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Special Thanks to My Patrons.
A sincere thank you to my first Patrons, Eaglestrike777 and mr chicken, for supporting this project. I truly appreciate your support and I'm glad you are enjoying the story so far. I hope you continue to enjoy the journey of When Rome Stood Firm as it moves forward.
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March 483 AD
They buried Simplicius beneath the floor of Saint Peter's Basilica, beside the bones of the Popes who came before, and those before them, and so on back to the stone foundation that according to tradition was placed over the grave of the fisherman from Galilee who changed the world. The funeral took place on the twelfth day of March, two days after his death. Rome mourned in the way only a city that has lost too often can; with heavy silence and a long procession and bells that did not stop ringing until the sun set.
Gelasius was not present at the funeral.
He was still in Ravenna when Simplicius drew his last breath on the tenth of March. The courier carrying the news of his death took three days to reach him, arriving in Ravenna on the thirteenth with a horse that nearly collapsed and panting breath. Three days during which all of Rome had already mourned while Gelasius was still teaching Romulus about Cicero in the small library smelling of old books and marsh moisture.
When the news finally arrived, Gelasius knew that he had to return to Rome. Immediately. Without delay. He departed the following day, the fourteenth of March, on the fastest horse the Ravenna palace possessed. A journey that usually took five days he covered in three by forcing his horse to run from dawn until late at night, changing horses at every relay post along the Via Flaminia.
He spent two days preparing for departure. Packing letters. Giving final instructions to Paulus regarding the continuation of Romulus's education during his absence. Writing notes for Spurius about things to watch over and things to let be. And on the day of departure, he faced the most difficult task.
Parting with Romulus.
The parting took place in the library.
Not in the grand and formal Strategy Hall. Not on the palace balcony overlooking the marshes. In the small library that for six years had been a classroom, a therapy room, a confessional, and a room where a child learned to become a human better than the one destined by the circumstances of his birth.
The book of Marcus Aurelius lay open on the table. The same page they had read on the first day, six years ago. Not by coincidence. Gelasius opened it to that page deliberately, because he believed that a circle which began must be closed in the same place where it started.
Romulus sat in his usual chair. But that chair now felt smaller, because the person sitting in it was no longer the boy whose legs swung beneath the table. Romulus Augustus, twenty-two years old, sat with his back straight and hands folded in his lap, a posture that was no longer the result of practice but the result of habit.
Gelasius sat in his own chair. Between them, the same table. The same two glasses of water. The same teapot. Six years had passed and the furniture in this room had not changed, but the two people sitting on either side of the table had become very different people from those who first sat there.
"You must go," Romulus said. It was not a question.
"I must go," Gelasius replied.
"For how long?"
"I don't know. The election of a Pope can take several days or several weeks. Depending on how many votes must be counted and how many egos must be negotiated."
Romulus nodded. His fingers traced the edge of the worn book of Marcus Aurelius, its pages having turned from pale yellow to dark brown during six years of daily use.
"Gelasius."
"Hmm?"
"You came here six years ago because the Pope sent you. Because someone wrote a letter asking for a guardian for my soul. You came as..." Romulus paused for a moment, choosing his words, "...as the Prophet Nathan. Sent by God to guide a king still too young for his throne."
Gelasius looked at Romulus. His eyebrows rose slightly. Not because he was surprised by the biblical reference. Romulus had learned enough to make such references. But because of the honesty behind those words. An honesty only possible from someone mature enough to admit his own needs without shame.
"Have I become a worthy David?" Romulus asked. A soft and sincere question without pretense. The question of a student to his teacher on the last day of school.
Gelasius fell silent. A few seconds that felt like counting all the years they had spent together. The first conversation about anger and Marcus Aurelius. The day Romulus told of the seven slashes in Odoacer's tent. The day he cried about his mother. The days of training with Gisela that he watched from afar. The letters to Simplicius that would now never be read again by the person who asked him to write them.
Then Gelasius smiled. A small smile that rarely appeared on his usually sharp and professional face. A smile coming from a place deeper than intellect or diplomacy. A place where a teacher recognizes that his student has surpassed what was taught to him.
