The Lateran stank of incense and death.
Pope John XIX had scarcely been laid in the earth, yet already Rome seethed with whispers of succession.
In the villa of the Tusculani, those whispers became orders.
Count Alberic of Tusculum sat in his carved chair, iron-grey hair glinting in the firelight, rings heavy on his fingers.
Before him stood his son, Benedict, barely twenty, yet already smiling like a man who had tasted the rot of power and found it sweet.
"The throne of Peter is vacant," Alberic said, voice slow and deliberate. "Christendom reels. Kings curse each other, the Empire eyes Denmark, Rome itself teeters. In this storm, the chair must be filled... and it shall be filled by you."
Benedict’s grin widened. He plucked a coin from the chest at his side, turning it over between nimble fingers.
"By me, or by the gold you’ve hoarded to buy the mitres and the songs?"
A ripple of laughter passed through the kinsmen in the chamber, but Alberic’s gaze stayed hard.
"Gold opens the door. But once you sit in Peter’s chair, it is your hand that will hold the keys."
Benedict flicked the coin into the fire and leaned back against the marble wall, utterly at ease.
"Keys?" he drawled. "The old man carried keys and it killed him... strangled on fear of wolves and pagans. I would rather carry a cup. Or a woman."
His eyes glittered, wicked with youth.
"But if Rome insists I wear a crown of thorns, so be it. Let the world kneel and kiss my ring. I will give them absolution between their curses and their wars."
Alberic’s lips twitched, pride and calculation mingling.
"And you will strengthen Tusculum. Our blood upon the papal throne; our coffers filled with tribute. That is the charge I give you, Benedict."
The boy smirked, tilting his head like a cat toying with prey.
"Then I accept the charge. Not for God, not for Peter. For myself. If Christendom is breaking, then why should I not drink deep of the wine as it spills?"
Around the chamber, the Tusculani lords muttered approval, though some crossed themselves uneasily. Alberic leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
"So long as you remember, son, the wine you drink, we pour. Do not mistake indulgence for freedom."
Benedict’s grin turned sharper, darker.
"Pour as you like, Father. I will drink it all."
That same night, the gold began to flow.
Tusculani agents carried chests down the narrow alleys of Rome, their mules laden with coin, reliquaries, and promises.
Doors to episcopal palaces opened in silence; hands were shaken, purses passed, lips sealed.
Bishops haggled like merchants, some for villas on the Tiber, others for abbeys fat with land.
Cardinals bargained openly for estates in Latium or the placement of nephews in rich monasteries.
By dawn, the debate in the Lateran was not about God’s will, but about weight: weight of silver, of gold, of Tusculani influence.
One by one, they fell in line.
In one chamber, a bishop spat into the brazier, muttering, "The North burns. Kings slay kings. Rome’s silver lines pagan coffers. And what do we do? We haggle over seats and rings."
Another clapped him on the shoulder with a dry laugh.
"Let the wolf have his frozen wastes. What is Norway to us? What is Scotland, Denmark, or England? Rome endures. It always has. It always will."
The laughter spread, brittle, but it filled the room.
By week’s end, the deed was done. Benedict, son of Alberic of Tusculum, was hailed as Vicar of Christ.
Barely twenty, sharp of tongue and looser still of vice, he knelt before the altar as incense smoked and chants rose to the rafters.
The cardinals watched, their purses heavy with Tusculan coin, their faces solemn masks barely hiding their smirks.
The coronation hymn rang hollow, echoing in a chamber where no one believed in God half as much as they believed in gold.
When the incense cleared and the chants faded, the new pontiff withdrew to the Lateran’s inner chambers.
There, the "holy fathers" who had placed him on the throne lingered around heavy tables, their cups brimming with Tusculan wine, their fingers weighed down with freshly gifted rings.
The air was thick with smoke and laughter, as though the Cardinals were not stewards of a faith in crisis but lords at a feast.
When the last chalice was drained, when the last purse of coin was tucked away, the holy men of Rome raised their cups as one.
"To Benedictus!" a cardinal slurred, half mocking, half triumphant. The others echoed, their laughter drowning the bells of the Lateran as they tolled midnight.
The name rang hollow, not a prayer but a jest, yet it crowned him all the same.
Later, when the revelers staggered away, and the halls grew quiet, Benedict took the papal throne for himself.
He sat slouched in Peter’s chair, a goblet of wine in his hand, his crown of office tilted carelessly on his brow.
One by one, the cardinals filed back into the chamber, their faces flushed, their steps heavy with drink.
They bent to kiss his ring, though each gesture carried the sting of mockery. Benedict saw it plainly, the smirks, the sidelong glances, the whispered jokes at the boy-pope.
"Mock me if you must," he said, raising his cup high.
"You have taken my father’s gold, you have kissed my hand, and you call me Benedictus. Whether in jest or in earnest, I am what you have made me, your Pope, your shield, your purse. And while you bow before me, I will drink as I please."
He drained the goblet in one long swallow, crimson staining his lips like blood.
Then he leaned back, eyes glinting in the torchlight, and let the silence linger until even the smirks faltered.
"You laugh at me now," he said softly, almost lazily, "but in time it will be you who are remembered as my jest. For when wolves tear at Christendom’s throat and kings burn one another’s thrones, Rome will still stand. And when it does, it will be my name in the books, not yours."
The cardinals shifted uneasily, their mockery curdling into silence.
Benedict smirked, lifted his cup again, and called for more wine. Fresh chapters posted on novel⟡fire.net
And above the city, the winter wind carried the faint sound of ravens crying, though none in Rome paid it heed.