The next morning, Marcus supervised the replacement of the old pipes that still fed the Lateran Palace and the villas of the wealthiest. He stood on an improvised scaffold, hands clasped behind his back, watching as the workers tore out the corroded sections as if they were the rotten veins of a dying beast. The air smelled of dampness, oxidized metal, and that almost sweet stench that only ancient lead can release.
Below, among the mud and the echo of tools, the workers whispered with tongues looser than wine.
—That monk is bedding the finest woman in all of Rome! —said one, his skin weathered and arms like ropes, leaning on a rusty lever.
—Amalasunta? —replied another, eyes wide and with a crooked smile—. I saw her once from afar. She moves like hot wine in a golden goblet. Whew! —he added, making a grotesque pelvic thrust that drew laughter from the younger ones.
—Don't say that, beast! Everything is heard around here… —warned a third, older worker, with a hammer hanging from his belt and a rag around his neck—. That man isn't just a monk… not just anyone. He's a scholar, like Aristotle or that Socrates my father used to talk about.
—Socrates! The one who died because of the government! —shouted one from a trench, covered in mud up to his eyebrows.
—That's the one! Well, this guy… Marcus, or whatever his name is, discovered that these pipes contain lead. And not just any lead, but the kind that puts the devil in your head. It makes you see things! Dream strange things! Even want to kill your brother over a badly served soup.
—Hahaha! Then my mother-in-law must have drunk from those pipes her whole life! —chimed in another, and the group burst into fresh laughter.
Meanwhile, Marcus descended calmly along the damp planks, his silhouette cloaked in a simple tunic stained with soot and the residue of alchemy. His gait carried an almost priestly gravity, but his eyes—his eyes shone with a restless intelligence, as if every valve and joint were pieces of a divine riddle. He passed by the workers without looking at them, yet they fell silent at his presence, as if the very shadow of the monk imposed quiet. Only the eldest dared to murmur:
—That man didn't come to fix pipes. He came to unclog the head of the world.
No one replied; only the screeching of metal and the hissing of steam filled the void.
As Marcus made his way through the labyrinth of carts, planks, and sacks marked with alchemical symbols, his stride was direct, precise, almost mechanical. A scroll rolled under his arm, mental orders already aligned, and a brief list of deliveries to confirm. Every batch of white powder, every jar of crystallized salt, and every sealed copper pod had a clear destination. He received, observed, and with a curt gesture, sent them to the appropriate wing—as if his mind had already memorized the entire underground architecture of Rome.
The merchants, however, had looser tongues.
—Is that the monk who meddled with the pipes of the Lateran Palace? —whispered one, a plump, sweaty man, as his donkey scraped the cobblestones with a hoof.
—the very same. And they say he also meddled with Amalasunta… —said another, with a hooked nose, while unloading a trunk full of glass flasks. He smirked—. The finest in all of Rome! They say she bathes in goat's milk and sleeps on sheets laced with spices.
—Bah! —interjected a third, older, with a beard dusted with salt and eyes as shrewd as a weasel's—. Papal prohibitions are as effective as the commandment not to fornicate. Rome thrives on the sins it claims to abhor.
The three laughed.
A fourth merchant, more soberly attired, interrupted in a grave tone:
—Laugh if you will. But that man achieved what many palace physicians could not: he proved that lead is poison, even in amounts that wouldn't kill a rat. The Pope coughs like an old man without lungs, and the cardinals… forget it, they can barely remember their own names by the end of a mass.
—and that before the wine! —added the first, laughing.
—But don't forget the gold —murmured the hooked-nose merchant—. Because when some began saying his experiments were the work of the devil… bam! Amalasunta appeared with a trunk full of ducats and a letter signed by some count lost in Tuscany. And that's how the bonfire rumor was quelled.
—It wasn't quelled, my friend —said the bearded one, casting a sideways glance toward where Marcus continued his work—. It merely dressed itself in respect. No one calls him a heretic anymore. They call him "master." But everyone remembers how close he came to the fire.
In the distance, Marcus gave one final instruction to a group of helpers, pointing out distribution routes with a staff. Without raising his voice, his orders were carried out with the efficiency of a well-oiled clock. One of the young assistants ran back to him:
—Master! The shipment of alchemical glass arrived broken!
—It doesn't matter —responded Marcus calmly—. Redistribute the copper. We'll adjust the furnaces tonight. Nothing is lost; it only changes form.
The merchants watched him in silence for a moment, then the hooked-nose one summed up what everyone thought:
—That man will end up either on the throne of some new wisdom… or burning like holy wood.
And the air filled again with dust, laughter, and murmurs, as the sun rose over a city beginning to wonder if it was possible to boil water without poisoning the soul.
At lunchtime, as if following a daily choreography, the market women began to appear, laden with baskets of warm breads, cheeses wrapped in linen, eggs pickled in vinegar, olives as black as night, and small sweets made with honey and almond flour. Some were wives of the workers, others widows or merchants who knew the art of nourishing bodies fatigued by sweat and the heat. The administration Marcus had established with an efficiency almost monastic allowed for certain indulgences, especially when the work was hard and morale fragile.
