Rome, Saint Peter. November 15, 476 AD.

  The Roman sky that morning was covered in gray clouds that seemed to be holding their breath. Inside his silent residence, Gelasius had finished donning his heavy clerical vestments. He stood near a small wooden table, sipping the remains of red wine from his silver goblet to warm a throat that felt dry from peaking anxiety.

  A soft but urgent knock sounded from his oak door. Gelasius set down his glass and stepped forward to open it. A young monk stood there with his head bowed low.

  "Father, the Holy Father requires your presence in his private chapel immediately," the monk said in a low voice.

  Gelasius nodded slowly even though his heart was racing. "I will be there shortly. Thank you."

  "Thank you, Father," the monk replied before turning and hurrying away down the dim corridor.

  Gelasius tidied his diaconal robes for a moment in front of the mirror. He ensured every detail of his robes looked perfect as a form of respect. After finishing the remaining wine in his glass, he stepped out of the room.

  The journey to the Pope's chapel was not very far, but for Gelasius, every step felt like a heavy Via Dolorosa. He felt as if he were carrying the entire weight of the empire's fate on his shoulders. When he arrived, the chapel doors were opened by the guards stationed out front.

  Inside the chapel, Pope Simplicius was kneeling in solemn prayer before the altar. The back of the supreme leader of the church appeared tense, reflecting the inner struggle over the grand decision he was about to announce to the world. Not far from there, Felix stood tall, waiting for the Holy Father to finish his communication with God. He stood facing the altar, with his back to the entrance.

  Gelasius walked slowly and took a position beside Felix. Both stood in silence, staring at the back of the still-prostrate Simplicius.

  "Good morning, Father," Felix whispered without looking toward him. "You smell very fragrant this morning."

  "I pray you have not been waiting for me too long," Gelasius said softly, returning the greeting politely.

  Felix shook his head slightly, accompanied by a small laugh that tried to break the tension in the holy room. "You may rejoice, Gelasius. It seems your prayer has been answered."

  The faint whisper of the word "Amen" finally broke the silence of the chapel. Pope Simplicius slowly moved his frail body and attempted to lean on his weakening knees. Seeing the supreme leader of the church about to rise, Gelasius immediately stepped forward with agility.

  "Allow me to help, Father," Gelasius said as he gently took the Pope's arm and assisted him to stand upright.

  Simplicius took a long breath and looked at Gelasius with a gaze that was calm yet sharp. "You smell very fragrant this morning, Gelasius," the Pope remarked with a thin, enigmatic smile.

  Hearing the exact same phrase he had just uttered fall from the Pope’s lips, Felix could not contain himself. He looked at Gelasius while raising an eyebrow, his expression struggling to suppress a laugh at the divine irony of the moment.

  Felix then cleared his throat to neutralize his expression and provided the official report. "Holy Father, the synod is ready. They are all gathered in the basilica and the time to begin is very near. We shall escort you there."

  "Let us go," Simplicius answered briefly.

  They walked in silence before the Pope finally spoke. "Why David? Why did God choose him from among his brothers who were far more gallant and powerful?"

  Felix answered almost immediately. "Because he was faithful, Holy Father. When others trembled, he trusted."

  Gelasius tilted his head slightly. "Trusted or refused to think?"

  Felix frowned. "He stood before a giant with nothing but a sling."

  "Exactly," Gelasius replied. "A trained soldier measures distance, weight, probability. David measured outrage. His brothers saw a war. David saw blasphemy."

  The Pope's voice remained calm. "And what is the difference?"

  "A soldier fights to survive," Gelasius said. "David fought because he believed the outcome was already decided."

  Felix responded sharply. "Because it was. The battle is the Lord's."

  Gelasius looked at him. "That sentence is either the highest faith or the most dangerous conviction a man can carry."

  The Pope glanced slightly toward him. "Dangerous?"

  "Yes," Gelasius continued. "A man who believes God has already secured his victory becomes fearless. Not brave, fearless. And fearless men alter the balance of history."

  Felix's tone hardened. "You speak as though that were a flaw."

