Roma
They returned first to Justinus’ house, and with the stone-cutter’s help they laid Mari on a straw pallet. Just before they draped a dark linen cloth over her, Jurian lifted the small pouch at her waist and spilled its contents into his open hand. Three gold coins, all that remained of the wealth that Nikolaos had given her.
She must have given it all away on her way to find me, he thought, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It would have been just like her.
In the midst of the coins lay the object he’d hoped to find.
The smooth, dark stone, with the silver-threaded ichthus etched on its face. He clutched it in his hand, then slipped it somberly it into the pouch at his own belt.
“It gave you strength,” he murmured, lifting the dark cloth and hiding her peaceful face. “Maybe…now that I don’t have you…it will give me courage too.”
Jurian glanced up to see Aemelia looking on, her hand over her mouth and tears in her eyes.
“I told you about my children who’d gone and married,” she murmured. “I didn’t tell you of the ones I lost. I wove that mourning pallium when my first son was taken from me.”
Jurian stood and took her hand, kissing it in silence. He didn’t know how else to express his thanks when his voice had betrayed him. She sighed and laid her hand on his head, and the four men lifted their burden and carried it into the street in silence. Justinus hitched a team of mules to the wagon he used to transport stone in the city, and they laid Mari in its bed. They traced a slow, somber route down the Via Appia, far outside the city of Rome, where catacombs had been dug to house the dead.
They descended a narrow set of stairs into the catacombs, guided only by the light of a few flickering candles. A cold, clammy breeze drifted over them, and the sound of their steps echoed between the rough-hewn stone of the close walls. Burial niches lined the corridor. Jurian held his breath; the whole place smelled of death and incense. As they made their careful way through the maze-like tunnels, Jurian caught the faint murmur of voices from somewhere deep underground. He drew up, alarmed, but Dionysius only smiled.
“We’re close now,” he said.
Jurian frowned. Everything looked the same, in front of them and behind. But Dionysius had barely spoken when the corridor opened up into a small antechamber. Shadows shifted in the corridors beyond, and Jurian’s hand went instinctively to his knife.
“No need,” Cyricius said. “We’re among friends here.”
They laid Mari’s bier on the rough stone floor, and Cyricius disappeared down one of the branching corridors. Dionysius gave Jurian an encouraging smile. Jurian wondered why—was something supposed to happen? After a moment the murmur of voices grew louder, then Cyricius returned with a young, bearded man and two older women, veiled under somber pallas.
“These women will see to Mari’s burial,” Cyricius said.
One of the women clasped Jurian’s forearm briefly, murmuring, “Please, make your farewells. We will do her the honors due those who have gone before us.”
Jurian stared at her in alarm. It sounded so final. With grief burning through him, he dropped to his knees beside Mari’s body and laid a hand on her cold forehead. All in a rush he remembered everything…her cheerful laughter, her strength, her infuriating stubbornness. Her insufferable teasing.
“I was supposed to chase a hundred Legionaries away from you,” he whispered through the sick knot in his throat. “I always knew none of them were worthy of you. No one was. But that didn’t mean I wanted this for you. Why, Mari? Why did you have to leave me now? I can’t go on without you. You were all the strength I had. You were the light on my dark road…the joy of my heart. Wherever you are now, watch over me, as I couldn’t watch over you. Please light my steps…please don’t forsake me. And wait for me at the gate to welcome me home.”
His voice broke and he buried his face in his hands, breathing shallowly to fight back the tears. Dionysius clasped his shoulder, but no one else moved or spoke until Jurian gritted his teeth and straightened his shoulders, and nodded at them.
“All right,” he said. He took one shuddering breath and kissed Mari’s forehead. “Goodbye, cara mea. Pray for me.”
He stood and followed Dionysius and Cyricius into another tunnel. They walked a while in silence. Even Jurian’s mind was quiet, as if the weight of the tombs had stifled his thoughts. They passed a number of brightly painted tombs—family mausoleums for the pagan dead—and some narrow niches with names and inscriptions carved in stone. One caught Jurian’s eye, drawing him forward almost without his realizing it.
There wasn’t much to catch his gaze, but he stared at it, magnetized. He sensed Dionysius beside him and pointed.
“That,” he said. “Whose tomb is that?”
Dionysius smiled sadly. “That is the tomb of Sebastianus. I knew him when I was younger. He died a little over ten years ago, at the emperor’s hand.” He shook his head. “He was a good soldier, and a good man. God knows we need more men like him.”
Jurian laid his hand against the stone above the burial niche. “He was a soldier?”
“Well favored by the emperor too, I’m told. He made him captain of the Praetorian Guard here in Rome. But Sebastianus knew where true honor lies, and for that, he died.”
Jurian swallowed hard and turned away. They continued on, soon arriving at another small chamber. Jurian stopped in surprise. A number of people had gathered inside, some sitting on the stone floor, others standing along the walls. In the center, on a low brass stool, sat a man. He wore a simple tunic and toga, with a dark stola over his shoulders, but nothing about his dress or appearance singled him out as anything remarkable. And yet when Jurian saw him, he was struck with far more fear than even the sight of Emperor Diocletian had stirred in him.
Dionysius stepped forward. If Jurian didn’t know better, he would have thought the man looked almost giddy.
The man on the stool beckoned him and Cyricius forward, saying, “Greetings to my beloved sons.”