A foreman, with a smile like toasted bread and a tilted hat, approached with a cheerful gesture:
—And the desserts, master? Aren't you going to tell us that virtue is best consumed on its own?
Marcus, who was reviewing an inventory inscribed in wax, looked up without losing his composure:
—Honey is good for working diligently. It sweetens the tongue, awakens the mind, and comforts the soul.
—That's the way to speak! —shouted one of the workers, hoisting a loaf as if it were a trophy.
—Cheers to the monk who gives us sweets! —chanted others, raising their arms amid crumbs and laughter.
Yet amidst the laughter and applause, murmurs continued.
—Really… the daughter of the Magister Militum? —said one while wiping his fingers on his trousers.
—The one with the ample bosom, firm as Etruscan amphorae. They say she looks at him as if he were the very Archangel Michael descended from heaven.
—With that neck! And those sermons in a voice of bronze! I too would climb the pulpit…
Elsewhere, while Marcus paid the vendors and bakers, verifying each transaction like a Roman accountant, a fishmonger with fiery red hair, youthful and with a generous bust barely contained by a damp blouse, observed him with a cunning smile.
—Look at those shoulders… —she whispered in the ear of a florist—. Who wouldn't want to be a patrician to have that sanctity in bed and at breakfast?
—I'm content if the basket blesses me —laughed another.
—No, for he has the look of one who knows how to place incense on more than one altar.
Laughter burst forth like crushed grapes. An elderly woman cast them a stern look while chewing on tough, toothless bread. In the corner of the courtyard, an apprentice whispered to another, more interested in books than in meats:
—Did you know the Senate no longer controls even the salt? Everything is in the hands of the Pope, the army, and families like Amalasunta's. Rome is no longer a republic… it's a theater. And he —discreetly pointing to Marcus— seems like an actor who dominates more than one stage.
Meanwhile, Marcus received the final reports of the day, making notes on his wax tablet with a bronze punch. He never flinched at the jokes or rumors. He knew that the tongue of the common folk was like the Tiber: sometimes dirty, sometimes revealing, but always in motion.
Thus, with the sun slowly descending over the old rooftops and the cracked mosaics of Rome, the monk whom some called wise, others heretic, and many "the lover of the noble" continued to build, lead, and nurture a project that might be greater than himself.
The agonizing afternoon sun stained the plaster walls of the Roman buildings red, as if the city itself were bleeding under the weight of the Gothic hooves now echoing in its streets. Each day more arrived: tall warriors with curly blond hair and hardened gazes, patrolling the squares with hands near their swords. The air smelled of fear, spilled wine, and the tension of a rope on the verge of breaking.
It was in Trajan's market that it all exploded. An Italian merchant, his face weathered by the sun and his nose crooked from past brawls, shouted in vulgar Latin while grabbing a young Ostrogoth by the neck.
—"Thief! My purse was full before you came near!"
The Gothic, barely an eighteen-year-old youth but built like a bull, struggled, his gray eyes blazing with fury.
—"I didn't touch your damned leather, you Roman bastard!"
Around them, other Ostrogoths began to gather, hands curling around the hilts of their knives. The Italians, sensing danger, pressed together like sheep before wolves.
It was then that Marcus appeared. He did not run. He did not raise his voice. He simply stepped between the two with the calm of one who knows that a false move can unleash a massacre.
—"Friends," he said, in perfect Latin but with the guttural accent of a Gothic learned during his years of study, "what is more valuable? A purse of coins… or the peace of Rome?"
The merchant spat:
—"He didn't rob me of peace, he robbed me of gold!"
Marcus remained unmoved. He turned to the young Gothic and, in a whisper that only he could hear, spoke in his tongue:
—"If you are innocent, prove it. Empty your pockets before they slit your throat."
The youth, surprised by his mastery of the language, hesitated. But the logic was clear: if he had nothing to hide, there was no risk. With abrupt movements, he turned out the pockets of his tunic. Crumbs of bread fell. A flint. Nothing more.
The silence was more eloquent than any accusation. Marcus raised an eyebrow toward the merchant.
—"Perhaps your purse got lost… before reaching the market."
The Italian paled. He remembered, too late, that he had drunk cheap wine in a dark tavern that morning. The Goths laughed—a rough, victorious sound.
—"Drunken Romans," murmured one.
But Marcus wasn't done. He bent down and picked up the flint from the ground, handing it to the young Gothic with a slight nod.
—"Keep this. In times of war, even a spark can be useful."
The message was clear to both sides: violence was but a breath away, and he had just snuffed out the fuse. The onlookers dispersed, murmuring. Yet as Marcus walked away, he noticed Valamir's gaze from a corner, watching him with a mixture of disdain…and curiosity.