Via Flaminia, 10 miles north of Rome. November 13, 476 AD.

  The rain did not fall like water; it fell like cold iron nails hammering into the earth.

  The sun had long been swallowed by storm clouds rolling black from the western horizon, making the afternoon feel as dark as if night had arrived early. The sky above central Italy was the color of a bruise, as if God Himself were turning His face away from what was about to happen. Through the heart of the storm, an iron convoy cut through the mud of the Via Flaminia. One hundred Cataphracts galloped in double formation. Their scale armor rattled with every stride, while the rain hammered against the steel, creating a rhythmic, terrifying din.

  In the center of that iron monster, a simple wooden carriage shook violently.

  "Retch..."

  Inside the carriage, Deacon Paulus leaned over a wooden bucket. He emptied his stomach for the third time in an hour. The young man's face was deathly pale, whiter than the parchment he gripped with trembling hands.

  "Breathe, son," Bishop Johannes's voice was calm, a stark contrast to the thunder outside. "Motion sickness, or fear sickness?"

  Paulus wiped his mouth with his sleeve, his eyes wet and red. "Both, Father Bishop. We are entering the lion's mouth. I re-read the canon law all night, but my head is empty. I have forgotten everything."

  Johannes smiled faintly. His old face looked weary, his skin wrinkled like an ancient map, but his eyes shone with a strange serenity. He did not scold his student. Instead, he patted Paulus's shoulder gently.

  "Forget canon law," Johannes said. "Theodore will not attack us with law. He will attack with theater. He will make us look like monsters before we even have a chance to open our mouths."

  Johannes stared out the fogged carriage window, piercing the curtain of rain toward the faint silhouette of the seven hills of Rome in the distance.

  "We never know God's plan, Paulus," Johannes whispered. He looked back at his student, his gaze piercing the soul. "Listen to me. Do not fear Theodore's golden robes. Do not fear the shouting of the mob. Fear only God. The truth does not need a loud voice. It only needs one person brave enough to stand when others kneel."

  Before Paulus could answer, the carriage suddenly braked hard. The brake blocks screeched, and the wooden wheels groaned as they fought against the deep mud. The jolt nearly threw Paulus from his seat.

  Outside, a harsh command shouted over the storm.

  "HOLD! DEFENSIVE FORMATION!"

  It was the voice of Tribune Drusus, leader of the Cataphracts.

  Johannes and Paulus looked at each other. With shaking hands, Paulus dared to peek through the slit in the curtain.

  They had reached the Pons Milvius or the Milvian Bridge. The ancient stone bridge crossing the Tiber River, the northern gate to the Eternal City. The place where Constantine once saw the sign of the Cross in the sky.

  But today, there was no holy sign in the sky. There was only a wall of human bodies.

  Hundreds of people blocked the bridge. They were not soldiers. They were not bandits. They were the common people of Rome. Women with tattered veils, hunched old men, beggars, and starving children. They stood packed together in the pouring rain, letting their bodies get soaked to the bone, holding wooden icons of Saint Peter high toward the dark sky.

  They were singing. Their voices were hoarse, drowned out by the roar of the rain, but the tune was clear. Miserere mei, Deus... Have mercy on me, O God...

  Tribune Drusus spurred his horse to the carriage window. Rainwater streamed from his closed iron helm, hiding his hard face.

  "The road is blocked, Father Bishop," Drusus reported with a growl. "Commoners. Either they have swallowed Theodore's lies, or their pride has been bought with gold. Either way, they think we are bringing a plague of sorcery into the city."

  "Can we go around?" asked Paulus anxiously.

  "There is no other bridge wide enough for this carriage unless we detour ten miles upstream, and that will take all day," Drusus replied roughly. He gripped the hilt of his sword. "Give me the order, Father. Our horses are armored. We can break this line. They will move if they see us charge."

  "No!" Johannes cut in sharply. "That is what they want, Tribune. If a single drop of the people's blood is spilled by Romulus's horses, we lose before the trial even begins."

  "Then what must we do? Wait until they get bored of singing?"

  Johannes took a deep breath. He straightened his simple bishop's robe, then reached for his wooden staff.

  "I will speak to them."

  "That is too dangerous," Drusus protested.

  "Swords cannot cut through prayer, Commander. Only humility can," Johannes said firmly. He opened the carriage door.

