Atrium of Saint Peter's, Vatican Hill. Night.

  The convoy arrived at the courtyard of the ancient basilica of Saint Peter like a storm bringing doom. The Cataphract horses were panting, steam rising from their nostrils. The soldiers' armor was full of mud, dents from stones, and bloodstains.

  In front of them, the great gate to the precincts of Saint Peter's was shut tight. A dozen guards of Saint Peter's stood blocking the way with crossed spears and worn shields.

  "HALT!" shouted the captain at the gate. "No armed men pass these doors without word from the Lateran!"

  Tribune Drusus did not slow his horse. He spurred his mount until he nearly crashed into the line of guards, causing some of them to step back in shock.

  "OPEN THE GATE!" roared Drusus. His face was wet with rain and rage. "In the name of Emperor Romulus Augustus! We bring Bishop Johannes, critically wounded! We need a physician! NOW!"

  The Captain of the Guard did not flinch. He stepped forward with a stiff face. "This is not the Emperor's throne, Tribune! This is the Throne of Saint Peter! No armed soldiers may enter without written leave from the Lateran!"

  "To hell with your permission!" Drusus drew his sword. Lightning flashed in the sky, reflecting a terrifying light on his steel blade. "There is a Bishop's life at stake! Open this gate or I will break it down and take your head!"

  "One more step and we will shoot you!" the Captain replied. The archers on the gate wall drew their bowstrings, aiming at Drusus's chest.

  The Cataphract troops behind Drusus unsheathed their swords in unison. The sound of metal clashing against metal rang out loud. Tension peaked. Under the pouring rain, civil war seemed about to break out right in front of God's house.

  "BREAK THEM!" shouted Drusus raising his sword.

  "HOLD!"

  A calm but authoritative voice cut through the tension, sharper than any sword.

  A small door beside the main gate opened. A man stepped out. He wore no armor, but the neat robes of a church official. He walked out just like that without any head covering, letting the heavy rain instantly soak his body and expensive robes. His face was gaunt, his eyes sharp and intelligent, with a calm demeanor that made the soldiers hesitate.

  It was Deacon Gelasius, Pope Simplicius's right-hand man. Behind him stood several scribe monks who sheltered fearfully in the doorway.

  "Lower your weapons, Captain," Gelasius ordered quietly to the gate guard, ignoring the water dripping from his hair onto his face. Then he turned to Drusus who was still on his horse with a cold stare. "And you, Tribune. Put away that iron. This is a house of prayer, not a slaughterhouse."

  "They are blocking us from saving Bishop Johannes!" snapped Drusus, though he lowered the tip of his sword slightly. "He is dying inside that carriage!"

  Gelasius looked at the wooden carriage covered in mud and blood. His expression turned serious. He stepped toward the carriage, ignoring the mud soiling his sandals.

  The carriage door opened from the inside.

  Paulus appeared in the doorway. The young man's face was empty, his eyes swollen, and his white robe had turned a gruesome red. His hand still tightly gripped his teacher's gold ring.

  "He..." Paulus's voice was hoarse and broken. "Johannes... he is dying..."

  Gelasius looked inside the carriage. He saw Johannes's stiff body lying on the floor. He saw the pool of blood gathering there. He sighed deeply, then made the sign of the cross on his wet chest.

  "Open the main gate," Gelasius ordered the Captain. "Now."

  "But Father Gelasius, the rules forbid soldiers..."

  "Open it!" Gelasius barked, his voice booming for the first time, drowning out the thunder. "Take that carriage to the physician of the Lateran!"

  Gelasius looked at Drusus. "Enter, Tribune. But only this carriage and you yourself may enter as a witness. Your troops stay outside to stand guard. Do not cause any more trouble than this."

  Drusus nodded stiffly. He signaled his troops with his hand. "Hold position! Maintain a perimeter outside the gate!"

  The great gate opened with the sound of heavy hinges. The carriage was driven into the inner courtyard, followed by Drusus and Gelasius walking quickly beside it toward the healing wing.