"I came to shape you," Gelasius said. His voice changed. Softer than Romulus had ever heard. "I don't know if I succeeded. But I know one thing." He pointed at Romulus with a light finger. "The clay I found six years ago is no longer the same as the one standing before me now."
Romulus stared at Gelasius. In his eyes was something shimmering. Not tears. More like light reflecting from a deep surface. A gratitude too great to be spoken but clear enough to be seen.
"But am I a worthy David?" Romulus repeated. "That is what I am asking."
"David never felt worthy," Gelasius answered. His smile widened slightly. "That is what made him worthy. A king who feels he is good enough is a king who stops growing. A king who always asks if he is good enough is a king who never stops trying."
Romulus looked down. Staring at the book of Marcus Aurelius open at the first page. The words he read six years ago as a child who did not understand half of them and which he now read as a man who understood more than he expected.
"Will you return?" Romulus asked. A simpler question than the previous one but one carrying a heavier weight. Because behind that question was a familiar fear: people who promised to return did not always keep it. His father promised. And his father died in the mud of Placentia.
Gelasius stood. Walked around the table. And did something he had never done during the six years; he placed his hand on Romulus's shoulder. A light touch. Brief. But carrying the weight of all the years they had passed together.
"I will return," Gelasius said. "Not because I have to. Because I want to. There is a difference. And you are mature enough to understand that difference."
Romulus raised his hand and touched Gelasius's hand on his shoulder. One second. Then released it.
"Go," Romulus said. "And choose a good Pope. Because I have a feeling that the next Pope will determine whether this Italy remains whole or breaks."
"Your feelings are usually accurate," Gelasius said.
"I learned from the best."
Gelasius removed his hand from Romulus's shoulder. Walked to the door. Stopped at the threshold. Turned one last time.
The small library, with its slightly tilted wooden shelves, with the book of Marcus Aurelius open on the table, with the two glasses of water, one already empty and one untouched, looked smaller than before. Or perhaps the two people who for six years filled it had become too large for that room.
"Take care of yourself, Romulus," Gelasius said. "And take care of that clay. Don't let anyone ruin it. Including yourself."
He bowed his head, as a sign of respect for his emperor, then he left. His steps in the corridor receded, orderly and dignified as always, and Romulus listened to them until the sound disappeared in the distance.
He was alone in the library.
For the first time in six years, no one was waiting for him in the chair across the table. No one would ask him what his opinion was on Marcus Aurelius or Cicero or Augustine. No one would look at him with eyes that did not judge and say: 'you don't have to answer today.'
Romulus took the book of Marcus Aurelius. Closed it. Placed it on the shelf whose location he had already memorized. Then he walked out of the library and closed the door behind him.
That door would open again. Gelasius promised to return. And Romulus, who had learned during six years that a promise from the right person had a different weight from an ordinary person's promise, chose to believe.
Because choosing to believe, as Gelasius once taught him, was not weakness. It was the most difficult courage.
Gelasius arrived in Rome on the seventeenth day of March, a day before the election of the new Pope.
Rome was in a state that could not be called mourning but also could not be called ordinary. There was a restless energy permeating every corridor of the Lateran Palace and every corner of Saint Peter's Basilica. The energy of people counting opportunities, weighing loyalties, and arranging strategies behind faces pretending to mourn.
The election of a Pope in those years was not a closed and mystical affair. The process was simpler and cruder. The Roman clergy, the bishops present, and representatives of the laity gathered in the Lateran Basilica. Names were proposed. Arguments presented. Votes counted. And among all those votes, one voice carried a weight disproportionate to its number; the voice of the emperor.
Not a direct vote. The emperor did not sit in the Basilica and raise a hand. But the emperor's representative was present, carrying the name and weight of support which, in fifth-century church politics, was often the deciding factor. Because the Pope needed the emperor to protect the Church, and the emperor needed the Pope to legitimate his throne. A symbiotic relationship that was nearly two centuries old and which never ceased to be awkward.
Romulus's representative in Rome was Vitus.
The Magister Militum arrived in Rome a day before the election along with Gelasius, bringing an official letter from Romulus stating the emperor's support for a fair and transparent election process. A beautiful and diplomatic letter that said nothing about whom Romulus actually supported. Because Romulus, upon Gelasius's advice before the Archdeacon departed, chose not to explicitly support any candidate.
