Bishop Emiliano of Tusculum adjusted his mitre with a gesture of annoyance, feeling sweat trickle down his neck beneath the heavy episcopal ornaments. What an indignity! Being forced to listen to the crude demands of that barbarian illiterate in this dusty basilica—when they should be gathered in the decorous Lateran Palace—he sneered as he watched the bald giant gesticulate like a drunken merchant.
"As if those miserable southern mercenaries were a real threat," thought Emiliano, running a gloved finger along the edge of his rain cloak to dislodge an imaginary speck of dust. "Surely they're nothing more than a few peasants armed with sickles and dreams of grandeur."
His disdainful gaze swept over the figure of Ingomer: that gleaming, scarred skull; that ruddy beard, primitively braided; those calloused hands flailing like windmill blades. And that stench! Of horse, iron, and barbaric sweat permeating the sacred air. The bishop discreetly uncorked his vial of lavender essence and inhaled.
"Instead of wasting time with this brute," mused Emiliano while toying with the pastoral ring he had acquired after three years of intrigues, "we should be discussing how to raise the tithe in the loyal provinces. Or perhaps the design of my new episcopal palace."
A movement in the shadows caught his attention: Brother Marcos—the silent monk whom Antonino so favored—appeared with a grave expression, as if the fate of Rome depended on this insignificant matter. Emiliano smiled condescendingly. "Those of low birth always overreact to so little," he thought.
When Ingomer banged his breastplate with a sound that made the acolytes shudder, Emiliano could barely stifle a yawn. How much fuss over a few rebels! In his days as a papal legate in Ravenna, he had quelled three revolts without enduring such rustic manners.
"After all," he said to himself as he examined his impeccably groomed nails, "what can mercenaries do against the power of the Church? They're like those insects that swarm in summer: annoying, but fleeting."
The bishop paid little heed when the Pope granted the resources the Gothic had demanded. Instead, he fretted over how the dust on the floor might ruin the golden embroidery on his sandals. What tediousness. What vulgarity. What… complete misunderstanding of true ecclesiastical power.
As the assembly dispersed, Emiliano couldn't help but cast one last disdainful look at Brother Marcos, who remained motionless in his corner. "Poor man," he mused, "worrying about ghosts when he should be admiring the greatness of our Holy Mother Church." With a soft sigh, he joined the procession of bishops departing the scene—much more concerned with the banquet awaiting them than any threat from the south.
Marcos lingered in the shadows, transformed into a statue of silence and observation. The impact of Ingomer's knee striking the ground shook the mosaics beneath his feet, even setting the altar candles quivering. The Gothic's voice, as potent as thunder in the mountains, reverberated beneath the sacred vaults: "Most Holy Father! I require Roman militiamen and provisions for my campaign. In seven days, I shall crush this rebellion!"
The Pope nodded with that beatific smile of an aged man who no longer saw the brewing storms. Marcos felt his fists clench involuntarily, his nails biting into his palms until red marks appeared—a necessary reminder in this theater of voluntary blindness.
As part of Antonino's intricate espionage network, reports arrived with methodical regularity. Every scroll recounted the same disquieting tale: military formations unseen since the twilight of the legions, camps laid out with the precision of a surveyor, taxes collected without violence. Yet the most alarming detail was not their iron discipline but the mind that directed it.
The self-appointed Dictator was no plunder-hungry warlord. Reports depicted him as a meticulous administrator—a strategist who had reorganized Frusino with an efficiency that even Marcos, in his most ambitious plans for the Church, had scarcely imagined. He had reduced taxes, simplified laws, and restored ancient institutions. And while he did so, something extremely dangerous was happening: the people began to love him.
Spies, hardened by years of betrayal, spoke of the enemy with a tone bordering on respect. Merchants arriving from the south told tales of fair trials and safe roads. Even beggars murmured about this leader who ruled as though centuries of decadence had never existed.
Yet in this hall of powerful men, no one seemed to see the obvious. Ingomer, intoxicated by his own brute force, believed his war hammer would suffice against an enemy that fought with ideas. The Pope, anchored on his golden throne, remained convinced of the Church's eternal invulnerability. And Antonino, ever the cunning fox, was too preoccupied calculating his next move to recognize the true danger.
And the bishops… Marcos watched bitterly as the Bishop of Ostia adjusted his vestments—more concerned with the dust on his cloak than with news from the south. The Bishop of Porto discreetly yawned behind his ornate hand. All were blind, all were deaf, all intoxicated by their own vanity.
