Cesare De Como.
As the illegitimate son of Leo III—though officially recognized as the son of the Count of Como—he was perpetually dissatisfied. Glory always shimmered within his reach, only to slip away at the final moment into the hands of someone inferior. The title of Prince, currently held by that snot-nosed brat Alfonso, was the most galling example.
He occupied a balcony seat to the right of the Great Basilica’s central nave, yet his frustration festered. This was not the premier box reserved for the “true” royal family; it was a tier below, a secondary vantage point.
The King always observed the High Mass from that highest balcony, flanked by the Queen—with whom he shared a frigid, miserable marriage—and their puppy-like son. The atmosphere in the royal box was perpetually icy, yet Leo III never deigned to descend to the floor below, where life, laughter, and genuine warmth overflowed.
Cesare and Countess Rubina were relegated to capturing Leo III’s attention only in the shadows of private chambers, never in the blinding light of official ceremonies.
His focus was drawn irresistibly to the royal balcony above, but his pride forbade him from looking up. It was unthinkable for him—a man who loathed the act of kneeling or gazing at superiors—to lock eyes with that boy Alfonso. To have to crane his neck to acknowledge a youth who had never achieved anything by his own merit felt like a physical affront.
To distract himself, he glanced down at the central nave, where Isabella, the Cardinal’s daughter, was parading toward the altar. He found the display itself garish, but the sight of the seventeen-year-old—radiant and wide-eyed as a fairy, preening for the crowd—was undeniably pleasing.
Isabella possessed a gravity that bent the gaze of the assembly toward her. It was a spectacle from his vantage point: men’s heads pivoted in perfect, rhythmic sequence, tracing her progress down the aisle like sunflowers following the sun.
‘What is this, a chariot formation?’
Cesare inwardly mocked the commoners below, pathetic in their inability to control their own heads, so easily bewitched by a mere girl.
He believed himself to be an exception. He was the eldest son of the King, born with royal blood burning in his veins. It was only natural that he, superior in lineage and intellect, should possess everything the world had to offer. And the most suitable ornament for him—the most magnificent man in the kingdom—was Isabella De Mare, the most coveted prize in all of San Carlo.
He wanted her. His desire for her was the same as his obsession with the fist-sized ruby brought by a merchant from the Republic Of Porto last month, or the Moorish slave with skin like polished coal, or the new cannon he’d acquired from the Duchy Of Valois.
He did not care for the objects themselves; he craved the wonder and the envious whispers that would be showered upon him, Cesare, for being their master.
— ‘As expected of Count Cesare. Is it true that every finest steed in the kingdom is kept in your stables?’
— ‘Not just steeds; every beauty in San Carlo is his captive.’
— ‘To possess even Isabella De Mare! Count Cesare is truly extraordinary.’
The mere fantasy of his peers murmuring such praises made his lips curl into a satisfied smirk.
Below, the golden-haired girl looked up toward his balcony and offered a shy, calculated smile. For a lady of her station to signal interest so boldly was a lure that he, as a gentleman, could not fail to acknowledge. He gave a slight, imperious nod, returning her flirtation.
‘I must press Cardinal Del Mare on his intentions regarding a marriage proposal again soon. And I should plant the seed when I see my father next month.’
While his eyes lingered greedily on Isabella, a girl with raven hair trailing behind her caught his attention. Her austere, somber appearance stood out awkwardly against the radiance of Isabella and the flashy finery of Lucrezia. He turned to his mother, Countess Rubina, who sat beside him.
“Mother, who is that dark-looking girl tagging along with the Cardinal De Mare’s family?”
Countess Rubina, busy filing her nails with a long emery board, replied without even looking up.
“She’s the second daughter Cardinal Del Mare fathered with another mistress. I hear she’s already managed to capture the favor of Queen Marguerite.”
“By doing what, exactly?”
“Don’t judge people solely by their appearance. For a young thing like that to have already caught the eye of the prickly Queen Marguerite, she is no ordinary creature.”
“What on earth would a girl use such cleverness for?”
Countess Rubina narrowed her eyes and glared at her son.
“Do you think I reached this position because I only had a pretty face?”
“Isn’t that so?”
Countess Rubina, a cold-featured beauty with fine lines who looked exactly like Cesare, glared in displeasure at her son, who had become increasingly rebellious as he aged.
“You pathetic child.”
Just then, the pipe organ of the Great Basilica began to play with majestic weight. It was the melody signaling the start of the sermon.
Against the backdrop of the music, a man wearing coarse burlap robes and the flat cap of a common priest slowly ascended the central altar.
He was a man of unusually tall stature, with deep-set sockets and fierce, piercing eyes that betrayed an extraordinary nature.
“It seems the sermon is starting. That must be the Apostle of Acereto.”
Wishing to deflect his mother’s anger, Cesare pretended to focus intently on the pulpit, despite the resentment boiling inside him.
The noisy interior of the Great Basilica gradually grew quiet as the Apostle of Acereto climbed the steps. The atmosphere was far more charged and expectant than it ever was during the sermons of Cardinal Del Mare.
In contrast to Cardinal Del Mare’s sermons, which were delivered in Latin, the Apostle of Acereto spoke in the Etruscan-Acereto language of the common people.