  The cold wind mixed with water immediately slapped his wrinkled face as the door opened. Johannes stepped down from the carriage. His feet instantly sank into liquid mud up to his ankles. His dull white bishop's robe was instantly stained. The hem of the cloth became heavy and filthy, absorbing the murky water of the Via Flaminia, turning the purity of his vestment into the color of the lowly earth.

  He raised his right hand, signaling Tribune Drusus who was about to escort him.

  "Wait here. Let no spear move," Johannes commanded.

  Johannes walked alone toward the center of the bridge, leaving the protection of his troops' steel wall. His figure looked small, wet, and fragile under the bombardment of the storm. He walked with a limp over the slippery bridge stones.

  Seeing their target emerge, the mob's holy chanting turned into shouts of hatred.

  "That's him! The Devil's servant!" screamed a man with a face full of rage.

  "How much gold did you take to sell your soul, huh?!"

  "False prophet! Traitor to God!"

  "Nepos is our Emperor!" an old woman shouted, shaking her fist. "Julius Nepos is the savior of Rome, not your boy wizard!"

  "Long live Emperor Nepos! Death to the devil's lackeys!"

  Jeers and spit mixed with rainwater welcomed his steps. They accused him of every abomination Theodore had planted in their minds. The harsh words hit harder than stones.

  But Johannes did not stop. He kept walking through the wall of abuse until he was at close range, then he stopped.

  His trembling old hand reached inside his wet robes. He pulled out a simple wooden cross necklace hanging around his neck. He raised the cross high, letting the rain wash the holy symbol in front of the angry mob.

  "My children!" Johannes's voice sounded hoarse but full of authority, overcoming the sound of the rain.

  He looked at the faces shouting Nepos's name with a gaze that was sharp, yet soft.

  "I am a servant of this Cross, just like you," Johannes declared loudly. "I do not come in the name of the devil, and I do not come for politics."

  Johannes lowered his hand slightly, pointing toward the City of Rome behind them.

  "Pope Simplicius summoned me," he continued firmly. "I am here at the call of our Holy Father. And as faithful children of the Church, we must obey our Father's call, must we not?"

  The words struck the heart of the crowd. Invoking the Pope's name and the duty of obedience silenced them. There was no arrogance in Johannes's voice, only the obedience of a servant.

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  “May I…” his tone softened into a plea, “pass, so that I may go to the threshold of Saint Peter and kneel before the Holy Father?”

  The mob fell silent. Their hands holding the holy icons slowly lowered. The shouts of Nepos's name vanished. They looked at Johannes's weary face. Not the face of a traitor or a greedy demon, but the face of an old priest, soaked to the bone, holding the same cross they believed in. Hesitation began to appear in the eyes of the front row. Some people lowered the stones they had picked up, feeling ashamed to block a papal messenger who only wanted to pray.

  Suddenly, from the crowd, a woman dressed entirely in black pushed forward. She looked disheveled. Her eyes were swollen from crying, and her soaking wet hair clung to her pale face. She walked sobbingly toward Johannes, her steps heavy as if she were carrying the weight of the world.

  Johannes stopped. He saw the deep suffering on the woman's face. His shepherd's instinct took over. He spread both his arms, a fatherly gesture of invitation ready to offer comfort to his lost child.

  "Mother..." Johannes greeted softly. "May God bless your sorrow..."

  The woman sped up. She lunged forward as if to kneel or hug the Bishop's legs.

  From the position of Tribune Drusus and Paulus ten paces behind, the scene looked touching. A broken-hearted woman seeking refuge in a servant of God. Drusus lowered his guard slightly. Paulus sighed in relief inside the carriage, feeling the tension finally melt away.

  "He made it," Paulus whispered. "They still love him."

  The woman hugged Johannes tight. She buried her face in Johannes's chest, her arms wrapping around the old man's body as if she never wanted to let go.

  But in the middle of that bridge, the reality was very different.

  Behind Johannes's back which blocked his troops' view, the woman's right hand was not hugging. That hand gripped a rough wooden cross whose bottom end had been sharpened and fire-hardened like an iron stake.

  Shrrk.

  The sound of thick wool tearing sounded horrible, muffled by the thunder rumbling in the sky.

  Johannes's eyes bulged. His breath hitched in his throat. He felt the cold wood piercing his stomach, deep and painful, tearing his old flesh without mercy.

  The woman did not let go of her embrace. Instead, she twisted the cross inside Johannes's wound while crying hysterically. Her tears mixed with the warm blood that began to seep out, soaking the Bishop's grey robe.