  They carried Johannes's body into the treatment room. Grey-robed physicians ran to meet them, preparing bandages and warm water in a hurry.

  Paulus sat in the corner of the room, his body shivering from cold and shock. Drusus stood near the door, his helm removed, revealing a hard soldier's face now bowed in gloom.

  An old physician checked the pulse on Johannes's neck. He leaned his ear against the Bishop's chest, then placed a small mirror in front of his nose.

  Silence. There was no mist on the mirror.

  The physician straightened up, then shook his head slowly at Gelasius.

  "It is too late," the physician said softly. "The wound pierced vital organs. He was gone before he reached the gate."

  Paulus covered his face with both hands. His shoulders shook violently in silent weeping. Drusus punched the stone wall beside him with an iron fist, creating a loud thud out of frustration.

  Gelasius bowed his head. He took a clean linen cloth and slowly covered Johannes's peaceful face.

  With a formal voice recording history, Gelasius spoke to the scribe standing in the corner of the room with a quill ready on paper.

  "Record this among the names of the departed," Gelasius said. "Let his name be read in the diptychs, and remembered at the altar."

  Gelasius looked at the lifeless body before him.

  "On this day, the 13th of November, 476 AD. Johannes, Bishop of Ravenna and faithful Servant of God, has passed away."

  He paused for a moment, looking at the weeping Paulus, then continued.

  "Age seventy-two."

  Gelasius sighed deeply, then turned to a young monk standing at the door.

  "Convey this sad news to the Holy Father," Gelasius ordered in a low voice. "Tell him that Bishop Johannes has passed away. The Holy Father is praying in his private chapel. Do not disturb his prayer, but wait until he is finished, then deliver this oral message."

  The monk nodded respectfully and hurried away, his footsteps echoing in the silent stone corridor.

  Gelasius then turned to look at Tribune Drusus who was still standing with clenched fists beside the door.

  "Now explain to me," Gelasius said calmly, though his eyes demanded an answer. "You brought one hundred heavy cavalry troops, but you arrived bringing a corpse. What actually happened out there?"

  Drusus gritted his teeth. He explained everything briefly and concisely, without trying to defend himself. He told of the blockade at the Milvian Bridge, of Johannes insisting on going down to dialogue, of the embrace that turned into a stabbing, and the stray arrow that killed the assassin.

  During that explanation, Paulus did not make a sound. He sat beside the cot, his unblinking eyes staring at his teacher's pale face. His hand still grasped Johannes's cold hand, as if hoping the body's warmth could flow back.

  When Drusus finished, Gelasius nodded slowly. His face showed no anger, only cold calculation.

  "We must bury him immediately," Gelasius said, breaking the silence. "Tomorrow the Synod begins very early in the morning. We cannot let this body lie here without clarity. I will order the gravediggers to prepare a place in the burial chambers beneath Saint Peter's, tonight."

  "No," Paulus's voice sounded hoarse, cutting off the Archdeacon's words.

  Gelasius turned. "What do you mean, son?"

  Paulus raised his face. His eyes were red and swollen, but his gaze was firm. "He is the Bishop of Ravenna. He left a message for me, he wants to go home."

  "The distance to Ravenna is far, Deacon," Gelasius argued gently. "Carrying a body on a journey of many days during the rainy season like this is not wise."

  "Then I beg you, wrap him with linens and aromatics, as is fitting for a bishop who dies far from his own see. Prepare a worthy coffin. We will bring him home after the synod."

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Gelasius was silent for a moment, weighing the request. It was a reasonable request, procedural, and delivered with appropriate respect. Finally, he nodded.

  "Very well," Gelasius said. He clapped his hands to summon the medical servants. "Clean his body. Wash him, anoint him with oils and aromatics, and lay him out with honor. We will keep him in the cold underground chamber until you are ready to take him home."

  The servants immediately went to work. They began to remove Johannes's bloody robes with care. Paulus took a step back, giving them room, but did not leave the room.

