(As recounted by Aurelio)
The old man rose from his chair and walked to the window. The morning was fully upon them now, the sun bright and indifferent to the memories he had been unspooling. The Scholar watched him, waiting.
"The world is not a single story," Aurelio said, his back still turned. "It is a tapestry. A thousand threads, woven together by hands that never meet. While we limped south toward Nero's shadow, other wars were being fought. Other hearts were breaking. Other seeds were being planted."
He turned.
"Let me show you."
— Thread One: The South —
The road to Rome was a graveyard.
Aurelio walked at the head of his ragged column, his boots scuffing through ash that had once been a village. The plague had been here, and after the plague, the desperate. The bodies had been stripped of anything valuable; teeth, hair, even the leather from their shoes.
"We should turn back," Cecilia said, her voice hollow. "There is nothing for us here."
"There is Nero."
"Nero is a rumor. A ghost. We have been chasing ghosts since the Anvil fell."
Aurelio stopped walking. He turned to face her. Her eyes were dull, her face thin. The hollow cure had saved her life, but something had been lost in the bargain.
"Ghosts can kill you," he said. "I have seen it."
"Then let us find a different ghost. One that is not marching toward us with an army."
"We cannot outrun him. You know that."
Cecilia looked away. "I know that I am tired of running."
"Then we stop running. At Rome. We make our stand."
"Or we die."
"Or we die." He took her hand. "But we die together."
— Thread Two: The North —
Gerald stood at the prow of his longship, watching the grey sea churn.
The fleet had grown. What had once been a handful of ships was now a proper armada; Danes and Norwegians, united under a single banner for the first time in generations. But the unity was fragile, held together by little more than his presence and the promise of Vinland.
"We have word from the south," Gunnar said, joining him at the rail. "The preacher. Godbrand. He is marching on Rome."
"Rome is Aurelio's problem."
"He is your friend."
"He is my brother. And he made his choice. We made ours."
Gunnar was silent for a moment. "The men are restless. They want to fight. They want to raid. They want to remind the southerners why the North is feared."
"Then teach them patience. Vinland is not a prize to be taken. It is a home to be built."
"And if the men do not want patience?"
Gerald turned to face him. His eyes were hard, but there was something else there. Something that looked like sorrow.
"Then they are free to leave. But they will not take my ships. And they will not take my dream."
— Thread Three: France —
Charlotte stood in the throne room, watching her brother argue with his advisors.
Armand had grown into his crown, but he had not grown into his confidence. Every decision was a battlefield. Every word was a negotiation. The Cabal had left France a ruin, and the plague was finishing what the war had started.
"We cannot afford another conflict," the Chancellor was saying. "The treasury is empty. The army is depleted. The people are restless."
"And what would you have me do?" Armand demanded. "Bow to the preacher? Surrender to the mad king? Let the world burn while we hide behind our walls?"
"I would have you survive. So that one day, you may rebuild."
Charlotte stepped forward. "The Chancellor is right."
Armand turned to her, his face flushed. "Sister—"
"We cannot fight everyone. Not now. Not yet. But we can choose our battles." She looked at the Chancellor. "Send emissaries to the Norse. To the Italians. To the Spaniards. Offer them alliances. Offer them trade. Offer them anything they want, as long as it buys us time."
"And if they refuse?"
"Then we prepare for the worst. But we do not assume it."
— Thread Four: Spain —
Isabel sat alone in her chamber, staring at the golden serpent ring on her finger.
The Cabal had given it to her as a symbol of their alliance. She wore it because it was expected. But she had never stopped hating the weight of it.
"Your Majesty," her handmaiden said from the doorway. "There is word from the north. The preacher, Godbrand, is marching on Rome."
"Let him march. Rome is not our concern."
"He has been preaching against you. Against Spain. He says your rule is a corruption that must be cleansed."
Isabel smiled; a thin, cold expression. "Then let him come. I have survived worse than a madman with a cross."
"Your Majesty, he has an army. Thousands of followers. They call him the Prophet of the Cleansing."
"And I have a throne. Let him try to take it."
— Thread Five: England —
Arthur Pendleton walked through the streets of London, his sword hidden beneath his cloak.
The city was quiet. Too quiet. The plague had not reached England in full force, but the fear of it had. People stayed indoors. Shops were closed. The only sounds were the bells of the churches, tolling for the dead they had not yet buried.
He was looking for a man. A contact. Someone who could tell him where the Cabal had gone.
"Is it true?" a voice asked from the shadows. "About the girl? About the Shade?"
Arthur stopped. "It is true."
"And the grove-keeper? The one who hears the whispers?"
"He is alive. For now."
"Then we must warn him. The Cabal is not finished. They are regrouping. They are planning something worse."
Arthur's hand went to his sword. "Everyone is planning something worse. That is the nature of this world."
— Thread Six: Rome —
Nero stood on the balcony of his palace, looking out at the city below.
Rome was burning.
Not literally. Not yet. But he could feel the heat of it. The plague. The fear. The desperation. It was all fuel for the fire he was about to light.
"The preacher is coming," his advisor said, hovering at his shoulder. "Godbrand. He wants an audience."
"Let him wait."
"He has thousands of followers, Majesty. He is dangerous."
"Everyone is dangerous." Nero turned to face his advisor. His eyes were bright, feverish. "But I am Emperor. And emperors do not wait for preachers. Preachers wait for emperors."
"What would you have me tell him?"
Nero smiled. "Tell him I am eager to meet him. Tell him I have a proposition. Tell him..." He paused, looking back out at the city. "Tell him that I know where the grove-keeper is. And that I am willing to share."
— Present —
The old man returned to his chair and sat down heavily.
"Six threads," he said. "Six stories, all converging on the same point. Rome. Godbrand. Nero. Us."
He looked at the Scholar.