The morning sun filtered through the window's bars, drawing golden lines across the dirty faces of the children. Marcus walked along the row of weathered benches, feeling the weight of their gazes—some curious, others defiant, all hungry.
—Today is not a day for psalms, he announced, dropping a sack of hard bread onto the table. The children lunged like crows, but a single look from him halted them. First, Latin. Then, food.
A murmur of protest arose. In the corner, a scrawny boy with whip scars on his arms spat on the ground.
—Father Bastian at least used to give us soup before demanding prayers.
Marcus didn't bat an eyelash. Bastian, the former administrator, now hung from a beam in the granary, a victim of his own penchant for overly handsome children.
—Father Bastian is with God, he said in a neutral tone as he distributed wax tablets. And you, Druso, will be with the pigs at the slaughterhouse if you keep that tongue.
The boy paled. How did he know his name?
But Marcus knew everything.
Ascanio, the one with nimble fingers, was already tracing perfect letters in the wax. A future engraver. Tertius, the quiet one, counted the loaves with a hawk-like gaze. An accountant. Prisca, the little girl whom everyone ignored, memorized every word. Perhaps a scribe, maybe a future abbess, of fervent faith and unyielding morals.
Fresh meat for the guilds. Future favors. Influence.
—The A is written like this, he explained as he guided Lucius's hand. The boy reeked of urine and rebellion, yet his eyes lit up as he saw the letter take shape.
How many like you have I placed in workshops? How many eyes now watch me from the windows of Rome?
A tug at his tunic. Prisca, with her seven years and her patched dress, showed him a perfect tablet.
—Like this, master?
For a moment, something broke within him. When was the last time someone spoke to him without fear?
—Perfect, he murmured, and the praise tasted of betrayal.
Because all of this was a lie.
The orphanages, the lessons, the guilds… they were merely pieces on a board. Even Amalasunta, with her venomous lips and perverse games, was a pawn. "Use her sin to cleanse Rome," Antonino had advised him. "Let her lust pay for schools, let her greed buy medicines."
—Master, Lucius banged his tablet on his arm. And what is this for?
Marcus looked at the crooked M the boy had scribbled.
—To sign contracts. To avoid being cheated. So that no one steals what you will one day have.
Another lie.
What he truly taught was how to survive in a Rome where orphans were currency. But perhaps, just perhaps, one of them would rise far above.
And when that day came, they would remember the calloused-handed monk who gave them their first tool.
Or they would kill him for it.
—Tomorrow I'll bring ink, he announced as the children devoured the bread. Those who finish their tablets will eat first.
Prisca raised her hand.
—And will we be able to write our names in the sacred books?
Marcus felt the edge of his own smile.
—In the books, on the walls, in the tombs if necessary. Words are weapons, little one. Learn to wield them.
Outside, behind the door, a familiar silhouette walked away in silence. Amalasunta had come to spy.
Good.
Let her see his work of charity. Let her believe in his mask of sanctity.
After all, even demons need something to believe in.
Lucius, the boy with the scar on his eyebrow, was the first to see her.
The scent of sweat and stale bread from the orphanage was suddenly broken by a sweet aroma, like lily flowers in expensive wine. All faces lifted at once; dirty hands froze over the wax tablets.
She was there, in the doorway, like an icon descended from an imperial mosaic.
Amalasunta.
Her outfit was a provocation woven in silk: a white stola of fine linen embroidered with golden threads in Gothic geometric patterns, cinched under the bust with a leather belt dyed purple. Draped over her shoulders, a woolen palla dyed in the deep blue of the Orient, held in place with a gold brooch depicting a Byzantine eagle devouring a serpent.
But it was her jewels that hypnotized: a necklace of Black Sea pearls, each the size of a pigeon's egg, interlinked with golden chains. Garnet earrings, carved like bleeding cherries. Rings on every finger, seals of dead families, bought or stolen.
The guards flanking her—two Ostrogoths with blue eyes and axes at their belts—were so tall they nearly brushed the doorway's lintel.
—Master, Amalasunta said, her voice sounding like honey poured over red-hot iron. I didn't know your charity extended to… creatures.
Lucius held his breath. No one spoke to the priest that way.
But Marcus only inclined his head, as if receiving an ordinary parishioner.
—It is all the work of the Church, madam. These children are their future servants.
A lie, thought Lucius. He had seen how the priest selected the brightest, sending them to workshops and not to churches.
Amalasunta advanced, ignoring the mud that stained her dyed leather sandals. She stopped in front of Ascanio, the nimble-fingered one, and lifted his chin with a gloved finger.
—And this one? Will he also be a servant?
The boy trembled. She smelled of something that burned the nose: nard, perhaps, or myrrh mixed with something spicier.
—An engraver, Marcus corrected. Or so I hope.
The noblewoman let out a crystalline laugh and turned toward Lucius. Her eyes—green as broken glass—scrutinized him.