  While the body cleansing procession began, Gelasius invited Drusus to step back near the window overlooking the rainy courtyard.

  "Tell me, Father," whispered Drusus, holding back his explosive anger. "Why is the situation in this city so crazy? Why can the people believe blindly in that lie about dark magic?"

  Gelasius stared at the raindrops on the window glass. "The people of Rome are hungry, Tribune. They are poor, afraid, and feel abandoned. When the stomach is empty, common sense dies."

  "But this makes no sense," Drusus protested. "If General Vitus were here, he would have finished them all off."

  "Violence will not solve the problem in Rome right now," Gelasius cut in. "Look around you. There are no more Legions in this city. Here? All that remains is the Senate busy saving their own wealth, and the city militia whose only work is getting drunk and extorting merchants."

  Gelasius turned to look at Drusus.

  "Theodore came to feed them and give them a scapegoat. He said their suffering was caused by the Little Emperor. It is easy for the people to believe, because they need someone to blame for their poverty."

  Drusus snorted roughly. "And now?"

  "And now, the situation is even more complicated," Gelasius continued, his eyes turning cold again. "You said your man shot that woman?"

  "She killed a Bishop! It was a security measure!" Drusus defended.

  "Correct militarily, but bad politically," Gelasius said sharply. "News will spread that an arrow from a soldier of Romulus killed a mother on the Milvian Bridge. Theodore will twist this fact tomorrow morning. So I suggest you remain silent from now on. Do not engage in any provocation. Your troops outside the gate are conspicuous enough. If you make one more mistake, a new riot will break out."

  Drusus fell silent. He realized how slippery this political battlefield was.

  "Then who will speak tomorrow?" asked Drusus in frustration, pointing toward Johannes's body which was being wrapped in linen cloth. "Our voice is dead."

  Gelasius did not answer immediately. His eyes shifted slowly to the figure of the young man standing stiffly beside the bier. The young man whose robe was stained with blood, yet stood tall holding a gold ring in his hand.

  "Who will replace Johannes?" Gelasius asked rhetorically.

  Drusus followed Gelasius's gaze. He looked at Paulus.

  "That kid?" Drusus doubted.

  "He is the only choice," Gelasius muttered softly. "You cannot possibly speak there. Your status as a soldier and that sword of yours will only make the atmosphere more chaotic. So, yes, he is the one."

  Gelasius walked over to Paulus. He patted the young man's shoulder.

  "Young man," Gelasius greeted.

  Paulus turned, his face flat and expressionless.

  "I want to speak with you in my room later," Gelasius said briefly and neutrally.

  Without waiting for an answer, Gelasius snapped his fingers to summon an old servant.

  "Show the guest rooms in the east wing to these two men. Give them hot water for bathing and clean clothes. Burn those bloody robes."

  "Yes, Father," the servant replied.

  Gelasius straightened his damp robes. He glanced once more at Johannes's corpse, then turned and walked out of the room.

  Tribune Drusus and Paulus were left there, while outside the thick walls of Saint Peter's precincts, one hundred Cataphract troops set up emergency tents in the middle of the storm, guarding the gate with drawn swords, awaiting the dawn that would determine the fate of the empire.

  Gelasius's Private Residence, Vatican Hill. November 14, 476 AD. Midnight.

  The stone corridors on Vatican Hill felt like a labyrinth of death at midnight. Paulus walked in silence, his footsteps echoing softly on the cold marble floor. In front of him, a thin monk in a hooded robe walked quickly holding the only source of light, a small candle whose flame danced in the wind from the window slits.

  They passed statues of saints who seemed to stare with judging faces from the shadows. There were no guards on this route, only a gripping silence and the sound of rain continuously hitting the basilica roof in the distance.

  The monk stopped in front of a sturdy oak door at the end of a dead-end corridor. He knocked three times with a slow and specific rhythm.

  The door opened slightly. Gelasius's face appeared halfway from the crack, illuminated by candlelight from within. He was not wearing his grand robes, just a simple tunic.

