The actual musical scores and melodies of Ancient Rome are tragically limited to a handful of fragments and theoretical writings. To enhance the emotional immersion of Venusia Magna, we encourage our creative citizens to compose original songs, chants, and ballads that reflect the social strata of our A.D. 150 setting. Music here serves all purposes: it accompanies feasts, celebrates victories, mourns the dead, and, often, provides solace to those in bondage.
The Iron Lullaby (By Philusa, Servus)
This haunting piece, known as Ferreae Cunarum in its original Latin, was composed by Philusa, a slave within under the watch of the Slave Traders in Venusia Magna. It is a profoundly sorrowful lullaby sung by a slave to the other slaves alongside them, its lyrics speak to the cold, absolute lack of freedom experienced by the Servus Romanus.
The Iron Lullaby
Written by Philusa, Servus Romana (City Slave)
The rust of these bars is the taste on my tongue,
Another day bled since the harvest was sung.
Above me, the sun is a coin in the sky,
But all of its gold cannot catch my eye.
The straw is a cradle, the cage is my wall,
Waiting for night, or to hear the god’s call.
O, Jupiter, hear me, I ask for no crown,
Just the right to stand up, or the mercy to drown.
Sung by the ones who are watched as they die.
Every breath taken is paid to the stone,
A heart that is beating, but not quite its own.
Vae victis! they shout, “Woe to those you have beaten!”
But the ghost of my home is the bread that I’ve eaten.
The feet that walk past me, they speak of the Forum,
Of taxes and triumphs, and laws that abhor ’em.
They see just a shadow, a beast in a crate,
They don’t see the field where my grandfather sate.
They don’t see the mountains, the river so cold,
The stories my mother has left to be told.
O, Mars, the great warrior, if you must have war,
Break these locks of bronze, and I’ll fight evermore.
Sung by the ones who are watched as they die.
Every breath taken is paid to the stone,
A heart that is beating, but not quite its own.
Vae victis! they shout, “Woe to those you have beaten!”
But the ghost of my home is the bread that I’ve eaten.
I see not their faces, but just dusty camps.
I dream of a morning where chains are just wire,
And the road to my village is built of my fire.
I’ll crawl through the dust, if my legs can still hold,
To claim just one thing that was stolen and sold.
The Empire is vast, but the Earth is still wide.
And the heart of a slave has a place it can hide.
(Whispered)
Let the sun set… Let the sun set…
My body is here, but my soul is free yet.