They are all sitting in a semi-circle like old Indians or old warriors.
They are all silent, but not just any silence, it is a dense silence like you find only among veteran old warriors. They learned how to wait.
Little by little, each one at a time, they begin to speak. Each one of them with his particular sound, begins to tell a little of his battle stories, the history of the scar that ached that day.
And on they go: grave and ridiculous, crying and laughing, with anger and with fear, sharing experiences, throwing in the common circle the booties of war.
Nobody knows, but they are the wise men of the tribe gathered in secret assembly.
Anonymous, like warriors are and should be, they fight the battles of the tribe and for its sake, defeat their demons.
They are the Praetorian Guard, they are the Three Hundred from Sparta and, just like them, they fight in the shadow.
Night falls outside, and oblivious of the war around them, the common citizens of the tribe sigh and, for twenty-four more hours, they can sleep in peace.