—This one certainly has the look of a rascal. Right, little one?
Lucius felt blood rush to his cheeks. Was it an insult? A compliment?
—I'm a thief, yes, he spat defiantly. But the master says I can be more.
Amalasunta arched an amused eyebrow and shot Marcus a look that Lucius did not understand.
—What an interesting creature you've tamed.
Then the unexpected happened.
The noblewoman produced a handful of silver coins from a hidden pocket in her belt and let them drop onto the table with a metallic clink.
—For the children to learn Latin… and other useful things.
The children stifled a cry. It was more money than they would see in their entire lives.
Marcus remained unmoved.
—The Church appreciates your generosity.
Amalasunta smiled, revealing teeth too white.
—Oh, master… you know I give nothing without expecting something in return.
And with that, she left, leaving behind her perfume, her coins, and a question hanging in the air.
Lucius watched as Marcus collected the coins with steady hands. No one received money from a woman like that. No one moved Ostrogoth guards like trained dogs.
The priest was someone. Someone important.
And if a hungry orphan could learn Latin… why not learn this as well?
—Master, Lucius murmured when the others became distracted. Will you teach me to speak with women like her?
Marcus looked at him for the first time as though he were an equal.
—No. I will teach you to speak like me.
And in that moment, Lucius knew that his life had changed.
The Gift of the Beloved
Amalasunta had already turned halfway, the fold of her blue palla floating gracefully, when Marcus's voice stopped her.
—One moment, madam.
She turned slowly, like a cat savoring the moment before a leap. Had he really asked for a favor? The monk who never begged, who never bowed, now extended a hand to her… not in supplication, but as an offering.
—There is someone you must meet.
With a gesture, he ushered in the girl. Prisca, the little scribe with hungry eyes and ink-stained fingers.
—She can already read, and writes better than some of your scribes. Marcus's voice was soft, yet within it rang an order disguised as praise. I would consider it a personal favor if you were to take her into your household.
Amalasunta felt a delicious shiver. A favor. Two words worth more than all the coins she had just scattered upon that grimy table.
—A favor, you say? She repeated, savoring every syllable. Her gaze swept over the girl: slight, but with clear eyes that shone like freshly minted coins. How long had Marcus been polishing this little gem amidst so much misery?
Prisca looked at her with an expression Amalasunta had not seen in years: pure, unquestioning admiration, as if before a sacred statue.
A current of pleasure ran down her spine, so intense she nearly curved her lips into a moan. It was intoxicating.
—Come here, little one, she said, extending a gloved hand, enjoying how the girl trembled at the touch of the golden thread in her embroidery. Would you like to live among real books? Among tapestries that do not reek of urine?
Prisca nodded, mute.
Amalasunta cast Marcus a look laden with dark promises.
—What a peculiar gift you give me, master.
And then, without waiting for a response, she enveloped the girl with her blue mantle, as an ermine covers its prey.
—I will take her with me. But remember, beloved… favors are repaid.
Her last words were a whisper meant only for him, as the Ostrogoth guards made way for her new pupil toward a world of silk and shadows.
Prisca would not look back.
The disobedient boy, Lucius, could not take his eyes off the door through which Prisca had departed. The cleverest, the fastest, the one who always kept quiet and observed. And now she left, wrapped in oriental silks, like a stolen treasure.
—Why her…?
The words escaped him like a sigh, unbidden. He immediately covered his mouth, but it was too late.
Marcus turned toward him, and for the first time, Lucius saw something in those eyes that was neither patience nor severity: it was the edge of a dagger in the sun.
—When you are polished and ready, he said, in a voice so cold it made the boy tremble, all of you are like the gems that the domina carries. Once one shines brightly enough, the powerful will snatch it away.
Lucius swallowed. Was it a promise or a threat?
—If you reject my offer to polish you, he continued, gathering the wax tablets with hands that never wavered, you will remain in this world forever, Lucius.
The boy felt a chill. No one had told him his full name since his mother died.
Marcus then led them to Sister Benedicta, the hunchbacked nun who managed the orphanage. He deposited before her all of Amalasunta's money, each silver coin gleaming like a blind eye.
Lucius, with the streetwise cunning that had kept him alive, counted each piece without anyone noticing. Not a single one was missing. The monk had kept nothing.
Then he saw Marcus's smile.
It was merely a crease on his lips, a flash of perverse complicity. And Lucius understood:
The true treasure was not in the coins.
It was in the noblewoman who reeked of rotten flowers and looked at the priest as if he were a feast. In the favors paid in whispers. In the power that moved between sheets of fine linen and contracts written in golden ink.
Lucius smiled too, showing the gap-toothed grin of a child who had been stealing bread since the age of four.
—Master, he said, wiping his grimy hands on his rags, when do we begin polishing me?
Marcus did not answer. But for the first time, he passed the olive branch from his left hand to his right.
It was enough.
After all, in Rome, even the saints had their favorite sins.