Vitus had no such doubts.
In the two days before the election, Vitus met privately with every bishop and every senior clergy who had a vote. Brief meetings in side rooms of the Lateran Palace, in monastery libraries, at dinner tables arranged with a coincidence too neat to be called a coincidence. And at every meeting, the same message was delivered with variations tailored to the ears of the listener.
The Church needed a strong leader. Not a patient leader like Simplicius. Not a leader who waited like Simplicius. A leader who acted. Who faced Theodore with a decisiveness never shown by his predecessor. A leader who understood that sometimes, to protect the faith, you must be willing to go to war for that faith.
Never directly. Never by naming names. But everyone who listened understood who was meant.
Felix.
There were two main candidates who emerged from the informal process preceding the official election. The first was Felix, the bishop of Rome who for the last six years had functioned as de facto Pope while Simplicius lay ill. Felix was known to be hard, decisive, intolerant of what he considered deviations, and very, very certain that Theodore's schism was the greatest threat facing the Church since the Arian heresy.
The second was Gelasius himself.
The Archdeacon of Rome, who for six years had lived in Ravenna guiding the young emperor, had built a reputation that could not be ignored. People in Rome knew him as a brilliant administrator, a skilled diplomat, a deep theologian, and a human who, unlike most church officials of his time, seemed to truly care about the things he claimed to care about. The voices supporting him came primarily from the younger clergy, who saw Gelasius as hope for a smarter and less confrontational Church.
But Gelasius possessed one weakness that no reputation however brilliant could overcome; he had not been in Rome for six years. In church politics, presence was everything. Felix was there. Felix was present at every meeting, every mass, every small and large crisis that beset Rome over the years. Felix knew every priest in every church. Felix knew the name of every deacon's wife and the ailment of every old nun. Felix was Rome, and Rome, in the business of choosing a Pope, always chose the one who felt most like its own.
Gelasius understood this. He understood it even before he arrived in Rome and saw how the wind blew. On the journey from Ravenna, on the horse running down the Via Flaminia he had traversed six years ago in the opposite direction, he had already calculated and reached the conclusion he accepted with the calmness of a man accustomed to letting his will yield to reality.
Felix would become Pope. Not because Felix was better. But because Felix was more present.
And then there was Vitus.
Vitus knew exactly what he was doing. He knew that Gelasius, if elected, would continue Simplicius's policies: patience, diplomacy, a never-ending truce. Gelasius would restrain Rome from acting harshly against Theodore. Gelasius would restrain Romulus from going to war. And Vitus, who for six years had built garrisons and trained troops and moved Theron to Ostia and prepared weapons the world had never seen, did not build all that to let it rust in warehouses.
Felix was Vitus's key. Felix would open the doors that for so long had been locked by Simplicius. The door to the war Vitus believed inevitable and which he wanted started on favorable terms, not when the enemy chose his own time.
So Vitus pushed for Felix. Not crudely, but with the efficiency of a general who understood that political battles differed from military battles only in the type of weapons used. He whispered into the right ears. Promised the emperor's support which would strengthen Felix's position before the Church. Reminded them that a strong emperor behind a strong Pope was a combination that could crush Milan and Nepos and Theodore in one coordinated movement.
The election took place on March 18, 483.
Eight days after the death of Simplicius. A deliberate speed, giving enough time for the nearest bishops to arrive but not long enough to let Theodore in Milan organize an intervention. Gelasius himself only arrived the day before, exhausted from a four-day journey covered in three days because he forced his horse to run faster than was decent on muddy winter roads.
The Lateran Basilica was full. The Roman clergy filled the long pews in the main nave. Bishops from nearby cities who managed to arrive on time sat in the rows of honor. Representatives of the laity stood in the back, faces tense and curious and anxious blending into one.
Vitus stood on the right side of the altar, wearing full ceremonial robes gleaming beneath candle light, sword at his waist, parchment signed by the emperor in his hand. His presence was not merely symbolic. It was a statement that the emperor was watching. The emperor had an opinion. And anyone who voted contrary to that opinion better have a very, very good reason.