  "It is a force," Gelasius corrected. "And force is never neutral."

  The Pope let the silence stretch before speaking again. "His brothers were stronger. More experienced. More suitable by every visible measure. Yet none of them stepped forward."

  "They understood risk," Felix said.

  "They understood consequence," Gelasius countered.

  The Pope's gaze remained forward. "David understood calling."

  Neither priest interrupted.

  "His brothers asked, what if I fail?" the Pope continued. "David asked, who is this man to defy the living God?"

  Felix nodded slightly, relieved. But the Pope did not finish.

  "One question protects the self," he said. "The other erases it."

  Gelasius' eyes sharpened. "So God chose the one willing to erase himself?"

  "No," the Pope replied. "God chose the one who had not yet built himself."

  Silence fell again.

  "A man who has constructed his identity around strength cannot afford humiliation," the Pope said. "David had no such construction. He was not defending stature. He was defending a name greater than his own."

  Felix spoke more softly now. "And that is why he was chosen."

  The Pope's voice lowered. "He was chosen because he could move without calculating how it would define him."

  Gelasius considered this. "And when he became king?"

  The Pope's expression darkened slightly. "Then he began to calculate."

  That lingered. Felix hesitated. "Yet he remained chosen."

  "Yes," the Pope said. "Because when confronted, he did not defend his crown. He confessed."

  Gelasius exhaled quietly. "So the difference was not strength. Not even faith."

  The Pope gave the smallest nod. "It was responsiveness."

  They continued walking.

  "God did not choose the smallest because he was weak," the Pope concluded. "He chose him because he was interruptible."

  No one spoke after that. Their steps came to a halt right in front of the towering main doors of the basilica. Behind those doors, the low murmur of bishops and witnesses began to sound like the drone of bees hungry for justice. The papal guards prepared to push the doors open, signaling that the moment for Romulus Augustus to be judged spiritually had arrived.

  The great doors of the basilica opened slowly, emitting a grinding sound of wood and metal that echoed throughout the vast space. Pope Simplicius stepped inside with a quiet majesty, walking down the center aisle toward the high altar where the holy throne had been prepared. Every eye was fixed on the procession. On the left side, Deacon Paulus stood tall but alone, a solitary figure bearing the heavy weight of the defense. On the right, Bishop Theodore of Milan stood with his faction of supporters, numbering about forty men, creating a stark disparity in perceived power.

  As the papal procession passed, the entire assembly bowed deeply in reverence to the Bishop of Rome. In the altar area, positioned behind the throne, twenty Senior Priests of Rome and six other Regional Deacons were already present. They were the Presbyterium, the heart of the Apostolic See, serving as the ears of the Pope. They rose from their seats in solemn silence to welcome the arrival of Simplicius. Felix detached himself from the procession and joined his fellow deacons, taking his designated seat among them.

  Before taking his seat, Pope Simplicius came to a halt before the high altar. He received a golden thurible from a young monk and swung it three times toward the great crucifix, allowing clouds of fragrant white incense to billow into the air as a symbol of prayers ascending to the heavens. Then, in a silence so profound it felt heavy, the Pope's low voice began to chant the opening lines of a plea to the Spirit of Truth.

  "Spiritus Veritatis, descende super nos," Simplicius intoned.

  The entire Presbyterium and the gathered bishops immediately joined the cry. Their voices rose in a singular wave of pure and firm harmony:

  "Spiritus Sancte, lumen cordium,"

  "Veni in medio, iudex spirituum."

  "Da nobis mentem, da sapientiam,"

  "Ut videamus solam veritatem."

  The vibration of dozens of men singing in unison made the air thick with an intimidating sanctity. As the final notes echoed into the high vaults and faded, Pope Simplicius sat upon his holy throne with measured deliberation.

  To his right, on a smaller but still prominent chair, Gelasius took his seat as the Archdeacon who would oversee the proceedings. The Pope then bowed his head, made the sign of the cross, and uttered the opening in the sacred tongue.

  "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."

  That sacred pronouncement marked the commencement of the synod. Gelasius rose from his chair, standing tall with the authority of the church's highest administrator. He looked around the room, meeting the gaze of every bishop and priest in attendance before his voice broke the silence.

