(As recounted by Aurelio)
The old man rose from his chair and walked to the window. The morning sunlight streamed through the shutters, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air. The Scholar watched him, waiting. He had learned that Aurelio's silences were not empty; they were filled with the weight of memory, pressing down like stones on a grave.
"Rome," Aurelio said, his back still turned. "The Eternal City. That is what they called it. Eternal. Immortal. Unconquerable."
He turned, and his face was carved from sorrow.
"They were wrong."
— Memory —
The first sign that something was terribly wrong was the silence.
Rome should have been loud. Even in the depths of war, even in the grip of plague, a city of a million souls should have hummed with life. Carts rattling over cobblestones. Merchants hawking their wares. Children laughing in the streets. Priests chanting in the churches. The endless, restless noise of humanity, pressed together like olives in a press.
But there was none of that.
The streets were empty. The shops were shuttered. The only sound was the wind, whistling through the narrow alleys, carrying with it the smell of smoke and something else. Something sweet. Something wrong.
Aurelio stood at the edge of the city, his sword in his hand, his eyes scanning the buildings ahead. The Via Appia had led them here, through the Porta Appia, past the ancient walls that had once held back Hannibal and Alaric and the Visigoths. Those walls still stood. But the city they protected was dead.
"We should turn back," Cecilia said. Her voice was barely a whisper. She stood beside him, Elara's hand clutched in hers. The girl's eyes were wide, her small body trembling.
"We cannot," Aurelio replied. "Nero is here. Godbrand is coming. This is where it ends."
"Or where we die."
"Or where we die." He looked at her. "But we die together."
Liam appeared from a side street, his sword drawn, his face calm. "I have scouted ahead. The forum is empty. The markets are empty. The temples are empty. There are bodies, but..."
"But what?"
"They are not plague victims. They have been killed. With blades."
Aurelio felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. "Nero's men?"
"Or Nero himself. The bodies are fresh. A day, maybe two."
"They are sending a message."
"Yes." Liam's eyes were dark. "And the message is clear. Rome is his. Anyone who disagrees is dead."
They moved through the streets like ghosts, hugging the walls, staying in the shadows. The buildings loomed above them, their windows dark, their doors closed. Every sound made them flinch; a loose shutter banging in the wind, a rat scurrying through the gutter, the distant cry of a bird.
Donata brought up the rear, her forge hammer in her hand, her eyes scanning the rooftops. "I do not like this," she muttered. "It is too quiet. Too easy."
"Easy?" Riccio's voice was tight. "We have been walking for an hour and seen nothing but corpses. That is not easy. That is terrifying."
"It is easy because no one has tried to kill us yet."
"Give them time."
They reached the forum as the sun reached its zenith.
The forum had once been the heart of Rome. The place where emperors had given speeches, where generals had celebrated triumphs, where the people had gathered to cheer and mourn and riot. Now it was a graveyard.
The bodies were everywhere. Dozens of them. Hundreds, perhaps. They lay in rows, arranged with a terrible precision, their hands folded on their chests, their eyes closed. They had been killed cleanly; a single thrust to the heart, a single slash across the throat. No signs of struggle. No signs of fear.
"They were executed," Liam said, kneeling beside one of the bodies. "See how the wounds are placed. Precise. Efficient. This was not a battle. This was a judgment."
"Who were they?"
"Hard to say. Politicians, perhaps. Wealthy merchants. Anyone who might have opposed Nero's rule."
Aurelio looked at the rows of bodies. At the faces, frozen in death. Some were old. Some were young. There were women among them. Children.
"Bastard," Gerald said. The Viking had been silent since they entered the city, his face set in a mask of cold fury. Now his hand tightened on his axe. "I have seen many things in my life. Raids. Battles. The fury of the sea. But this... this is not war. This is butchery."
"War is butchery," Liam said. "We have simply been lying to ourselves about it."
They found shelter in an old warehouse near the Tiber.
The building had been used to store grain, but the grain was gone, scattered across the floor, mixed with dust and rat droppings. The roof was intact, and the walls were thick, and there was a well in the courtyard outside.
"We will rest here for the night," Aurelio announced. "Tomorrow, we search for Nero's palace. Tomorrow, we find out what he wants."
"And if he wants us dead?"
"Then we oblige him."
The survivors spread out, claiming corners, checking exits, posting guards. Donata set up a small fire in the center of the warehouse, using scraps of wood she had found in the courtyard. The flames cast dancing shadows on the walls, making the building feel smaller, more intimate.