  "No one followed you?" Gelasius asked sharply, his eyes sweeping the darkness of the corridor behind Paulus warily.

  "No one, Father," the monk answered in a whisper from under his hood. "The east corridor is empty. The guards are changing shifts at the south gate."

  "Good. You may return," Gelasius ordered.

  The monk bowed briefly, then turned and vanished back into the darkness of the corridor, taking his candle with him.

  Gelasius opened the door wider, signaling Paulus to enter. As soon as Paulus stepped over the threshold, Gelasius closed the door tight and locked it with an iron bar.

  Paulus stood awkwardly in the middle of the warm room. The room was filled with shelves of ancient scrolls and smelled of beeswax and ink.

  Gelasius turned to face Paulus. His face was serious, without a shred of polite friendliness.

  "Listen well before your bottom touches that chair, Deacon," Gelasius said in a low but pressing voice. "This meeting never happened. This is a secret. Not a single soul in Rome may know we spoke privately tonight. Understood?"

  Paulus nodded stiffly. "I understand, Father."

  "Sit down," Gelasius ordered, pointing to a wooden chair in front of his desk which was full of stacks of letters.

  Paulus sat. He saw Johannes's gold ring now fitting loosely on his own ring finger. It felt heavy. Very heavy.

  Gelasius poured red wine into two goblets. He pushed one glass toward Paulus.

  "Drink. It is not for pleasure. It is to warm your blood which is cold from shock."

  Paulus obeyed. He drank the wine. It tasted bitter and hard, but it managed to stop the trembling in his hands.

  "Does the Holy Father know?" Paulus asked quietly.

  "He does," Gelasius answered. He leaned back in his chair, looking at Paulus with his sharp eyes that were famous throughout Rome. "Pope Simplicius is grieving deeply. Johannes was his old friend. But the Pope's grief will not save you tomorrow morning."

  Gelasius took a scroll from his desk and opened it in front of Paulus. It was a layout of the Basilica's hall.

  "Listen to me carefully, Deacon Paulus," Gelasius's voice changed into the tone of a war strategist. "Tomorrow is not a trial. Tomorrow is theater. And you are an understudy forced onto the stage without a script."

  Gelasius pointed to the position of the main seat in the layout.

  "Presiding over the synod will be Pope Simplicius himself. He is the absolute judge. However, he does not sit alone."

  Gelasius's finger circled the area around the Pope's seat.

  "Surrounding the Holy Father will sit Twenty Senior Priests of Rome and six other Regional Deacons. They are the Presbyterium, the heart of the Apostolic See. They are silent, they take notes, and they are the Pope's ears."

  Gelasius looked at Paulus seriously.

  "Theodore will bring forty bishops from outside to shout and pressure the Pope. Theodore's strategy is to create chaos to make the Pope afraid. Your job is to win the hearts of those Twenty Senior Priests of Rome. They are old men who hate noise. They hate Theodore's arrogance in acting as if he owns the church."

  "What does that have to do with the verdict?" Paulus asked, confused.

  "If you can make these Roman Priests sympathize with you," Gelasius explained, "then the Pope will have the moral courage to reject Theodore's demands. The Pope needs support from his own household to resist foreign political pressure."

  Gelasius pointed again to the right side of the layout.

  "On the right side sit the accusers. Theodore, Bishop of Milan, leads this mob. The Archbishop of Capua and corrupt senators are there. They will use acclamatio, meaning they will shout in unison to intimidate your mind."

  Then Gelasius's finger shifted to the left side. Empty.

  "On the left side is the place for the defense. Your place."

  Paulus swallowed hard. "Who will sit with me?"

  Gelasius looked Paulus straight in the eye. "No one."

  A chilling silence filled the room.

  "The Bishop of Aquileia who was supposed to be pro-Romulus sent a message an hour ago. He claimed sudden illness and cannot leave his inn. That is the classic excuse of cowards who do not want to be on a sinking ship," Gelasius explained with a cynical tone. "While the Bishop of Turin chose to go home for fear of the riots. You are alone, son. Truly alone."