  "Distinguished guests, Fathers, and Bishops from wherever you may hail, today is the day of the Holy Father's decision. Before the Holy Father, the Holy Bishop of Rome, renders his judgment, he will listen to the counsel of the Presbyterium. However, before the Presbyterium offers their counsel, the synod will hear the final charges and the final defense from both sides standing before the Holy Father."

  Gelasius paused for a moment to let the tension settle into the room before he gestured toward the right side.

  "Beginning with the accuser, Bishop Theodore of Milan, you may now speak before the Holy Father."

  Theodore stepped forward into the center of the marble hall. The heavy thud of his footwear against the stone floor created an echo that harshly broke the silence. He bowed deeply toward Pope Simplicius, but as he stood upright, his face radiated a sharp, calculating ambition.

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  "Holy Father," Theodore began, his voice low yet carrying a vibration that filled the room. "We are not gathered here to judge an ordinary child. We stand at a crossroads of history where the stability of all Italy is suspended by a fragile thread. How can this Holy Church close its eyes to the stain that now sits upon the throne? We speak of a boy whose soul has been tainted by heresy and sickening practices of sorcery."

  Theodore turned, his hand pointing sharply toward Paulus. "And if you require proof of this madness, look at the reports from Ravenna! They claim Romulus Augustus slew Odoacer, the mighty King of the Heruli, by his own hand. That they found only him standing over the body with a sword." Theodore let out a cynical laugh. "Do we truly believe such a thing? A small child toppling a giant of war with his own strength?"

  "No! Lies!" shouted one of Theodore's supporters.

  "It is a deception for the fools!" another added, sparking an uproar.

  Theodore raised his hands, a triumphant smile on his lips. "If it is true that Odoacer died at the hands of that boy, then there is only one explanation sensible to a sane soul. With dark sorcery and the madness of demons, he slaughtered Odoacer. He has borrowed strength from hell to perform what is impossible for man."

  "True! Anathema!" the cheers erupted again, making the atmosphere feel like a lynch mob. Gelasius struck his staff loudly, but the tension had reached its peak.

  "Consider what our brethren in Constantinople will say," Theodore continued, his voice laced with venom. "They will mock us. They will say that Rome's light has been extinguished and that we have fallen into the same darkness as this boy king. Therefore, we demand absolute resolve. Excommunicate Romulus Augustus! Strike his name from the holy communion and declare him Anathema. Recognize Julius Nepos as the only true Emperor, legitimate in the eyes of God and man."

  Theodore took a long breath, his face flushing with forced rage. "For I tell you all here, if Saint Peter looks down upon us this moment from heaven, he would surely spit upon our very faces if we allow this dark sorcery to breathe before the throne of the holy church!"

  An immediate silence gripped the room for a heartbeat before the hall exploded into chaos. Theodore's supporters cheered wildly, stomping their feet and hurling curses. The Presbyterium whispered with pale faces, while Pope Simplicius remained motionless, eyes closed against the insult.

  Seeing the spiral of disorder, Gelasius rose with palpable fury. He struck his wooden staff sharply against the marble floor multiple times.

  "Enough!" Gelasius shouted, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. "Enough! That is enough, be silent! Order, everyone."

  The cheering gradually subsided. Gelasius stood tall, his eyes fixed coldly on Theodore. "That is enough, Bishop Theodore. You have delivered what you wished to say. You may now return to your seat."

  Theodore offered a thin, triumphant smile to his supporters before giving a brief bow and stepping back into his ranks, leaving a burning tension in the center of the room.

  Gelasius looked toward the left side of the hall, where Deacon Paulus stood in a silence that contrasted sharply with the previous chaos. "Deacon Paulus," Gelasius's voice resonated through the stone arches, "you shall deliver your final defense on behalf of Romulus Augustus. You may now speak before the Holy Father."

  Paulus stepped forward. He had no legion of supporters behind him, yet his stride was firm. He stopped at the exact spot where Theodore had stood, but instead of glaring at the mob, Paulus lifted his gaze to Pope Simplicius, then slowly swept it across the Presbyterium.