“He was born as a human.”
His sermon was provocative from the very first sentence.
“Born as the son of a shepherd in a barn in Yesak, he lived, laughed, learned, and grew as a man until he received the command of the Holy Spirit at the age of thirty and became the Holy Son.”
The congregation held their breath, hanging on his every word.
“Only when the Holy Spirit chose him through the first sacrifice did he, who was born a human, finally become the Holy Son and acquire the same divinity as the Holy Spirit.”
As he reached this point, the reaction of the audience split dramatically. Some were visibly enthusiastic, while others shifted in their seats, deeply uncomfortable.
— “Then, you mean the Gon of Yesak was not the son of the Holy Spirit from birth, but originally a human’s son?”
— “Isn’t that too radical?”
The Apostle of Acereto’s words drew wildly divergent reactions.
Among the poor and the struggling, his popularity was explosive. The idea that even the lowliest person could, through embodying and practicing the teachings of the Holy Spirit, be chosen by Him as His own son and elevated to the highest throne under heaven, was irresistibly attractive.
On the other hand, to the literate and the ruling class, the sermon was nothing short of seditious.
To the nobility, the teaching that ‘even the lowest can rise to the highest place’ posed a profound threat. The Holy See, which held established power, and the Great Basilica under its wing, preached the following:
— “Noble souls are born as royalty or nobility to bestow benevolence, while lowly souls are born as commoners to atone for their sins. One must do many good deeds to be born as a noble in the next life, and royalty or nobility, by virtue of their status alone, are proven to be endowed with excellent qualities in the eyes of the Holy Spirit.”
Royals and nobles could derive the legitimacy of their rule from these teachings. But to push beyond that, to claim that a commoner could become a son of God directly? That was a direct assault on the existing social order.
To the clergy, the Apostle of Acereto posed a far more visceral threat.
The scripture of the Great Basilica consisted of the ‘Meditations’ left behind by the Gon of Yesak and the ‘Gospels’ penned by his six disciples. While the Gospels were regarded as human accounts subject to interpretation, the Meditations—the words delivered directly by the son of God—were considered sacrosanct, endowed with divine meaning down to the final punctuation mark.
The authority of the Holy See rested primarily upon these ‘Meditations.’ When secular power moved against the Church, the Holy See would extract a line from the text to refute them. Paired with the ultimate threat of excommunication, it was a weapon that never failed.
Years prior, when the Grand Duke of Acereto attempted to cast aside his wife to take seven-year-old Bianca of Taranto as his bride, Pope Ludovico had faced immense pressure from neighboring monarchs. Fearing that the inheritance rights of Taranto would fall into Acereto’s hands, Leo III and others urged the Pope to intervene. Pope Ludovico had firmly thrust passages from the ‘Meditations’ before the Grand Duke:
“Honor your wife.” “Marriage is sacred.” “Let not the old covet the young.”
When the divine authority of the Meditations was absolute, such excerpts were categorical imperatives. They demanded unconditional obedience. Conversely, if the Meditations were reduced to nothing more than the writings of a man—no different from the Gospels—then there would be room for interpretation.
“Honor your wife.”
If this were merely the word of a man, could it not be ignored if the wife in question was unvirtuous and jealous, rather than worthy of honor?
“Marriage is sacred.”
Marriage is sacred because it allows for the birth of descendants blessed by the Holy Spirit; but if the wife is barren, must that marriage still be respected?
“Let not the old covet the young.”
If the young person is mature beyond their years, would this not be acceptable? If the young person loves the older one first, would it not be reasonable to waive the passage?
The Grand Duke of Acereto could not long withstand the threat of excommunication based on the passages Pope Ludovico had wielded. He had been forced to abandon Bianca of Taranto.
Yet, after his desire for her was thwarted, the Grand Duke shifted his full support to the man then known as Priest Alejandro, who would later become the Apostle of Acereto.
He gave this man—a mere common priest at the time—the Great Basilica as a pulpit and diverted funds from the Grand Duchy’s budget to clothe and feed the young acolytes who flocked to his side.
The fruit of that investment, sown only a few years ago, was what they were witnessing now. Priest Alejandro had ascended to become the Apostle of Acereto, and with the common masses at his back, he was now poised to tear down the clergy and the nobility alike.
Ariadne stood at the very back of the balcony on the left side of the grand hall. She kept her place like a shadow behind Lucrezia, Isabella, and Arabella, before rising quietly and unobtrusively.
Arabella glanced at her, but Ariadne leaned in and whispered,
“I’m going to the restroom for a moment.”
Ariadne removed the gold earrings Lucrezia had adorned her with and tucked them into her sleeve.
A perfect stage required perfect attire. Holding her breath, Ariadne descended the steep stairs to the first floor of the grand hall and slipped behind the railing, waiting for the decisive moment.
The sermon of the Apostle of Acereto was reaching its fever pitch.
“The Gon of Yesak, in the end, is merely a son of man!”
The middle-aged man’s deep, resonant baritone echoed through the Great Basilica, holding the audience in a state of complex, shifting emotions. Then, a sharp, husky tone—unusually rich for a young woman—pierced the silence.
“Have you no shame!”
It was Ariadne.