While the echo of Ingomer's words still resonated in the basilica, Marcos felt the weight of a terrible truth: the Holy Mother Church, his beloved mother, was in mortal danger. And no one else seemed to notice.
Pope John I observed the colossus kneeling before him with a mixture of curiosity and genuine pleasure. How refreshing this Gothic was—not like those bishops with evasive glances who paid attention only during mass before conspiring in the corridors, nor like Antonino, whose respect was always shrouded in calculation. Ingomer, in contrast, met his gaze directly, with the rugged, heartfelt sincerity of both child and warrior.
"Come closer, my son," said the Pope, extending his trembling hand. The Fisherman's Ring gleamed beneath the candlelight. "Kiss this symbol of your faith, and you shall have as many followers as you need for your cause." Ingomer obeyed with an enthusiasm that made the pontiff smile. How different this clumsy yet fervent gesture was compared to the cold, formal brushing of lips over a ring.
"Antonino," continued the Pope, turning toward his cardinal, "assign men of worth to his campaign. Men who know as much about administration as they do about war." An idea flitted through his mind, and he couldn't help but add, "Take Brother Marcos with you. He is a singular talent: he manages the aqueducts of the Vatican and Lateran, has reorganized the papal villas, is a prodigious physician, and—above all—a scholar in ancient military affairs." Pausing to savor the effect of his words, the Pope added, "He is also the Latin teacher of your niece, the noble Amalasunta."
Ingomer raised his thick eyebrows, intrigued. A Roman who knew war and had taught his beloved niece! "A little Julius Caesar, then?" grumbled the Gothic, amused. "I believe I have read his name in my niece's letters... My wife always says that the girl writes only about two things: politics and interesting men." The Pope laughed—a rare, weary sound that even startled the acolytes. How long it had been since something had amused him so.
"Well, now you shall have the chance to meet him," he said, while Antonino beside him maintained an impassive expression that could not entirely hide his irritation. Ingomer nodded, satisfied. An administrator, a physician, a military scholar… and his niece's teacher. Yes, this Roman was worth the investment. "I accept, Most Holy Father. Let him come with me to Frusino," declared Ingomer. The Pope smiled, pleased. Perhaps, amid all this decadence, an alliance between faith and brute force was exactly what Rome needed. Or perhaps it was the beginning of something even he could not foresee.
As twilight draped liquid gold over Cardinal Antonino's office—where the elongated shadows of scroll-laden shelves stretched like claws over the marble floor—the air smelled of spiced wine and melted wax. Beneath these aromas lurked the acrid stench of intrigue. Standing by the window, Antonino surveyed his decadent Rome as the last rays of the sun stained the patrician villa roofs with blood.
"I need you to observe Ingomer's army," he said without turning, his voice as soft as a knife's caress against silk. "Their organization, their tactics. It is likely that, in the not-too-distant future, that barbarian will turn against us." Marcos, motionless before the desk, nodded silently, though his cold, calculating eyes betrayed his inner concerns. "What worries me are the southern insurgents, Eminence. Their Dictator does not act like a mercenary. He acts like… a Roman," he remarked.
Antonino turned slowly, his sapphire ring glinting with a dark blue flash. Lifting his glass of wine, he took a sip, as if to wash away Marcos's words with Falerno. "We are all blind, young man. And I include myself," he said with a bitter smile. "Every day, reports arrive detailing his dreadful efficiency, and yet we all pretend not to see them. Even I." Setting his glass down with a precise click, he continued, "If Ingomer is defeated, you must seek out the leader of the insurgents. That Dictator. Negotiate with him."
Marcos frowned. "For that, I will need authority."
Antonino admitted, "I cannot grant you more ecclesiastical power, but I can offer you terrestrial power." Sliding a sealed document toward him, the thick parchment embossed with lead seals gleamed in the candlelight. "It will be in the capacity of Praefectus Urbi Vicarius," announced the cardinal, using the ancient title once equivalent to the mayor's right-hand man in Rome. "The papers are ready. Sign. The pay is… considerable. And it will open doors that not even a cardinal can pass through."
Marcos studied the document. It was a civil appointment, not an ecclesiastical one—a title that would bind him to the administration of the city yet grant him access to places forbidden to a mere monk. He hesitated. But Rome—his Rome—was bleeding between the incompetence of the nobles, the brutality of the Goths, and the threat of an enemy seemingly resurrected from the past. Without a word, he took the pen and signed. Antonino smiled in satisfaction as the room's shadows lengthened. "Welcome to the game, praefectus," he declared.
