Rome…A city built upon seven hills, home to dreams and nightmares that have endured for over seven centuries. It was here that the foundations of one of history's greatest empires—perhaps the greatest—were laid. A city where grandeur etched in marble walks hand in hand with darkness… A place once blessed by gods, and at other times imprisoned under the shadow of curses.
As the silver morning sun cascaded over the red-tiled roofs of Rome, a heavy stillness seemed to linger in the narrow alleys and broad avenues alike. There was a mourning in the very air, a quiet that settled on everything. Shaken by the sudden death of the Pope, the city had wrapped itself in black—the color of grief. Nuns, merchants, palace courtiers—on every face was the silent trace of solemnity, and in every eye, the weariness of uncertainty.
Following their newly formed alliance with Cardinal Fonseca, Murat and his men had finally arrived in Rome after seven grueling days of travel. What would normally be a much shorter journey had been extended to match the old cardinal's pace. But that was now a minor detail. Because at last, they were here—on the threshold of the Vatican, at the very heart of their enemy's domain. The road ahead led straight to Leonardo.
Upon entering the city, they had to pass through crowded, closely monitored streets. The soldiers' gazes were filled with suspicion. But Fonseca's presence was like a key—an invisible seal granting them safe passage. No door was closed, no questions asked.
Soon, they reached one of the quieter neighborhoods on the outskirts of the city, not far from the Vatican. It was a modest yet distinguished area where Cardinal Fonseca's small Roman residence stood. The garden was well-kept, though not ostentatious. The walls bore a yellow plaster finish, and bronze handles gleamed from the windows.
At the door stood Gareth, Fonseca's loyal servant. Upon seeing the elderly cardinal, his eyes widened. Then, with genuine sorrow, he spoke:
"Your Eminence… first, my condolences. The loss of the Holy Father has shaken us all deeply."
Fonseca returned the words with only a brief nod. He was exhausted.
Gareth added with curiosity, "But we weren't expecting you back so soon, sir. Were your affairs in Bologna settled?"
Fonseca narrowed his eyes and answered, "No. I had to turn back halfway due to the Pope's sudden death. But for now, don't let anyone know I've returned, Gareth. And these guests will be staying with us. Prepare clean clothes and warm baths for each of them."
"As you wish," Gareth said, bowing. He then turned to the guests and added, "Please, sirs. Let me show you to your rooms."
Murat turned to his men, his eyes scanning Kasım, Balibey, Cafer, Viki, and Ellie.
"You go ahead," he said. "I'll speak with the Cardinal for a moment."
They nodded silently and followed Gareth up the stairs. As they climbed, they said nothing—for they all knew this residence was but a waypoint. What lay beyond was a corridor of shadows.
Murat and Fonseca stepped into the sitting room. The scent of books, aged wood, and spiced wine mingled in the air. As Fonseca removed his robe and settled into a chair, Murat got straight to the point.
"That man Paulo must be captured as soon as possible," he said. "We have no time to lose."
Fonseca inhaled deeply. His eyes were weary, but his tone remained calm.
"Sultan Murat… I understand your urgency. But first, you must rest. You and your men are tired. And I cannot send you out into the city until I understand what has been happening here. We will catch Paulo… but we need time."
Murat clenched his jaw. He was silent for a few seconds, then lowered his head and spoke in a low voice:
"Very well. But don't wait too long. The men sent to kill you never returned. Which means Paulo's life is in danger now. Leonardo might silence him forever too."
Fonseca nodded solemnly at the warning. With the conversation concluded, Murat left the room and climbed the stairs heavily to join his companions upstairs.
But he knew… in Rome, every moment, every corner, could be the start of an ambush.
By late afternoon, the skies over Rome had turned a shade of purple twilight. Murat and his companions, now rested and clean, finally descended to the dining hall Gareth had prepared. The room was elegant—draped in heavy curtains, furnished with carved wooden furniture, and lit by candlelight. Dishes of various foods adorned the table: roasted meats, bread, bowls of fruit… and prominently, a platter of roasted pork and a pitcher of red wine.
As the guests took their seats, Murat's eyes immediately fell upon those particular dishes. Without losing his composure, he turned to Cardinal Fonseca.
"Your Eminence," he said in a polite but firm tone, "we are grateful for your hospitality. However… we are Muslims. We neither eat pork nor drink wine. It seems you were unaware of these customs."
Fonseca flinched slightly and looked back at the table. Upon seeing the wine and pork, he lowered his head as if ashamed. He quickly turned to Gareth.
"Gareth! Our guests are Muslims… remove the pork and wine. Prepare appropriate dishes for them instead."
Gareth raised an eyebrow slightly. Muslim guests… an extremely rare occurrence in the Vatican. But the order was clear. He silently bowed and began clearing the items from the table.
Fonseca turned back to Murat, speaking with apology.
"Forgive me… we should have been more mindful."
Murat replied with a faint smile.
"It's of no concern," he said, and began eating the warm soup placed before him. Seeing this, the others slowly reached for their spoons as well.
Shortly after, Gareth returned—carrying pitchers of sherbet and trays of lamb roasted to perfection. He served the dishes with great care. Murat nodded in thanks, and the others responded respectfully.
A gentle silence prevailed over the meal. Fonseca had taken a few bites and was just about to speak when he suddenly choked. His hand flew to his throat, eyes widening. Everyone at the table froze.
Murat was about to rise. Gareth rushed forward in panic.
"Your Eminence! Are you all right?"
But the real reaction came from Ellie, seated at the far end of the table beside Viki. She jumped up, lightly pushed Gareth aside, and swiftly moved behind Fonseca.
"Move! Something's stuck in his throat!" she said firmly.
Gareth hesitated, but stepped aside. Ellie leaned in, wrapped her arms around the cardinal's torso, and placed her hands just below his ribcage. Then, with quick, firm thrusts upward, she began to apply the Heimlich maneuver.
"One! Two! Three!" she counted with each motion. Fonseca's face reddened, his eyes watering.
Gareth couldn't hold back and shouted:
"What are you doing, woman?! Are you mad!?"
Ellie ignored him. All her focus was on the cardinal. With one final effort, she gave a powerful thrust—causing a large chunk of meat to shoot from Fonseca's mouth and fall to the floor.
The elderly man coughed violently, then drew a deep breath, his vision refocusing. His chest heaved as pain gave way to life.
After a moment of silence, Fonseca looked at Ellie. In his eyes were both gratitude and astonishment.
"My dear girl… you saved me…" he said in a faint voice.