Aquí tienes el texto traducido al inglés, con los diálogos unificados y el cambio de "Vaticano" por "Palacio de Letrán":
The door to the library opened with a solemn creak, as if the Palace of Lateran itself exhaled at the presence of the man crossing the threshold.
Cardinal Antonino advanced with slow but firm steps, his black silk cassock embroidered with purple threads brushing the floor with elegance. His thick white beard, carefully braided with silver strands, gave him the appearance of a biblical prophet—but his ice-blue eyes, cold as marble, revealed the true man: a strategist who had survived three papacies.
Amalasunta stepped away from Marcos with the swiftness of a shadow, giving the monk just enough time to slip behind a shelf of forbidden manuscripts. He held his breath—not out of fear, but calculation.
–Ah, Cardinal Antonino, said Amalasunta, tilting her head with a smile that never reached her eyes. –What an unexpected honor.
The old priest smiled, but his gaze scanned the room with the precision of a hawk. The air smelled of melted wax, ink, and... jasmine?
–My daughter, he replied, his voice a honeyed whisper, –it is always a pleasure to find you in the house of God. Though... you seem somewhat agitated.
She laughed, a clear but forced sound like bells.
–It is the exaltation of the spirit, Your Eminence! These sacred texts... they are so inspiring.
Antonino did not take his eyes off her. He knew Amalasunta Anisia was the embodiment of everything Rome both feared and desired: vanity, lust, ambition—all wrapped in noble elegance. She had ties to Greek merchants, Ostrogoth generals, and rumors even linked her to Byzantine spies. A dangerous woman.
The cardinal stroked his beard thoughtfully. She needed to be controlled. A well-orchestrated marriage, perhaps to a count loyal to the Church, would place her influence at God's service... But that could wait.
–Devotion is admirable, he said at last, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. –Though, my child, remember that even the most fervent must mind... appearances.
Amalasunta held his gaze, defiant yet calculating. She knew he knew. And he knew she knew.
–Of course, Your Eminence, she murmured, lowering her lashes with false modesty. –I only seek... enlightenment.
Antonino nodded, satisfied for now.
–Good. Then I won't keep you.
But before leaving, his gaze drifted to the darkest shelf of the library, where a shadow barely stirred.
There you are, monk.
And with that, the Cardinal withdrew, leaving behind the scent of power and the silent promise that this game had only just begun.
Cardinal Antonino was gone, but his presence still hung in the air like the smoke of poisonous incense. Amalasunta didn't move immediately. She remained there, lips slightly parted, listening to the beat of her own blood.
"What an insufferable man," she thought, though not without a measure of respect. Antonino was a master, yes—but she was no disciple. She was a predator too.
Then her eyes found the shelf.
There, in the shadows, he was.
Marcos.
The monk who was not a monk.
The soldier hidden beneath tattered habits.
A shiver ran down her spine, but not from fear. From desire. A desire that burned within her like the spiced wine she so adored.
"Look at him," she thought, devouring him with her eyes. "He looks like a cornered wolf, but I know the truth. He's no library mouse. No submissive servant. He's... something else."
His muscles, tense beneath his robe, betrayed years of battles. His hands, calloused from the sword, were not those of a scribe. And those eyes...
"Gods, those eyes."
Cold as marble in the light, but burning like red-hot iron in the dark.
She approached, gliding like a shadow, and noticed how his breath quickened slightly as she neared.
–Are you afraid of being discovered, magister? she whispered, though the words were really for herself. –Or are you afraid of what you might do to me... what I might do to you?
He tried to pull away, but she already had his wrist between her fingers.
–No, he said, with that voice that set her aflame inside. –Not now.
Amalasunta let out a low laugh, almost a growl.
"Liar," she thought. "It's not the timing that holds you back. It's control. Because you, Marcos, are like me—you can't stand to lose it."
But that's what made him irresistible.
Because he was the only one who didn't bend.
Not to her.
Not to the Church.
Not to anyone.
"What are you?" she wondered, as her nails lightly dug into his skin. "A spy from Byzantium? A Gothic assassin? Or something older... something even I can't imagine?"
The mystery drove her mad.
And that's why she wanted him more.
Because in a world of predictable men, he was the only one who could still surprise her.
The wolf hid beneath sheep's clothing.
A moment ago, those eyes had blazed with a warrior's ferocity, but now, as if by magic, they dulled with false humility.
–I'm just your Latin tutor, milady, murmured Marcos, lowering his gaze with a submission so perfect it almost made her explode with rage.
She felt the urge to scratch his face, to tear off that obedient monk's mask and see once more the man hiding underneath. But then, as always, laughter won over anger.
How audacious.
What a delicious farce.
She laughed, a clear and dangerous sound, like shattered glass underfoot.
–Will I see the wolf tonight? she whispered, drawing close enough that her breath brushed his ear.
He didn't flinch, but she noticed the slight tremble in his hands, the tension in his jaw.
–At the hour of the wolf, milady, he replied, his voice a rough whisper. –When he hunts beneath the moon.
And then, before she could respond, he stepped back with a bow that was nearly a mockery.
Amalasunta stood there, arms crossed, fingers running along her own skin as if she could still feel the touch of those powerful hands.
"Damn you," she thought, but the desire smothered the curse.
Because Marcos was no nobody. He wasn't some subdeacon, a library mouse. He was something else—something Rome didn't deserve but that she would demand.
"I'll make you powerful," she plotted, as the shadow of a cruel smile traced her lips. "I'll dress you in purple if I have to. I'll place you where no one can deny you. Where I can wed you without the world screaming scandal."
It didn't matter if she had to pay in gold.
It didn't matter if she had to pay in blood.
The price was irrelevant.
Because she always got what she wanted.
And she wanted him.
The afternoon sun gilded the marble of the square, where the fountain's water murmured among feminine laughter and the whisper of Latin declensions. Amalasunta, reclining on the fountain's edge with studied indolence, led the lesson with an ebony rod that gently tapped the parchment in her companions' hands.
–Amor, amoris, amori… she chanted, emphasizing each syllable as if it were a lascivious verse, glancing wickedly at her friends. –See, darlings? Even love has rules. But some…
Her eyes, cold as chilled wine, rested on Marcos, who pretended to correct a text a few steps away,
–… prefer freer conjugations.
The noblewomen laughed—some blushing, others intrigued. The Mediterranean eunuchs, still as statues, watched without seeing. The Ostrogothic guards, however, tensed their muscles beneath their mail coats.
And then, he arrived.
His boots echoed on the pavement with a martial rhythm that sliced through the frivolity of the moment. The laughter in the marble gardens extinguished like candles in the wind. His purple cloak billowed behind him like a banner, and the sun lit the chi-rho on his shield like a reminder: here, laughter did not rule—faith did.
–Look, look… whispered a lady behind her fan, barely audible. –There comes God's dog.
–Wasn't he her cousin? asked another, young, her cheeks red with wine and curiosity. –One of those Goths raised among books so he wouldn't bite.
–Yes, but he still smells of stables. And ambition.
Amalasunta did not flinch, but her nails dug slightly into the parchment.
–Cousin, she said, sweet as poison. –What a surprise.
Valamir stopped in front of the group, his gray eyes scrutinizing each of the women like battlefield strategies.
–Ladies, he greeted with a nod more formal than respectful. Then, locking eyes with Amalasunta: –The Pope requires your presence, cousin. Matters of charity.
–Charity? repeated an older lady, eyebrows arched. –What a convenient word.
–Or is he worried about how I spend my Anician inheritance? added Amalasunta, with a laugh that chilled the air.