Chapter 1. Faith

Rome, 306 A.D.

The night, thick and oppressive like a heavy cloak, had shrouded the Suburra district for hours. A maze of dark, winding alleys spread at the foot of the Palatine Hill. Scattered oil lamps cast yellowish shadows on the brick houses. The silence was broken only by the faint rustle of togas brushing against crumbling walls. The darkness offered protection to a small group of figures moving cautiously through the streets. The moon, a silver crescent in the clear sky, illuminated their anxious faces. The clustered houses of Suburra leaned into one another, as if seeking protection in their closeness. Wooden doors, often crooked, creaked in the night wind. The windows, glassless, were covered by rough wooden shutters, barely allowing a glimpse of the dim glow of household fires. They approached a modest house tucked away in one of the most remote alleys of the neighborhood. It was a two-story building, with a single entrance and two small windows on the upper floor. The facade was peeling and covered with moss. A small wooden sign, with the words ‘Taberna Julia’, indicated that a humble tavern occupied the ground floor. «This must be Saint Clement’s house», whispered a woman, her voice barely audible. «Look», she continued, turning to her companion at her side, «the fish symbols, the alpha and the omega, just like Titus told us.» Her face, tense in the darkness, was lined with deep wrinkles that etched across her forehead. Wide-eyed, she scanned the shadows around them, alert to avoid any unwanted encounters. A large dark cloak wrapped around her, blending her almost completely into the night, rendering her one with the shadows. Only a small metal cross, clutched tightly between her hands, glimmered faintly in the pale moonlight that cast soft outlines across the roof tiles and cobblestone streets, a scene bathed in unwavering faith. The almost surreal quiet of the night was broken only by the distant crowing of a rooster, a sound seemingly from another world, opposing the stillness of the sleeping city. A damp, mossy smell rose from the wet earth. The soft crunch of dry leaves beneath their feet made them jump, hearts pounding in their chests. «Come on, kids», urged the father, addressing the three children clinging to their mother’s skirt. «Stay in front of us, and don’t move.» His words were a hushed command as they approached the humble building hidden in the secluded alley. The entrance to this place of sanctuary, shrouded in the night, was little more than a gap, almost swallowed by the surrounding darkness. With familiar movements, he knocked on the door: three taps followed by a brief pause, then two more. A signal, a silent code that communicated the presence of believers at the door of a place meant to remain hidden. It was a necessary precaution, a safeguard to evade prying eyes and keen ears, a passage into the sacredness hidden behind the simplicity of that wall. The small door creaked open, and a warm smile greeted them. «Welcome, brothers», said a deep voice, «enter the house of the Lord.» At those words, the woman motioned for her children to enter first, then bending down, she too crossed the threshold, followed by her husband. Inside, they were enveloped by a wave of warmth and familiar scents. