The private salon of Cardinal Antonino smelled of sacred wax and of ambition hidden beneath the folds of his purple. The silk curtains filtered the light of the sunset, bathing the room in a golden glow that made the rings on his bony fingers shine.
Amalasunta entered with the grace of a princess accustomed to trampling egos, closely followed by Valamir, whose face was already tense with irritation. Marcos, in contrast, advanced in silence, like a well-trained shadow.
—My noble cousin is worried about the rumors, girl, said Antonino, reclining in his armchair like a king on his throne. His blue eyes, sharp as daggers, fixed on her.
Amalasunta smiled, toying with a gold medallion hanging from her neck.
—Has any maiden, noble or common, ever sensed the malicious gaze of our dear magister?
Antonino laughed, a sound soft and dangerous.
—None. Not even the eunuchs trained to detect lewd glances have reported such.
She tilted her head, feigning innocence.
—How strange. It seems the bastards have no talent for such subtleties.
Valamir clenched his fists but said nothing. His skin, already bronzed by the sun, reddened further under the insult.
Antonino raised an eyebrow slightly, assessing them both with his habitual mix of sarcasm and calculation.
—Putting aside family disputes, he said slowly, as if dragging each word through a brazier, what interests me are not surnames but the fruits of virtue. Charity, for example. A lady Anicia is expected to know that duty well.
Amalasunta barely inclined her head, as if acknowledging a mere formality.
—I know it well, Your Eminence. This morning, before the crowing of the third rooster, twelve carts loaded with wheat and barley left my granaries for the storehouses of San Clemente. At noon, eight more carts with lentils, salted meat, and dried fish were received at the monastery's gate. All duly weighed, sealed, and recorded by my scribes.
She paused, fixing her gaze on the cardinal.
—Moreover, two chests of newly minted denarii from the tribute of my lands, and a consignment of bronze tools for the craftsmen who repair the sewers of Trastevere. All delivered. All supervised by me. And not without difficulties.
Antonino blinked slowly. Amalasunta continued:
—I had to personally lash three foremen. They were stealing. One adulterated the weight of the sacks; another diverted meat to resell in the forums; the last… had hands more interested in the maids than in the accounting ledgers. Charity, she smiled with a certain hardness, requires discipline, Your Eminence. The treasure of God must not feed the avaricious but the hungry.
Valamir watched her with a mix of bewilderment and disdain. His rigid expression began to crumble before the serene yet brutal force of his cousin.
Antonino, for his part, turned his attention to Marcos, at the back of the room. The young man stood silently, his face serene, his gaze lowered. But something about that calm did not sit right with him.
That calm, that perfect composure—more than obedience. It was a mask.
The cardinal leaned forward slightly, scrutinizing the young man as if seeing through layers of skin.
I too presented myself thus, he thought. Clean gaze. Humble voice. The voice of one who serves. But only he who has desired power savors the ability to hide it.
In Marcos he saw no ambition. At least not the common kind. He saw… purpose. And that was even more unsettling.
—And you, boy? he murmured without taking his eyes off him. What do you offer to the Lord?
Marcos lifted his gaze with the calm of one unafraid of scrutiny.
—My obedience, he replied softly. And my time.
Antonino nodded slowly, though a shadow crossed him internally. The same shadow that had once accompanied him before the altar.
And for the first time in the room, it was not Valamir who worried him.
Valamir broke the silence with the brusqueness of one who knows he has been out-argued yet is unwilling to yield ground.
—and you, cousin…? Don't you think it is high time you took a husband? Two years of widowhood are enough even for the saints, his harsh voice sought to wound yet also to find resonance among those present.
Amalasunta slowly turned her face toward him, with a smile as sharp as a poorly set gold brooch.
—Two years? she said, placing a hand theatrically on her chest. But, dear Valamir, is it not the duty of every noble wife to weep appropriately for a husband as regal as mine? He fell in battle defending the kingdom's border with his men, not by playing dice with mercenaries. Not everyone is so unfortunate as to inherit a surname… without an inheritance.
The tension cracked the air in the salon once more. Valamir frowned but refused to be cowed.
—Your Eminence, he said, turning to Antonino with all the arrogance permitted to one who believes himself backed by diluted blood, I beg you to intervene. The Anisia household needs order, discipline. No hallway rumors or lewd glances. I ask that you grant me authority over her until old Marco Anisio breathes his last. Someone must preserve the family's honor.
And then, pointing at Marcos with a finger as if marking a traitor:
—Everyone in the corridors of the Palatine has seen how he looks at her. As if he were more than a servant. As if he no longer remembered the bed where he swore his fidelity.
Amalasunta did not move. But it was Antonino who acted first.
Just a gesture.
His index finger slowly rose, like a metronome, commanding silence without a word. Valamir halted—not out of obedience, but from a perplexity he could not hide. The young man's gesture was as natural, as firm… as if he were the one directing the conversation from his throne.
Marcos remained motionless, like a statue carved in marble. His muscles did not tense. His hands did not shine. Not even the veins in his neck stood out. His breathing was serene, constant, like that of a child watching clouds pass by.
—Nothing, he whispered to himself.
Not a tremor. Not a drop of sweat.