Outside, the first torches of night were being lit, heralding the opening moves of a game that was only just beginning. Marcos still clutched the pen, the fresh ink on the parchment naming him Praefectus Urbi Vicarius. The title echoed in his mind with a peculiar weight. It was not ecclesiastical—lacking the security of monastic robes—but it would open doors that even Antonino could not openly cross.
"Why me?" he finally asked, looking up at the cardinal. "There must be hundreds of priests with proven nobility and decades of service—men who wouldn't hesitate to—" "—to run or kneel," Antonino interrupted with a smile that failed to reach his eyes. Stepping toward the window and surveying Rome as a chess master studies the board before a move, he continued, "Everyone is afraid, young man. Of Ingomer, of the insurgents, even of their own shadows. It's a paralysis… the very same that left these streets unguarded by legions a century ago." A silence fell as the cardinal traced a circle in the dust along the windowsill. "You are not." Marcos felt the air thicken—not a compliment, but a dangerous recognition. "If Ingomer falls," Antonino went on, finally turning to face him, "we will need someone who can speak with that Dictator of the south. Someone who understands both aqueducts and battle formations. Someone..." His eyes, as cold as the sapphire in his ring, fixed on Marcos. "...who has read Vegetius and Frontinus, not merely the psalms." Marcos's heart pounded; he knew that he had indeed studied those forbidden texts that spoke of war rather than forgiveness. "I cannot grant you more ecclesiastical authority," Antonino admitted, wiping dust from his fingers with a silk handkerchief. "But this…" he gestured to the document, "…will allow you to move where others cannot. The pay is generous, of course. And the doors that will open… well." He offered a fleeting smile. "You might even visit your disciple in the Anicio Palace without causing scandal."
Marcos fought the impulse to tense. Amalasunta—there was always another game hidden behind Antonino's words. "And if I fail?" he asked. The cardinal leaned forward, and for the first time, Marcos saw something resembling fatigue in those ever-calculating eyes. "Then, my son, we shall pray for your soul. But not for very long," was the clear message: you will be useful until you cease to be so. As Marcos left the office, he felt the weight of the document at his belt. It was not merely an appointment—it was a noose around his neck, with Antonino holding the other end. But perhaps, just perhaps, it was also a weapon. And in a Rome where everyone feigned blindness, he alone would see clearly.
Morning streamed in through the high palace windows, illuminating the assembly of Ostrogothic nobility gathered for the contest. Ingomer, standing at two and a half meters tall, surveyed the spectacle with satisfied eyes. His warriors shone as if freshly forged: chain mail gleaming, every iron ring polished to a mirror finish; helmets adorned with horse manes dyed red and gold that swayed with each movement; long swords suspended from leather belts embossed with familiar runes. Amid all that martial ostentation, one figure stood out.
Marcos appeared in his new civil attire: a white fine linen tunic belted with leather, from which hung both a document case and—Ingomer noted immediately—a dagger discreetly concealed. The short cloak, draped over one shoulder with a bronze brooch, barely masked the young man's athletic build. The Gothic giant raised an eyebrow in surprise. Beneath that civilian appearance lay a physique honed not solely by poring over scrolls—broad shoulders, defined arms beneath the tunic, calloused hands as adept with quills as with weapons. And those eyes… grey and cold like the edge of a battle axe.
A thunderous laugh burst from Ingomer, drawing every head in the hall. "By Thor!" he roared, striding toward Marcos with steps that made the floor tremble. "My niece has a keener eye than a hawk! I expected some trembling elder or a pale little monk, yet I see that Rome still knows how to raise men!" His enormous hand—calloused and scarred by battle—landed on Marcos' shoulder with a weight that would have toppled an ordinary man. But the Roman merely inclined slightly, absorbing the impact with a firmness that made Ingomer's eyes gleam with approval.
"You are small as a child," said the Gothic as he bent until they were face to face, "but you carry iron in your gaze. My Amalasunta writes that you are as clever as a wolf and as dangerous as a viper. I like you, little Caesar!" The Ostrogothic nobles roared with laughter, toasting with their mead horns, while Ingomer continued scrutinizing Marcos as if he were a sword freshly drawn from the forge.
"Administrator, physician, warrior… and now my advisor," announced the giant with theatrical flair. "By Wotan! If you survive Frusino, perhaps you shall marry half a dozen of my nieces." Laughter filled the hall, yet Ingomer's piercing blue eyes did not miss a detail of Marcos' reaction. He had discovered something unusual, something valuable in this decadent Rome. And like any true warrior, he knew a sharp weapon when he saw one.
Esta es la traducción sin viñetas, con el formato de diálogos integrado al flujo narrativo. ¿Te gustaría que ajuste o cambie algo más en el formato?
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