Gelasius stood on the left side of the altar, in his simple diaconal robes, hands folded in front of his body, his face showing nothing but a measured calmness. He already knew the result. He had already accepted it. What remained was a formality.
The process lasted for four hours. Names were proposed. Felix. Gelasius. Two other candidates who received minor support and who withdrew before the voting finished. Arguments were presented. Felix's supporters spoke of decisiveness and action. Gelasius's supporters spoke of wisdom and diplomacy.
Then the voice of the emperor spoke.
Vitus stepped forward to the altar. Opened the parchment signed by Romulus. But the words that came out of his mouth were not the words written on that parchment. The parchment merely stated the emperor's support for a fair election process. Vitus's words went beyond that mandate with a boldness that, depending on which viewpoint you saw from, could be called strategic initiative or veiled insubordination.
"His Majesty Emperor Romulus Augustus," Vitus said, his military voice filling the whole basilica, "believes that the Church needs a leader capable of facing the threat of schism with a hand that does not tremble. The Emperor believes that a divided Italy needs a Pope willing to stand at the front lines of defense of the faith, not in a library far from the battlefield."
Those last words were not accidental. A library far from the battlefield was a clear reference to Gelasius who spent six years in the Ravenna library. Some bishops cleared their throats. Some nodded. Gelasius did not react. He had already expected something like this.
The voting took place after sunset. The result surprised no one who had already counted. Felix was elected with a comfortable but not crushing margin. Enough votes to show a strong consensus. Not large enough to hide the fact that nearly a third of the Roman clergy preferred Gelasius.
Felix stood before the altar of the Lateran Basilica and received the white papal robes. His voice, as he spoke for the first time as Pope Felix III, filled the basilica with the authority he had long prepared.
"I accept this burden with trepidation but without hesitation," Felix said. "The Church of Christ faces the most dangerous division since the Arian heresy shook the foundations of our faith. My brothers in the north have gone astray. Not because their hearts are bad, but because their ears were whispered to by voices claiming to speak in the name of God but who actually speak in the name of carnal ambition."
He paused. His eyes swept the room.
"I will not be silent like my predecessor. I respect Simplicius. I love him as a father. But his silence was too long and the stillness too prolonged. A silence that is too long is a silent consent to error. And I am not willing to give that consent."
In the corner of the basilica, Gelasius listened. Felix's words were no surprise. He already knew what was coming. But hearing it directly, from the mouth of the man now holding the highest spiritual authority in the Western Christian world, made it real in a way that not even the best prediction could achieve.
The storm has come, Gelasius thought. And the person now holding the helm is not one who avoids the storm. He is one who steers the ship into the middle of it.
Felix wasted no time.
On his first day as Pope, even before the official consecration ceremony scheduled for the following week, Felix called his secretary and dictated two letters.
The first letter was addressed to the north. To Milan. To Theodore.
To Theodore, who calls himself the Archbishop of Milan, from Felix, by the grace of God Bishop of Rome and Successor of Saint Peter, a warning and a call to repent.
What you are doing in Milan is not reform. It is rebellion. Not a renewal of faith. It is a betrayal of faith. You have separated yourself from the Church founded by Christ upon the rock of Peter, and in your wrath you have dragged tens of thousands of souls into the abyss you dug with your own heretical hands.
I call you to repent. I call you to revoke the Declaration of Milan which is full of error and sin. I call you to return yourself to the embrace of the Church which is one, holy, catholic, and apostolic before it is too late.
If you refuse, then know that the hand holding the keys of Peter does not tremble. And the door closed by that hand will not be opened by any human power.
In the non-negotiable authority of Christ, Felix III, Pontifex Maximus
The second letter was addressed to the south. To Ravenna. To Romulus the Western Roman Emperor, or the Southern Roman Emperor for now.
The tone was different. Warmer. But no less urgent.
To His Majesty Emperor Romulus Augustus, from Felix, Bishop of Rome, greetings in Christ.
I am writing to you not as Pope to emperor, but as shepherd to protector of the flock. The Church faces a threat that cannot be resolved by prayer and diplomacy alone. Theodore in the north does not merely separate himself from Rome. He builds a rival church which, if allowed to grow, will split Western Christianity into fragments that will never be joined back together.
