The sound of the war horn echoed with a deep roar, ripping through the hills and the worn walls of the village. The villagers, already bowed in respect, shuddered at the imposing call. Some children clung to their mothers' skirts, while the men pressed their lips together in reverent silence.
Dario de Frascati advanced with firm steps, his tall, skeletal figure casting a shadow over the stony ground. His dark gaze swept across the village with scrutiny, observing every corner, every gesture, every sign of deviation. Behind him, his entourage followed in martial order—armed soldiers and stern-faced clerics, carrying banners emblazoned with the sacred cross.
But as he reached the square, his expression hardened even more. There, among the tangle of irregular buildings and uneven rooftops, stood the temple of the One God… or what was supposed to be.
The structure was still unfinished. Half-built walls, scattered planks, and heaps of unlaid stone bore witness to the abandonment of the work. Weeds crept through the cracks in the ground, as if nature itself were trying to reclaim the place. Only the bell tower, a skeletal wooden frame with a lone bell, stood with a semblance of dignity.
Dario felt indignation rise in his throat like bitter poison.
"An unfinished temple is a people without faith," he muttered with disdain, his voice barely a whisper but carrying enough venom to chill the blood of those around him.
His hand clenched over the crucifix hanging from his chest. The judgment of God had to fall upon these people… and he would be its instrument.
The sun fell at oblique angles over the square, dyeing the stone walls in shades of ochre. Dario de Frascati advanced, his cassock billowing as he walked, flanked by his entourage. His gaze locked onto the firm-shouldered man waiting for him in the center.
"I demand the presence of this village's lord," he declared in a dry voice.
Marco Hernico Caese crossed his arms, his gladius hispaniensis resting at his hip—a silent reminder of his lineage.
"There is no lord here. We are all equals in the eyes of God."
The priest's lips curled into a sneer.
"Equals? Is it not the duty of a leader to guide his people with the authority that the Almighty has ordained? Without order, faith weakens, and with it, the souls of men."
Marco sighed, his patience measured.
"Order here is kept through reason, not fear. The people listen because they trust, not because they are forced to."
Dario clicked his tongue, letting his gaze wander over the village. That was when he noticed the unfinished structure in the corner.
"And the church? Why is it not completed?"
Marco did not waver.
"Last year, there was famine. We had to use the funds to buy food from the valley. But the resources are secured for this year. Construction will continue."
The priest took a step forward, his expression tight with displeasure.
"Food before the house of God? Do you believe that bodies are worth more than souls?"
The mayor remained composed, his voice as cold as marble.
"The dead do not pray, Father. And a starving village can build nothing—neither churches nor homes."
Dario clenched his fists beneath the sleeves of his cassock. The cold rationality of this man, his indifference to the urgency of faith, burned in his veins. But he could not act without losing authority.
Marco inclined his head slightly, an almost mocking gesture of respect.
"If your concern is the church, you may rest assured. Everything is under control."
The priest narrowed his eyes. The man before him was no open heretic, but his lukewarmness was just as dangerous.
Marco extended his hand toward the temple under construction.—The materials have already been purchased. Stone brought from the valley, wood from the strongest forests. It took great effort to transport them through the mountain passes, but our people succeeded.
The priests in the entourage observed the materials in awe. The quality was undeniable. Columns carved with precision, sturdy planks, stone blocks reflecting the golden sunlight. A murmur of approval spread among them. Some even clapped in recognition.
—A praiseworthy effort, mayor —one of Darío's attendants said.
But Darío de Frascati remained silent, his gaze sharp as a dagger. After a moment, he spoke with grave authority:—On our way here, we have had to destroy several demon shrines. Pagan idols and remnants of ancient superstitions. Is that not your duty, mayor? Why do you allow such abominations to persist in these lands?
Marco held his gaze steadily, without a hint of guilt.—It is curious that you mention that, Father. Because if my duty is to destroy shrines, then yours must be to ensure there are funds for it.
The priests exchanged confused glances.—What do you mean? —Darío asked, his voice tense.
Marco sighed and crossed his arms.—If the temples of the One God are to be built and the pagan shrines eradicated, money is needed. My tax collectors work day and night to ensure the village prospers. Every stone in this church has been paid for with effort and planning. If I had diverted resources to destroy every rock of the old sanctuaries, perhaps today we would be praying in an empty field.
The response fell like a hammer upon the conversation.—But… —a young priest attempted to interject.
Marco raised a hand.—It is simple administration. Faith alone is not enough. Intelligence is also required.
Some of Darío's attendants nodded in silence. It was difficult to refute the mayor's logic. Darío narrowed his eyes, his jaw tightening.—Faith should not depend on worldly calculations.—But churches are built with stone and wood, not with prayers —Marco replied with a faint smile.
The priest pressed his lips together. In that moment, he knew he would not defeat Marco Hernico Caese with words.