  "Holy Father, wise elders," Paulus began with a voice that was clear and steady. "We have heard much of fear and the shadows of sorcery. Yet, let us speak of what truly transpired at Ravenna. For years, Italy was gripped by the fangs of a heretical serpent who did not acknowledge the true nature of Christ. Odoacer was not merely a king; he was a threat to the sacred teachings of our Church."

  Paulus paused, his voice hardening with conviction. "And God, in His inscrutable ways, chose Romulus Augustus to strike off the head of that serpent. When that boy's sword pierced the tyrant's heart and beheaded him in his sleep, it was not the hand of a sorcerer at work. It was the hand of God restoring the honor of this land through a justice that comes unannounced!"

  "Impossible! Ridiculous!" a priest from Theodore's faction shouted.

  "Pure deception! He is but a child!" another added.

  Paulus did not flinch. He raised his hand high, pointing toward the heavens. "He was no mere child at that moment. He was the sword of God, unsheathed for the salvation of us all!"

  "Blasphemy!" someone from the right side cried out, followed by a chorus of rejection that shook the air.

  Gelasius struck his staff against the floor with a resounding crack. "Silence! Let him finish his testimony!"

  Once order was restored, Paulus continued with a more pressing tone. "You call such extraordinary strength madness or sorcery? If so, how shall you judge David when he took the head of the giant Goliath? Was that sorcery? What of Samson, who brought down the pillars of the Philistine temple with his bare hands? Or Joshua, who toppled the walls of Jericho with only the blast of a trumpet?"

  Paulus took another step forward, his eyes now flashing a challenge to Theodore's faction. "If you claim that victory over giants through weak hands is the result of sorcery and demonic madness, then I tell you this: Hell is your rightful place! For you have blasphemed the Word of God and doubted His power to use even the lowliest of vessels!"

  The room descended into anarchy. Cries of "Heresy!" and "Silence him!" rang out from the accusers, while the Presbyterium began to deliberate with strained expressions. Paulus waited for the noise to subside slightly before delivering his final point.

  "It was not sorcery that worked when the enemy fleet burned upon the sea. Romulus's forces, our Italian forces, moved with a weapon the world had never seen. Father Johannes calls it Ignis Dei, the Fire of God. It did not come from a witch's cauldron, but from the infinite wisdom of God. It is a wisdom granted to punish the wicked and shield the remnant of His faithful. Did not the same God rain fire from the heavens upon those who defied His will? Thus, this fire is but an instrument of Divine Justice for the work of Italy's salvation!"

  Paulus took a deep breath, locking eyes with Theodore before delivering his lethal counter-strike.

  "Bishop Theodore said that Saint Peter would spit full in our faces. But I tell you, if this day you reject the salvation God sent through the hands of this child because of your blind ego, then not only will Saint Peter turn his face away, but the Martyrs whose blood was spilled upon this soil will rise from their graves to drag you from the doors of this church as the Judas who betrayed his own liberator!"

  The declaration exploded in the center of the hall like a lightning strike. For a heartbeat, a stifling silence gripped the room, and then the basilica broke into total anarchy. Theodore's faction erupted in uncontrollable fury. Bishops and priests from the north screamed hysterically, surging forward past their designated boundaries. The chaos was no longer merely verbal; several supporters attempted to charge toward Paulus, only to be halted by the papal guards who swiftly crossed their spears.

  Seeing the authority of the church being trampled by wild emotion, Pope Simplicius suddenly rose from his throne. His movement was slow, yet his presence instantly commanded attention. He raised his right hand, trembling but firm.

  Immediately, Gelasius bellowed with a voice that thundered across the entire hall. "Silence! The Holy Father speaks!"

  Slowly, the noise subsided into a ragged murmur. Pope Simplicius did not speak to the crowd. Instead, he gave a brief signal to Gelasius, a hand gesture that marked the end of the public debate. He stepped down from his throne with the assistance of two deacons, walking slowly toward the thick oak door at the side of the altar. The twenty Senior Priests and six Regional Deacons, Felix among them, immediately rose and followed behind him in a solemn line.