  "How can I win against forty bishops and one Theodore?" Paulus asked in despair.

  "You cannot win with legal arguments, let alone theology. Theodore has memorized canon law better than you," Gelasius said. He leaned forward, his face illuminated by the flickering candlelight. "The only way for you to survive is by not playing by their rules."

  Gelasius took his wine glass, swirling it slowly.

  "Remember my position. I am the Archdeacon. I must hold the balance. I cannot defend you openly there. If I appear to side with Romulus, the mob will storm Saint Peter's, believing the Pope protects a wizard. But..."

  Gelasius looked at Paulus intensely.

  "...I do not like the way Theodore uses the mob. I do not like anarchy. The Church must stand on order, not street riots."

  He placed a small scroll covered with a plain wax seal in front of Paulus.

  "What is this?" Paulus asked.

  "A list of weaknesses," Gelasius whispered. "Not theological weaknesses, but moral weaknesses. Theodore is funded by slave traders from the East for Nepos's campaign. The Bishop of Capua has lands confiscated by Romulus's father, Orestes, which is why he hates you personally. This is ammunition. Use it only if you are desperate."

  Paulus touched the scroll with a trembling hand.

  "Why are you giving this to me? Aren't you supposed to be neutral?"

  "Because I want a fair fight," Gelasius answered. "And because your teacher, Johannes, was a good man who did not deserve to die like a dog in the street. Consider this my personal repayment to him."

  Gelasius stood up, walked around the desk, and stood beside Paulus. He put his hand on the young man's shoulder. His grip was strong.

  "Listen to my final advice," Gelasius said. His voice was heavy and full of warning.

  "Tomorrow, Theodore will attack you with logic and legality. He will say that Romulus is a barbarian puppet, that Nepos is the legitimate emperor according to Constantinople's law. He will talk about politics, treaties, and legitimacy."

  "What should I answer?"

  "Do not answer with politics," Gelasius insisted. "If you talk politics, you lose. You are not a politician, you are an eyewitness."

  Gelasius pointed to the ring on Paulus's finger.

  "Answer with blood. Tell them what you saw at the Milvian Bridge. Tell them how an old Bishop carrying a message of peace was killed by lies spread by Theodore. Make the Pope cry. Make the room feel guilty. Turn that political trial into a murder trial."

  Gelasius stared sharply into Paulus's eyes.

  "The truth does not need a loud voice, Paulus. But the truth needs guts. Tomorrow, when you stand there, do not imagine you are defending an Emperor. Imagine you are defending the spirit of your teacher who is demanding justice before God."

  Paulus fell silent. Those words pierced into his soul, burning away his doubt and replacing it with cold determination. He held Johannes's ring tightly.

  "I understand," Paulus whispered.

  "Good," Gelasius said. He withdrew his hand and returned to his formal demeanor. "Now go to sleep. Save your strength. Dawn will break in four hours, and when the sun rises, the fate of Italy is on your tongue."

  Paulus stood up. He bowed respectfully, hiding the small scroll beneath his robe, then turned toward the door.

  "One more thing, Deacon," Gelasius called as Paulus held the door handle.

  Paulus turned.

  Gelasius stood in the shadows of his bookshelves, his face hard to read.

  "History is written by the victors. If you fail tomorrow, Johannes will only be remembered as a traitor who died foolishly defending a wizard. But if you win, his name will smell sweet as a martyr of peace."

  Gelasius looked straight into Paulus's eyes.

  "Make sure you win."

  "God willing," Paulus replied softly.

  He nodded slowly but firmly, then turned and walked out of the room.

  Gelasius stood alone in the silence. He blew out the candles on his desk one by one until only a single flame remained before the crucifix. He knelt slowly, pressing his forehead against the cold marble floor as if the weight of the entire world were leaning upon his neck. In the deepening shadows, he whispered a single plea for the dawn to come, asking for mercy upon a house divided and for the light of wisdom to pierce the thickening veil of the coming storm.