The murmur of the discussion between Marco Hernico Caese and Darío de Frascati was interrupted by the hurried arrival of a young woman. Her light steps echoed over the gravel, and her figure was silhouetted against the dying light of the sunset. She wore her dark brown hair in a simple updo, with a few loose strands framing her delicate features and resolute expression. Her wool dress, though modest, fit naturally around her slender figure, and around her neck hung a delicate necklace of strange design that immediately caught the priest's eye.
—Father —she said in a clear, firm voice, bowing with impeccable grace, with the poise and precision of a highborn lady—. The sheep are in their pen, and there are no signs of wolves tonight.
Marco nodded with a slight smile, but before he could respond, she continued with an intrigued air:—On the way, I encountered a young merchant. He seems wealthy and well-dressed. He said he would probably arrive at any moment.
A faint murmur rippled through the priest's entourage. But Darío did not take his eyes off the young woman. Her bearing, the elegance of her speech, her confidence… and above all, the way her chest rose and fell with each word. His pulse quickened, and a wave of revulsion—toward her or himself?—coursed through his body like a jolt.
His voice wavered at first, then hardened with the fanaticism that disguised his desire.—A woman wandering alone through the fields at dusk? That is something only witches…
A discreet but firm tug on his cassock made him fall silent. Segismundo, his attendant, was looking at him with a silent warning. Darío blinked and turned his gaze away from the young woman, realizing that the villagers' stares were no longer friendly.
Marco Hernico Caese smiled with the calm of a man who had dealt with too many priests and too many arguments about money. He glanced over the group of clerics before announcing:—Tonight, you may stay at the Castelo de Pietro. It is the most important house in the village.
Darío raised an eyebrow, assessing the mayor's choice of words. Castelo de Pietro. A grandiose title for what was likely, at best, a fortified villa. But if it was the mayor's house, there had to be certain luxuries.—So, you will host us in your home —he commented in a neutral tone, though his eyes scrutinized Marco for any sign of undue ostentation.
But the man shook his head, with a subtle, almost amused smile.—It is not my home. It is the Pope's house.
The murmuring among the priests grew at once.—The Pope's? —Darío repeated, narrowing his eyes.
Marco nodded calmly.—Or, in his absence, his delegate's. That is, you and your entourage.
The murmurs turned approving. The priest could feel the balance of opinion shifting in the mayor's favor. How clever. Darío narrowed his eyes but maintained his solemn expression. Around him, his companions exchanged looks of satisfaction. If there was a house worthy of God's representative on Earth, then this village was not as poor as it claimed to be.
—So —Darío said coldly— there is money for this, but not for the House of God.
Marco, unperturbed, rested a hand on the hilt of his gladius and responded in a meticulous tone, almost like an accountant explaining figures to an impatient client:—The house was built by my grandfather long ago. The chapel within it was designed for the village's needs when we were fewer. Now, if the question is why a larger church has not been built, the answer is simple: because a year ago, there was a famine, and we had to allocate resources to bringing food from the valley.
Several of the priests nodded.
—But now —Marco continued serenely— the materials have already been purchased. The chapel will expand when the community can support it without sacrificing other necessities. After all, what good is a grand church if the people inside it starve?
Silence stretched. Marco regarded the priests with the gaze of a man who had asked this question before and had never received a good answer.
Dario heard the murmurs of his entourage and realized he needed to change tactics. The approval of the priests and the relief of the soldiers indicated that Marco had won that discussion—at least in appearance. He could not afford to appear stubborn or dismissive; instead, he had to assume a posture of dignity and respect, presenting himself as a benevolent guide, a man of God who understood the realities of the world.
But beyond strategy, there was another reason driving him to soften his tone: the mayor's daughter.
Lucia Hernica.
His gaze returned to her, scrutinizing her more closely. Despite the simplicity of her attire, she radiated a natural grace, as if nobility were something innate in her bearing. The fading sunlight played upon her dark brown hair, and her eyes of the same shade gleamed with a spark of intelligence and determination. Dario sensed something in her that disturbed and fascinated him at once. She was young, barely a maiden, yet in her expression, there was an untamed spirit.
A challenge.
He took a deep breath and, with a slight nod, adopted a more conciliatory tone as he addressed Marco."You are a man of foresight and order, Mayor. It is only fair to acknowledge that. You have provided well for your village and for those who serve God."
Marco, surprised by the change in demeanor, nodded cautiously."I do what is necessary for the well-being of the village, Father."
Dario offered a measured smile, calculated to appear sincere."That is why I wish to share my table with you and the notable men of this place tonight. Bring your children and the children of the other distinguished men, for tonight, I shall ensure they are all properly baptized, as is fitting."
Lucia felt a shiver run down her spine. Her instincts told her that something about this man was dangerous. She had no proof, only a dark feeling that clung to her chest. Discreetly, she grasped her father's arm, trying to mask her unease.
But Dario noticed.
And that only fueled his interest.