As emperor, you have an obligation more than just guarding borders and collecting taxes. You are the defender of the faith. Protector of the Church. The sword God gave to the world to guard the truth against attacks of falsehood.
Rome needs you, my Emperor. Not just your sword. Your resolve, your presence, and your courage.
I pray that you listen to this call. Not a call of war. But a call of responsibility that transcends the comfort of a truce already worn out by time.
In hope and faith, Felix III
Both letters were sealed. Two couriers were sent in opposite directions. Milan and Ravenna. Two different messages but originating from the same source and heading to the same conclusion.
War is drawing closer.
The meeting between Felix and Vitus took place on the night after the election, in the Pope's private room which still smelled of incense from the prayers read by his predecessor and which now smelled of new candles and fresh ink from the letters just sent.
The meeting was not recorded in any official records. No secretary, nor any witnesses. Only two men sitting across from each other at a small table with one bottle of wine between them and the mutual understanding that what they talked about tonight would shape the future of Italy.
"You pushed for my election," Felix said. Not an accusation. A statement.
"I pushed for the election of the best leader available," Vitus answered with a diplomacy not typical of him but which he learned during years of dealing with politicians and bishops.
"Don't play words with me, Magister. You pushed for me because you knew I would not let Theodore be silent like Simplicius. And you are right."
Vitus took a sip of his wine. Placed his glass down.
"Your letter to Theodore will force him to choose," Vitus said. "Repent or refuse. You and I both know he will refuse. Theodore did not build his entire church structure in Milan to tear it down himself just because of one letter."
"I know."
"And if he refuses, then what remains is no longer a theological dispute. It is an open rebellion against the authority of the Throne of Peter. And an open rebellion has only two solutions. Surrender or destruction."
Felix stared at Vitus. The new Pope's eyes were sharp and unblinking. The eyes of a man who had long made this decision in his head and who now only waited for the outside world to catch up.
"You are speaking of war," Felix said.
"I am speaking of reality. War is a reality that has been waiting at the door for six years. Simplicius locked that door with his trembling hands. Now his hands are gone. And that door will not stay locked by itself."
Felix poured wine into his own glass. Drank it. Slowly. Giving himself time to formulate what he already knew but which he had never spoken aloud.
"If Theodore refuses to repent," Felix said, each word coming out with a measured weight, "then I will excommunicate him. Officially. Publicly. Along with every bishop who signed the Declaration of Milan."
Vitus nodded. But Felix was not finished.
"And after the excommunication, if they still don't repent, then the only path left..." Felix paused. Stared at his glass. Stared at the dark red wine moving slowly inside it like blood not yet shed. "...is the sword."
"Holy war," Vitus said.
"Not holy war," Felix corrected sharply. "A war of restoration. There is a difference between those two. A holy war attacks strangers for the sake of God. A war of restoration returns what was stolen from God by a brother gone astray. I am not attacking Theodore. I am returning the souls he stole."
Vitus stared at Felix. And behind the eyes of a general who had seen many battles and a thousand deaths, was something resembling admiration.
This man is more dangerous than Simplicius, Vitus thought. Simplicius held back war out of fear. Felix will start war out of certainty. And nothing is more dangerous than a man certain that God stands on his side.
"I will prepare the army," Vitus said.
"Not yet," Felix said. "Give Theodore time to respond to my letter. Thirty days. I give him thirty days to repent. If after that he still refuses, then..." Felix raised his glass. The candle light reflected on the red wine's surface like a small fire. "...then we talk again."
They drank together. Two men who had just agreed on something not written on any parchment but which would change Italy forever. The new Pope and the general who had long been waiting. The cross and the sword. The altar and the shield.
And in Ravenna, four hundred miles to the north, a young man of twenty-two who did not yet know about all this sat in the empty library, staring at the chair just abandoned by his teacher, and felt in his bones that the world was shifting beneath his feet.
He did not know in which direction.
But he knew that whichever direction the world shifted, he had to be ready.
The clay had been shaped. The vessel stood.
Now remained the final question. Was the vessel strong enough to hold what would be poured into it?