The moon rose over the village, bathing the stone walls in its silvery glow. In the great hall, illuminated by torches and candles, Darío de Frascati and Segismundo de Lariano conversed in a secluded corner. The murmurs of the village notables, gathered for the evening meal, were muffled by the thick masonry of the place.
"It's curious," murmured Segismundo, running his fingers over the rough surface of the oak table. "They say this villa was built a century ago, yet its foundations are much older. There are fragments of marble and columns that do not belong to the architecture of these times."
Darío observed him with a faint smile, somewhere between mocking and condescending.
"You are perceptive, young man."
"My sources indicate that this village grew around an ancient patrician house. The lords vanished, but their servants remained. They clung to this land, like the roots of a dead tree still holding the soil together."
Darío intertwined his fingers, resting his hands on the table.
"That is the problem with these remote places. Centuries of decay have allowed impious beliefs to survive beneath the veneer of Christianity."
Segismundo frowned.
"Are you referring to the destroyed sanctuaries?"
"Precisely." Darío paused, sliding his fingertip along the rim of his wine goblet without drinking from it. "We burned their idols, toppled their temples, and yet… have you noticed that the sites where they once stood are still too well maintained? The people have not abandoned them entirely. They still care for them."
Segismundo nodded gravely.
"That's true. I saw carved stones in some homes that do not appear Christian. And in the village chapel, I heard some women whispering prayers I did not recognize."
Darío let out a sigh heavy with weariness.
"Custom is a far more difficult enemy to eradicate than idolatry itself. It is not enough to tear down an altar; one must break the hearts that still venerate it."
A tense silence fell between them.
Then, with the same subtlety as a predator studying its prey, Darío changed the subject.
"Speaking of generations… I have noticed that the mayor's daughter is a young woman of remarkable virtue."
Segismundo lifted his gaze, surprised by the remark.
"Lucia Hernica."
"Yes. Her bearing is worthy of something greater than a simple village." Darío set down his goblet and fixed his gaze on the young man. "In Rome, there is always a need for young women of faith to serve the Church. The female orders require new assistants. Perhaps her father will understand that this is the best path for his daughter."
Segismundo frowned.
"Are you suggesting that she should take the veil?"
"I do not suggest it. I recommend it. It would be an honorable fate for a young woman with her delicacy and grace. Here, in this land of superstitions, her purity is at risk. In Rome, however, she would be under the Church's protection… and under the guidance of men like us, who know what is best for her soul."
The young noble felt a pang of unease in his stomach. Something about the way Darío spoke those words felt… wrong. But he could not quite articulate why.
He simply nodded, lost in thought.
Darío smiled.
The seed had been planted.
The night was thick, laden with an ancient, almost sacred air. In the most secluded chamber of the villa, Darío de Frascati prepared for his ritual of purification. The dim candlelight cast elongated shadows over the stone walls as he stripped off his clerical garments, leaving only a simple tunic. He took the braided leather scourge with iron tips and let it rest in his hands for a moment, caressing it with the reverence of one handling a sacred object.
The image of Lucia Hernica formed in his mind—her graceful walk, her shy gaze. Her voice still echoed in his thoughts, innocent, fresh, unaware that she had awakened in him the very desires he fought against night after night. With a gesture of fury, he raised the scourge and let it fall upon his back.
The sound of leather cutting through flesh was muffled by the thick walls of the chamber. Again and again, with an almost liturgical rhythm, the discipline tore into his skin, and with it, he hoped, the temptations that plagued him.
Meanwhile, Segismundo de Lariano wandered through the villa, driven by a very different kind of unrest.
The candelabras in the corridors flickered with dim light, casting partial illumination on the vast chambers. This place was a mystery he longed to unravel. He knew the construction was just over a century old, but the details spoke to something older, something deeper.
He stopped at the library. As he pushed open the heavy wooden doors, the scent of aged parchment and treated leather filled his senses. He marveled at the number of volumes carefully arranged on oak shelves. Some codices were clearly religious, but others… others were dangerous.
He brushed his fingertips over one of the most worn tomes. A book of philosophy that his master Darío would undoubtedly deem heretical. But Segismundo saw it differently. These works contained wisdom, knowledge that should not be lost.
He turned to the butler, a stern-faced man watching him in silence.
—"These volumes need to be renewed,"—he declared, slipping a few coins from his pouch and discreetly placing them in the servant's hand. —"Have their covers re-bound with the finest leather. Do not destroy them, just make sure they do not raise suspicion."
The butler nodded without a word.
Segismundo continued his exploration, walking through the corridors until he reached a deep courtyard, older than the rest of the villa. The stone walls were worn, with veins and markings that spoke of countless years passing through them.
That was when he saw the inscription.
On an almost smooth stone, barely legible under the moon's glow, the words carved into its surface spoke of a distant past:
"This is the house of the Felicitores, servants of Rome, cradle of equestrian lords, senators, and legates. Come, slave, and do not fear. As long as you serve honorably, you shall be treated as a free man. And to the extent that you aid us, we shall aid you."