Cold. Calculated.
The cardinal felt a chill. Of admiration… and of warning.
—You are a great soldier, boy, he said aloud, looking at Marcos without disguising his interest. But the pater familias of the Anisia household still lives, though bedridden. And a bastard need not be inquiring into such matters.
Marcos lowered his finger with the same gentleness with which he had raised it. Without words. Without any gesture of submission. As if he knew he needed not defend himself.
Antonino rested his elbows on the armchair, interlacing his fingers slowly.
A prospect of an apprentice… or something more, he thought.
Amalasunta, meanwhile, continued smiling. Not as a flattered woman, but as a strategist whose board had begun to move in her favor.
—Perhaps…, murmured Antonino, touching his beard in feigned reflection, —what Valamir meant is that our dear Latin teacher has a talent far too great and attracts the favor of young ladies without desiring it.
A smile appeared on his lips.
—A promotion would be most opportune. Duties that place him among men… that would be most convenient.
Amalasunta did not flinch, but her eyes glimmered with danger.
—My father needs a subdeacon like Marcos. To translate documents and serve as a liaison with the Church.
Antonino looked at her steadily, measuring her determination. Then, he nodded slowly.
—As you wish.
Valamir took a deep breath, humiliated. He had been mocked, and that was that.
When Amalasunta withdrew, Antonino raised a hand.
—Marcos… stay,
an order. Gentle, yet unyielding.
And when the door closed behind her, the Cardinal smiled.
—Now, my son… let us speak of what you truly are.
Marcos did not hesitate. His response flowed with the smoothness of a river that has carved its course for centuries:
—What I am, Your Eminence, is what you see: an obedient son of the Holy Mother Church. She took me in when I was nothing more than a broken body on the brink of death, clothed me in the habit I wear, and gave me a name when I could no longer remember my own.
At the mention of the Church as his mother, a spark of genuine joy lit the old cardinal's face. Antonino, a man of a thousand intrigues, had learned to love this young man as an adopted son. Someone with so much talent, so much discipline… what did one or two lies matter?
—A pious answer, he murmured, though his astute eyes did not lose their intensity. But that scar…
Marcos raised his hand calmly, sliding his fingers under the edge of his tonsure. There, hidden from plain sight, a deep gash snaked toward the crown.
—The price of my oblivion. I bled so much that night I erased my past. Now only remains what the Church has inscribed upon me.
His words were too perfect, but Antonino wanted to believe him. For Marcos was useful. For his translations of military treaties had given Rome an advantage. For his cold and calculating mind was a weapon few could handle.
—and those war texts you recover with such zeal… are they also the work of your devotion?
Marcos offered an almost imperceptible smile.
—The Holy Mother needs defenders, Your Eminence. And the best defense is knowledge.
Antonino laughed, a warm, hoarse sound.
—That is why I appreciate you, boy! You are like those ancient centurions who revered Christ: loyal, but lethal.
He reclined in his armchair, resolute. He would pardon his secrets, for losing him would be a bother.
Antonino's index finger struck the arm of his chair with a dull click, like the gavel of a judge on his desk. His eyes, usually serene, now burned with a reddish glow, like embers beneath ashes.
—Valamir, the cardinal said, and the name resonated like a verdict.
The Gothic herald tensed. He had seen that look before: it was the prelude to Antonino's cold anger, one that did not shout but burned slowly and deeply. He swallowed, feeling the weight of silence before beginning his report.
—Fifteen thousand… perhaps more, Valamir began, adjusting his grip on his sword unconsciously. Heavy infantry, armored cavalry, archers with bows that pierce chainmail… and logistics. They build fortifications in days, not weeks. In barely a month they have taken Frusino, the valley, and the surrounding mountains.
A pause. The cardinal did not blink.
Valamir continued, his voice now harsher: The heathens from the heights… the mountain folk… have joined them. They send them provisions, reinforcements. And… he clenched his fists, —they perform sacrifices, Your Eminence. To the old gods. Blood on carved stones. It is an affront at the very heart of Rome.
The tapping of Antonino's index finger ceased.
Marcos, motionless in a corner, observed the scene with impassive eyes. Yet in his mind, the numbers danced: Fifteen thousand. Plus the mountain folk. Plus the speed of deployment. They were no mere rebels. They were a professional force, funded and trained.
Antonino finally spoke, his voice a whisper of ice:
—and their general? The one they call Duces?
Valamir cleared his throat. —Octavius Petilius, a veteran of… according to rumors, eighty-five years. But his men swear he fights like a young man. He wears armor of strange design and wields swords that do not break.
The cardinal closed his eyes. When he opened them, his gaze fell upon Marcos.
—What do you know of this, my son?
Marcos remained unmoved.
—There are no phantom armies, Your Eminence. Nor generals who appear out of nowhere. His tone was that of a scholar debunking myths. —This is the work of Justino. Well-paid mercenaries, equipped with Byzantine weapons, exploiting Italy's chaos for their gain. The only logical explanation is war.
Valamir drew his sword. —Then let that war come! Rome shall not fall again!
Antonino raised a hand.
—Silence, bastard.
And then, in the ensuing silence, only the creaking of the cardinal's fingers on the wood was heard.