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Updated: June 10, 2025
"He covered the doors of our houses with the hands of our enemies," shouted a warrior, galloping like a phantom through the smoke of the funeral pyre. The multitude shouted with an intonation of lament. "Endovellicus! Endovellicus!" "All the tribes feared him, and his name was respected like that of a god!" The multitude repeated the name of the chief over and over, as if weeping.
The funeral pyre fell overwhelming the remains of Endovellicus with ashes and charring logs, while around the embers of the fire commenced the combat in honor of the dead. The warriors advanced on horseback with slack rein, the shield held before the breast, the sword raised high, and they fought like irreconcilable enemies.
To die in bed was deemed dishonorable, and the only thing which somewhat disturbed the serenity of the family of Endovellicus was that so famous a warrior, the terror of neighboring clans, should have died with white hair, his life flickering out like a wasted torch, after having galloped his steed through so many combats, hurling his sword like a thunderbolt upon the enemy.
They slept on couches of aromatic herbs, without removing their clothing, their weapons near them, as slept all the tribe, ever fearful of attack from neighbors tempted by the multitude of their flocks. At daybreak they went down to the meadow where the body of Endovellicus was exposed.
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