  "God forgive you..." the woman whispered in Johannes's ear, her voice trembling with madness and pain. "God forgive you for defending the Devil who burned my son at sea..."

  Johannes's body seized. The pain was immense, but he did not push the woman away. His old hands gripped her shoulders to keep her from falling. He looked into the mother's eyes. There was no anger there. Only infinite sadness seeing how deep the lies had poisoned God's people into becoming killers.

  "I..." Johannes gasped, blood rising to his throat. "I... forgive you..."

  Hearing that forgiveness, the woman jerked back as if electrocuted. She released the handle of the cross that was still stuck firmly in Johannes's belly. She stepped back with trembling hands stained with holy blood.

  Johannes's old body staggered. He stood for one second, two seconds, swayed by the storm wind, before his knees finally gave out.

  THUD.

  Johannes fell face down. His face hit the wet mud with a painful sound. Fresh red blood began to flow heavily from beneath his stomach, mixing with the rainwater, creating a small red river on the grey bridge stones.

  Silence.

  For two seconds that felt like forever, time seemed to stop.

  Drusus blinked, his brain refusing to process what he saw. Paulus froze at the carriage window with his mouth open. The mob stood rigid.

  Then, the scream of an officer shattered the world's silence.

  "SHE STABBED HIM! MURDERER!!"

  That scream turned everything into terrifying slow motion.

  Tribune Drusus roared. He spurred his horse forward while drawing his sword. "SECURE THE BISHOP! MOVE!!"

  In the rear ranks of the Cataphracts, a young archer of the Sagittarii panicked upon hearing the cry of "Murderer". His heart pumped wild adrenaline. He did not wait for orders. Fear took over his reason.

  He raised his composite bow. He drew the wet bowstring to his cheek. His wild eyes aimed at the figure in black standing over the Bishop's body.

  Drusus turned back when he heard the creak of the wooden bow bending. His eyes went wide with horror as he realized what was about to happen.

  "HOLD...!" Drusus screamed, his hand reaching uselessly into the air.

  Too late. The young archer's finger slipped due to the rain and nerves.

  TWANG.

  The bowstring vibrated. Time seemed to slow down. The arrow flew through the raindrops, flying past the side of Drusus's helm. The Tribune's eyes widened, his pupils following the deadly trajectory of that arrow spinning in the air with lethal precision, carrying a fate that could not be undone.

  The woman in black had just turned around, her eyes staring blankly at her bloodied hands, when the arrow slammed into her chest with a sickening thud.

  She was thrown back by the force of the arrow. Her eyes stared at the grey sky one last time, then she collapsed. Her body fell face up right beside the dying Johannes. Two bodies, one killer and one victim, now lay side by side in death, united by the same mud.

  The mob at the end of the bridge stood frozen seeing it.

  Then, a man in the front row screamed. A scream that came not from sadness, but from pure exploding hate.

  "THEY KILLED HER! THE DEVIL SOLDIERS KILLED A MOTHER!"

  The spell of peace shattered into pieces. Hell leaked out on the Milvian Bridge.

  CLANG!

  The sound of the first stone hitting a Roman steel helmet.

  The mob that had just been singing turned into an unstoppable wave of rage. Fear turned to savagery. They no longer saw the Cataphracts as protectors, but as vile butchers.

  Stones, hard mud, and firewood flew into the air. Warhorses whinnied in panic as the projectiles rained down on them from all directions.

  "DEFENSIVE!!" roared Drusus, his voice nearly swallowed by the roar of the mob. "DO NOT ENGAGE! CLOSE RANKS! FORM A PERIMETER AROUND THE CARRIAGE!"

  The veteran soldiers moved with high discipline despite the rain of stones. They did not dismount. Instead, they spurred their horses backward, pressing the scale-armored flanks of their horses against one another.

  They created a living wall of iron and muscle. The armored Cataphract horses became the primary shield, absorbing the blows of stones and wood, while their riders deflected projectiles aimed at their heads with their round shields.

  In the center of that circle of horses, an officer and two other soldiers jumped down quickly. They ran to grab the limp and blood-soaked body of Bishop Johannes from the mud.

  "Watch his head!" shouted the officer.

  They dragged the Bishop's body, carrying it into the safe gap between the horses' legs, then lifting him to the open carriage door.

  Deacon Paulus, whose face was now splattered with blood and mud, welcomed his teacher's body with hysterical tears. He pulled Johannes's robe collar, dragging the heavy weight onto the carriage floor.