  The papal guards swiftly closed ranks, forming a wall of spears that separated the procession from the simmering mob. As soon as the Pope and the Presbyterium crossed the threshold of the Sacristy, the massive door was shut and barred from within with a heavy thud of wood.

  With the closing of the door, the roar from the basilica hall was severed. A stifling silence seized the room, where only a few flickering candles cast their thin, dancing light against the damp stone. Inside the narrow chamber, smelling of old incense and ancient vellum, there were no more cheers or insults. All that remained was the heavy breathing of men who now carried the fate of the empire upon their shoulders. The Pope sat upon a simple wooden chair in the center of the room, gazing at each of his advisors in turn, waiting for the secret deliberation to begin in the pressing gloom.

  The deliberation within the Sacristy was as bitter as the air outside was cold. Just as Theodore had calculated, the voices of the elder priests rose in a chorus of condemnation. They demanded excommunication, citing the fear of a schism with Constantinople and the stain of sorcery that Romulus supposedly bore. The debate dragged on, a slow and exhausting grind of words. Felix stood powerless in the corner, his testimony of the Ignis Dei falling on ears deafened by political fear. Even Gelasius, for all his administrative might, found himself unable to sway the tide of the Presbyterium's rigid traditionalism.

  After nearly an hour of relentless bickering, Pope Simplicius finally raised a hand. The room fell silent. "I have heard enough," he said, his voice brittle. "Leave me. I require a moment to pray in solitude."

  The priests began to file out, their robes rustling like dry leaves. As Gelasius prepared to follow, the Pope called out to him. "Gelasius, stay with me."

  When the heavy oak door finally clicked shut, leaving only the two of them, the Pope sank into his chair. The exhaustion on his face was so profound it seemed to pull at the very skin of his features. Gelasius moved quickly, pouring a cup of water from a ceramic pitcher and offering it to the old man.

  "Drink first, Father," Gelasius said softly.

  Simplicius took a slow, trembling sip. He looked up, his eyes clouded with a weight that went beyond the physical. "If only you knew the burden of this choice, Gelasius."

  "Rejoice, Father," Gelasius replied, his voice steady and comforting. "Saint Peter and the other Apostles carried the same weight as you do now. You have borne your cross with great strength. I shall leave you to your prayers."

  "No," the Pope answered, his voice gaining a sudden, sharp clarity. "I do not need to pray anymore. I have already decided. I decided at dawn."

  Gelasius froze, his brow furrowed in astonishment. He remained silent, waiting for the Pope to explain a decision that had apparently been made before the synod even began.

  "I received a vision, Gelasius. Sit."

  Gelasius sat, leaning in.

  "I speak of this only to you, and before God. Only you shall know of this," the Pope whispered, his tone tight with tension.

  "I shall guard it, Holy Father," Gelasius vowed.

  "In my sleep, I saw it," Simplicius began, his gaze drifting as if he were back in the dream. "I was praying in my chapel. I thought it was real, but it was not. It was a vision. As I prayed, I saw two tables, and upon each table sat a mound of formless clay. When I drew near the first table, I heard a voice. A terrible, demanding voice that said: Give it form."

  The Pope paused, his breath hitching. "So I tried. But I could not shape the first clay. It was old, hardened like stone. No matter how I pressed, it would not yield. In my frustration, I could not restrain myself. I cast it down, and it shattered upon the floor."

  Gelasius listened, motionless.

  "Then I went to the second table," the Pope continued. "Upon it was new clay, wet and soft. The same command came: Give it form. I began to shape it, working like a master potter. Twice I formed it into a vessel, and twice the voice said it was not yet perfect. Only on the third attempt did the voice say: It is perfect. And then I woke."

  Simplicius stood up, his legs shaking slightly as he moved toward another table in the room. He began to rummage through a clutter of parchments, searching for something. "Tell me, what do you think it means?"

  "I do not know, Father," Gelasius admitted. "Two tables, two mounds of clay."

  "You surely understand," Simplicius said, his hands still shuffling through the papers.