A chill ran down Segismundo's spine.
This villa was not merely a refuge for ecclesiastical power. It was not just the mayor's house, nor an outpost forgotten among superstitious villagers.
It was a fragment of Rome, a relic of another time.
And like everything Rome had touched, its story was not yet over.
The following night, the great gathering took place at the mayor's house. The wealthiest and most influential men of the region were present, though none of them held noble titles. They were the descendants of slaves brought from every corner of the Empire centuries ago, a mixture of peoples and races that reflected the lost grandeur of Rome. There, beneath dark wooden beams and tapestries worn by time, gathered men with olive skin and sharp features, descendants of Greeks taken after the wars in the East. Alongside them stood others with curly hair and dark complexions, heirs of those brought from Nubia and Mauretania. There were also men with golden hair and light eyes, remnants of the conquests in the lands of the Germanic and Celtic tribes, as well as individuals with copper-toned skin and high cheekbones, whose ancestors had come from the distant eastern provinces.
Generations of intermingling had given rise to strong, strikingly beautiful children, with hair of every imaginable shade, eyes of honey, amber, or emerald green, and skin tones ranging from ivory to ebony. Such diversity, once common in the streets of Rome at its height, now seemed a distant echo of a fallen empire.
The air was cold, befitting the highlands where the wind rolled down from the great snowy peaks. But the fires burning around the courtyard provided warmth and a flickering orange glow, casting eerie shadows upon the stone walls. Conversations were restrained, tinged with the cautiousness of those who knew that a single misplaced word could seal their fate.
Then, Darío de Frascati rose to his feet, his gaunt and severe face illuminated by the flames. His voice, heavy with authority, cut through the murmurs of the gathering.
—At dawn tomorrow, your daughter will depart with me to Rome —he said, addressing the mayor but ensuring that all present could hear him clearly—. Not just her, but also some of the most promising sons of your people. I have observed that there is strength and talent in this village. We will not allow them to be wasted in this remote corner of the world.
Some gazes lifted in confusion. Others understood immediately what it meant: their children would be taken far away, but with that came the chance to elevate their status, to forge ties with the great city.
—In return —Darío continued—, you shall be named a Knight of the Pope and granted the right to call yourself Lord of this village. You will be allowed to build a castle, fortify these lands, and arm men to guard the mountain pass. Additionally, you will have the right to collect taxes and keep a portion for yourself.
The flames crackled in the silence that followed his words. The offer was tempting, too powerful to be refused without consequences.
Lucia, seated beside her father, felt a different kind of fire ignite in her chest. Her gaze locked onto Darío with restrained fury, but she said nothing. It was not her decision to make.
Everyone awaited the mayor's response.
For a moment, Marco Hernico Caese was on the verge of rejecting the offer. His heart pounded in his chest as he stood up, carrying the determination of a man who would never allow himself to be subdued.
"I cannot accept an honor that requires taking the resources of my brothers for my own personal luxury," he declared firmly, his gaze sweeping over the faces of his people, searching for the support he needed to resist.
But before he could continue, a sudden eruption of cheers and applause cut him off. All the village notables had risen to their feet, acclaiming him as if he were already their lord. The sound thundered through the hall, filling every corner with the euphoria of men who, for the first time in generations, felt that destiny was smiling upon them.
"Whenever we arrive at a renowned village, there is always a castle protecting it!" exclaimed one of the eldest men, his voice charged with fervor at this rare opportunity.
"You are the best administrator we've ever had—no one else is worthy of ruling us!" added another, his voice as solid as a hammer striking an anvil.
Marco raised his hands, trying to call for calm, to explain that this was not what they thought it was, that accepting this title would mean chaining himself to Rome. But before he could utter another word, another voice rang out.
"If you consider the entire village your home, then it is not taking the money for yourself—it is redistributing it wisely. Isn't that what you've always done?"
The words sank deep into the hearts of those gathered, and Marco felt the weight of fate tightening around his chest. One by one, more and more men joined in the ovation, reinforcing what now seemed inevitable. He tried to step back, to escape the trap he had only now recognized, but with every argument, the noose of power tightened around his neck.
And that noose ended in the hands of Dario de Frascati.
Yes, that old man, that gaunt and severe priest, had turned the tables on their dialectical battle from two days before. He had ensnared him, made him his servant, and with him—his daughter.
A cold sweat ran down Marco's spine as his mind raced, processing everything in an instant. Almost unconsciously, his hand drifted toward the hilt of his gladius, the relic of his family, ready to end everything before allowing himself to be subjected. But then, he felt a hand on his wrist.
It was his daughter's.
Lucia looked at him with the wisdom of someone who had anticipated all of this from the beginning. Her dark eyes, filled with determination, held his with a silent plea. She leaned in slightly and whispered, her voice steady with resignation:
"I will do it… but do not dishonor our house."
Her words sent a chill through him. Slowly, Marco released the gladius and lowered his head.
He had lost.