email over to the site admins, only to get a cop-out response that the database was incomplete and that I should check again at a later date. I knew it was a cop-out because I ’ d done this genealogy thing before, back in grade school, with the same results. No one cared back then since “ family ” to grade schoolers was parents and maybe a few aunts and uncles. But now, decades later, the problem took on a whole new significance. Without family history, bombarded by memories not my own, I began to wonder if I ’ d been *placed* on this earth rather than created by the usual means. 
 
 I almost didn ’ t want to sleep that night, for I ’ d learned through experience that these “ memories ” which began as flashbacks persisted into the night as beyond-real dreams. During previous nights, I ’ d seen sandaled feet, trudging horses, and a great cloud of bloodied dust obscuring my view of the city I called home. ( Home? My home was in Philadelphia, not in Rome. ) Always, the smell of leather and clay and blood greeted my nose, a smell that filled me with mingled pride and loathing. I ’ d joined the army to cleanse the land of barbarians for my fatherland; yet here I was, marching away from it because some closeted tribune decided my general wasn ’ t worth anything to Rome anymore. 
 
 But this time when sleep took me, I was greeted not by shouting and steel, but by a great crystal dome, beyond which shone a light as blue as the untouched sky. Yet some distance from me, the ground was obscured by shadow, even though above, I saw nothing. Before I could take a step in that direction, a booming voice filled my head, timeless but somehow kind. 
 
 “ Mnemosyne, my child… I have waited a long time for your return. ” 
 
 I knew without asking that the speaker was Uranus, god of the sky and father of the Titans, whose arms and legs supported the east and west sides of the world before he lost the role to Atlas. Strange enough for a fallen god to be addressing me even in dreams, but even stranger… 
 
 “ Wasn ’ t Mnemosyne female? ” 
 
 My mind ’ s ears filled with an amused, if aggrieved, chuckle. “ Indeed she was. But after my fall—and in time, Olympus ’ s—Mnemosyne split her soul and cast it into the bodies of several Romans, each of whom would retain the memories of their past lives. The fragment you possess was cast into the body of Aurelius Cicero, the forgotten right hand of Scipio Africanus of Rome. More importantly, yours was the only one to remember lives of millennia past. 
 
 You are the only one strong enough to take up the mantle of the God of Memories. Now, I beseech you… Return to Olympus, and restore it to its former glory. ” 
 
 The vision faded, and I awoke to sunlight streaming through my window. Though nothing about the scene around me had changed—I was still in the hostel in Rome, and my roommates were still sleeping as far away from me as possible following the Liternum revelation, I felt as if the pieces of my life had never made more sense. 
 
 My photographic memory. My love of history. My mysterious lack of ( human ) ancestors, and the strange visions I ’ d received over the past several weeks. 
 
 And somewhere deep inside me, I knew where I was going next. Itinerary be damned. 
 
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 Felt like writing something Roman this time. I hope this is an enjoyable read~ I might want to explore this idea again sometime; who knows.