  Gelasius remained still, reflecting on the symbols of the vision. "Two tables," he murmured. "Two thrones, Father?"

  "Perhaps," Simplicius replied, pausing his search for a moment to look at him. "And if they are two thrones, what is the clay?"

  Gelasius searched the scriptures in the silence of his mind until a passage surfaced. He then moved his lips, reciting the words in a low, reverent whisper:

  "But now, O Lord, thou art our father; we are the clay, and thou our potter; and we all are the work of thy hand."

  He looked at the Pope. "It is two souls, Holy Father. The souls that sit upon those thrones."

  Simplicius, having found the small scrap of parchment he was looking for, turned and locked eyes with Gelasius. "I thought the same, Gelasius. Who, then, are these two thrones and these two souls?"

  The realization dawned on Gelasius, his face a mask of awe and wonder. "The thrones of the Emperor. The two who claim the purple. Julius Nepos and Romulus."

  The Pope stepped toward him and handed over a small, rolled letter. "This was sent from Ravenna. It was written by a man named Spurius, who signs himself as the Praefectus Praetorio to Romulus."

  Gelasius read the letter, his eyes darting across the lines with a wild, searching intensity.

  "Do you believe this to be a coincidence?" the Pope asked.

  Gelasius could only stare at him, the weight of the moment pressing down upon them both.

  "In the loom of the Almighty, my son," the Pope said firmly, "there are no stray threads. There are no coincidences."

  Simplicius gazed at the rolled letter in Gelasius's hand with a distant, piercing look. "My judgment is firm," he spoke, his voice no longer trembling but filled with a cold, absolute certainty. "I will not excommunicate Romulus. However, I will not leave him to his own devices either."

  He coughed softly, then continued. "To secure stability and silence the bloodthirsty mouths out there, I will announce that I require time to investigate these matters firsthand. I am sending you to Ravenna, Gelasius."

  Gelasius was taken aback, his eyes widening. "Me, Father?"

  "You," Simplicius answered firmly. "You shall go bearing my name and doing all things under the power of this See's authority. You will go to conduct an investigation, at least as far as the world shall know, until they have forgotten every accusation they cast this day. But remember your true purpose, Gelasius. I am sending you there to shape that clay."

  "But Father," Gelasius interjected, unease creeping across his features. "Why me? I do not have the temperament for this. There are many others far more worthy and seasoned for such a heavy task."

  Simplicius rose from his chair, his thin hands gripping Gelasius's shoulders with surprising strength. "Gelasius, listen to me. This is a holy work, and I have chosen you. One day, you shall sit upon this throne of mine when God wills it. And before that day comes, you must begin your own spiritual odyssey."

  The old man looked deep into his subordinate's eyes. "You will teach Romulus. You will guide him. You shall rebuke him when he strays and strengthen him when he is frail. You will be a prophet unto him, guiding his paths in the days of his youth and becoming a father to him in his life. You must plant the seeds of God's word into his young heart. You must give it form. Give it form. Shape him into the vessel God desires for the kind of Emperor he is destined to become."

  Simplicius's grip tightened slightly. "I am far too old for such a journey and my death feels near, so you shall do this for me. Can you do this, my son?"

  Gelasius took a long breath, the weight of the responsibility feeling tangible upon his shoulders. Yet, seeing the old man's hopeful gaze, he slowly knelt. "Whatever it may be, Father. If God has called, then here I am, send me."

  A small smile appeared on Simplicius's withered face. "Good. While you are away, Felix shall take your place as Archdeacon here."

  Simplicius then looked toward the wooden door that separated them from the noise outside. His expression shifted into a bitter amusement. "Now, for the hardest part. To deliver my judgment before those roosters who never cease their crowing," he said with a laugh, a dry sound that showed his disdain for the political intrigues of the bishops outside.

  Gelasius laughed softly, his tension melting as he caught the spark in the old man's eyes. "They will certainly not like it, Father."

  "Indeed they will not," Simplicius replied, straightening his heavy robes. He extended his trembling hand to Gelasius. "Escort me, Gelasius. Let us face them."