  "Close the door!" yelled Drusus while parrying a stone with the flat of his sword.

  The carriage door slammed shut, separating them from the small apocalypse happening outside.

  Amidst the increasingly brutal rain of stones, Tribune Drusus knew he had to make a quick decision before they were completely surrounded. The diplomatic mission had turned into a survival mission, and he had to prepare the worst-case contingency plan.

  "TITUS! GAIUS!" Drusus shouted, calling the two fastest riders in his squad.

  The two soldiers broke away from the wall of horses, approaching Drusus in the chaos.

  "Commander!"

  Drusus gripped the reins of Titus's horse with a wild look in his eyes.

  "You two! Do not come to Rome! Turn back North right now!"

  "We cannot leave you, Commander!" Titus protested.

  "It is an order!" Drusus snapped, his eyes blazing. "Ride your horses until they foam all the way to Ravenna. Report directly to General Vitus. Tell him: Johannes has fallen. The situation on the ground is out of control."

  Drusus glanced briefly at the carriage now besieged by the raging mob, then looked back at his men with a hard face.

  "Tell Vitus... we are going in. We will do whatever we can to win the trial. Tell him to prepare the legions, but do not move yet. Wait for word from us."

  Drusus's breathing was heavy. He paused for a moment, his face hardening like granite under the pouring rain.

  "But..." Drusus continued with a deadly low voice. "If in ten days after the Synod ends there is no news from us... or if we do not return..."

  Titus swallowed hard, waiting for the next sentence.

  "...then consider us failed. When that happens, tell Vitus to come to Rome. Destroy this nest of rebels. Do you understand?!"

  "Understood, Commander!" Titus and Gaius answered in unison.

  "GO!"

  The two riders immediately turned their mounts. They spurred their horses through the muddy riverbank, disappearing into the curtain of rain toward the North.

  Drusus turned to face Rome. He raised his sword high.

  “To Saint Peter’s! Clear the way to the Basilica!”

  The hundred iron horses no longer held back. The defensive wall turned into a wave of attack. Warhorses leaped and charged, splitting the panic-stricken crowd. The wooden carriage jerked hard as its wheels spun fast, leaving the riot behind.

  Inside the violently shaking carriage, the atmosphere felt cramped and smelled of iron mixed with blood.

  Paulus held Johannes's head in his lap. His white deacon's robe was now deep red, soaked by his teacher's blood that continued to flood the wooden floor of the carriage.

  “Father…” Paulus sobbed, his tears falling onto Johannes’s wrinkled face which was growing paler by the second. “Father… hold on… we are almost there… there are physicians waiting at Saint Peter’s…”

  Johannes coughed. Thick blood spurted from his mouth, staining his white beard. His breath was short and heavy. He knew his time was up.

  With trembling hands, Johannes felt for the ring finger of his right hand. He tried to remove the simple gold ring circling it. The Bishop's Ring. The symbol of pastoral authority he had carried for decades.

  "Paulus..." he whispered weakly.

  "I am here, Father," Paulus answered while pressing the wound on Johannes's stomach with the cloth of his robe, trying to stop the futile bleeding.

  Johannes managed to remove the ring. With his last remaining strength, he grabbed Paulus's blood-stained palm and placed the ring there. He gripped his student's hand tightly.

  "Take this..." Johannes's voice was barely audible, drowned out by the sound of the carriage wheels. "Now... you are no longer a sheep... you are a shepherd..."

  Paulus shook his head, tears flowing freely. "No... Father must wear it..."

  Johannes smiled faintly. His eyes looked straight into Paulus's eyes, giving his final blessing.

  "May God be with you... and be your refuge..."

  After speaking those words, the grip of Johannes's hand slowly loosened. The light in his eyes dimmed, like a candle blown out by a gentle wind. His eyelids lowered slowly, closing his view from this cruel world forever.

  His chest stopped rising and falling. He moved no more.

  "Father?" called Paulus.

  Silence.

  "Father!" Paulus shook his teacher's shoulders. "Father, wake up! We are almost there!"

  Paulus pressed the wound on Johannes's stomach harder, hoping the pain would wake the old man. But there was no response. The body began to feel heavy and stiff.

  Paulus howled softly, hugging his teacher's lifeless body. Inside the shaking carriage, there was no more wisdom to guide him, only the smell of iron and the rhythmic splashing of mud as they were driven deeper into a city that had already condemned them.