Cecilia sat apart from the others, Elara's head in her lap. The girl had fallen asleep, her small chest rising and falling with each breath. Cecilia stroked her hair, her eyes distant.
"She is strong," Aurelio said, sitting beside her.
"She should not have to be."
"No. She should not. But she is. And that is not nothing."
Cecilia looked at him. In the firelight, her eyes seemed to glow. "Do you think we will win? Truly win?"
"I do not know. I have stopped thinking about winning. I think only about the next step. The next breath. The next moment."
"That is not living. That is surviving."
"Perhaps. But surviving is the first step to living."
She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I am tired, Aurelio. Tired of being afraid. Tired of running. Tired of watching the people I love die."
"Then rest. I will keep watch."
"You cannot keep watch forever."
"No. But I can keep watch tonight."
Later, when the fire had died to embers and the warehouse was dark, a sound woke Aurelio from his half-sleep.
Footsteps. Soft. Careful. Many of them.
He was on his feet in an instant, his sword in his hand. "Wake up," he hissed. "We have company."
The survivors scrambled to their feet, grabbing weapons, forming a loose circle around the fire. Liam moved to the door, peering through a crack in the wood.
"How many?" Aurelio asked.
"Difficult to say. A dozen, at least. Maybe more. They are surrounding the building."
"Nero's men?"
"Or Godbrand's. Does it matter?"
The first blow came at the door. A heavy thud, followed by the splintering of wood. Liam stepped back, his sword raised.
"Gerald, with me," Aurelio said. "Liam, cover the rear. Riccio, find a vantage point. Donata, protect the civilians."
The door burst open.
The men who poured through were not soldiers. They were not fanatics. They were something else; something worse. They wore the remnants of Roman armor, their faces painted with ash, their eyes wild. They moved with the jerky, unnatural grace of the Echo Walkers, but there was something more. Something human.
"The Shade," Cecilia whispered, her voice filled with horror. "It is here. In them. In all of them."
The first attacker lunged at Aurelio. He parried, the impact jarring his arm. The man was strong, unnaturally strong, and his eyes held no fear, no hesitation, no doubt.
"Fall back!" Aurelio shouted. "To the courtyard!"
They fought their way through the press of bodies, cutting and parrying and pushing. Gerald's axe sang a song of blood and bone. Liam's sword was a silver blur. Riccio's arrows found throats and eyes.
But for every attacker they killed, two more seemed to appear.
"We cannot hold them!" Donata shouted, her forge hammer cracking a skull.
"We do not need to hold them," Aurelio replied. "We need to survive them."
They reached the courtyard as the moon broke through the clouds. The well was in the center, its stone rim gleaming white in the pale light. Aurelio pushed Cecilia toward it.
"Get behind it! Use it for cover!"
She grabbed Elara and ran. The girl was awake now, her eyes wide, her mouth open in a silent scream.
Aurelio turned to face the oncoming horde. His sword was heavy in his hand. His arm ached. His lungs burned.
But he did not run.
He could not run.
This was where it ended. This was where he made his stand.
And then, from somewhere behind the attackers, a horn sounded.
Low. Deep. Familiar.
The Norsemen.
Gerald's face lit up with a savage joy. "Gunnar! He came!"
The attackers hesitated, turning toward the sound. In that moment of confusion, Aurelio saw his chance.
"Now!" he shouted. "Push them back!"
They surged forward, driving the attackers out of the courtyard, out of the warehouse, into the street. The Norsemen were there, their axes swinging, their shields locked, their war cries filling the night.
The battle was brutal, chaotic, and short. The attackers, caught between two forces, broke and fled. Within minutes, the streets were empty, save for the bodies.
Gunnar Ironhand stood in the middle of the carnage, his axe dripping, his face grim.
"You are late," Gerald said.
"I came as fast as I could."
"Where are the others?"
"The fleet is at Ostia. Rurik is with them. We came ahead when we heard you were in trouble."
"How did you know?"
Gunnar smiled; a thin, hard expression. "Because you are always in trouble, nephew."
— Present —
The old man returned to his chair and sat down heavily. The fire had died, and the room was cold, but he did not seem to notice.
"We survived that night," he said. "Barely. But we survived. And Gunnar's arrival gave us something we had not had in weeks."
He looked at the Scholar.
"Hope."