They kissed his hand and Dionysius said, “Pappas, I found him.” He turned back to Jurian and said, “From the first to the last, this is Petrus. Pappas Marcellinus, bishop of Rome. Pappas, this is Lucius Aurelius Georgius. His father was Greek, so I suppose we might say…Georgios.”
The man rose from his stool, staring curiously at Jurian. Under the weight of his gaze, Jurian felt small, insignificant, and he bowed his head. Without even realizing it, he dropped to his knees. Marcellinus rested a hand on Jurian’s head, and when he removed it, Jurian glanced up to find him smiling.
“Fire-headed Georgios,” the pappas murmured. “So, it’s finally come.”
Jurian’s brows twitched in a faint frown. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
Marcellinus hesitated, then gave a gentle gesture to the people crowded in the room. They left at once, with only curious glances at Jurian as they went. Once they were alone, Marcellinus returned to his bronze stool and bowed his head.
“It’s a prophecy, nearly two hundred years in the fulfilling,” he said.
“Prophecy? I thought prophecies were superstition. Pagan.”
Marcellinus gave him an enigmatic smile. “Not all prophecies are. This one comes from a man, the uncle of pappas Linus, successor of Petrus. Linus was the son of Caratacus, chieftain of a formidable tribe in Britannia who battled against the Roman invaders of his land. But Caratacus was defeated and brought to Rome, where he ought to have been killed, but instead he made such an eloquent appeal to the Senate that they pardoned him. He embraced the Christian faith, and, as I said, his son Linus became the second bishop of Rome after the first Petrus.”
He fell silent, and Jurian, hoping it wasn’t impudent to speak out of turn, said, “You mentioned Linus’ uncle.”
“Yes. At least, the legends say he was Linus’ uncle, but we know very little about him. A strange, enigmatic man. They called him Myrddin in their native tongue, but we call him Merlinus. According to legend, he had fantastical powers, one of which seems to have been the gift of foresight. When Caratacus was still a boy, long before he was conquered and taken hostage to Rome, Merlinus crafted a sword for him. He called it a sword of kings, forged of steel and water and air. No one knows how he crafted it. As far as we know, he was not a smith, had no training in the art of forging steel. But even after two hundred and fifty years, that blade is still as sharp and spotless as the day it was forged. Caratacus gave it to his son Linus, and he in turn passed it on to his successor. So you might say the sword has been hidden in the rock for over a century.”
Jurian smiled, and Marcellinus gestured to Dionysius.
“Do you see that niche along the back wall? It is a tomb not for a body, but for steel. Bring me what you find there.”
Dionysius faded into the deep shadows at the back of the chamber, returning moments later with a long bundle wrapped in crimson wool. Jurian watched him curiously—Dionysius was a strong man, but he seemed to be struggling with his burden.
“Lay it there on the floor,” Marcellinus said. “I don’t want to hold it.” As Dionysius set the object on the ground, Marcellinus beckoned to Jurian. “Unwrap it and tell me what you see.”
Jurian cast a quick glance at Cyricius, but the man only gave him a faint, encouraging smile. Trying not to think about how strange all of this was, Jurian knelt down and unwrapped the crimson wool. Candlelight rippled over the flawless blade of a massive sword, at least twice as long as a Roman spatha. It had a long hilt, large enough to accommodate two hands, with a crosspiece that extended farther to either side of the blade than any he’d ever seen. It was plain, too, un-ornamented, but Jurian thought the sword was the most beautiful, and the most terrifying, piece of craftsmanship he’d ever seen. Wrapped around the blade above the hilt was a piece of vellum. Jurian touched it lightly, afraid it would disintegrate under his fingers.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Read it.”
He unwrapped it and smoothed it open. The text was written in Latin with a few words of Greek, the script fine and even.
“I shall pass from hand to hand, from Petrus to Petrus
Until, from Petrus I shall return to petra
In Britannia but not alone
Keep vigil for the one who must take me up
The fire-headed worker of earth—”
Jurian paused and shook his head. “No, not worker of earth. That’s my Greek name. Georgios.” He stared at the scroll as if it might bite him, then twitched his head again and continued,
“The fire-headed Georgios, the eques
Whose banner is the Cross.
The red dragon awaits.
The dragon will fall.
The eagle will fall.
A phoenix from the fire will rise.
Unchain her and free the world.
In Britannia will rise the eagle whose sign is the Cross.
In Britannia will rise the chief dragon whose sign is the Sword.
Take me to Britannia so from stone to be freed
For Georgios by Linus to Linus from Linus.
Merlinus Ambrosius
in the second year of
Emperor Claudius Caesar of Rome.”
Jurian dropped the scroll, snatching his fingers back as if it had burned him. “What…” he started, but his tongue faltered and he barely managed to say, “What…was that?”
Marcellinus smiled. “I was hoping you would tell us.”
“Why do you even think this has anything to do with me?” Jurian cried, standing and backing away from the sword. “Just because I have red hair and my name is Georgios? Maybe it was really meant for some Celtic farmer in Britannia.”
Dionysius chuckled, but Marcellinus didn’t seem offended by Jurian’s outburst. “No, I believe he was seeing a specific time and place in history. What do you make of that last line?”
Jurian thought for a moment, then a flicker of understanding opened his eyes wide. “Oh! I think I see. By Linus…because the sword was crafted by Mer-linus. To Linus, because it came to Pappas Linus from Caratacus. From Linus, because it’s now to be given from…Marcel-linus. From you.”
“To Georgios,” Marcellinus concluded, his gaze penetrating. “So unless you can bring me another Christian Georgios with red hair, I believe he was referring to you.”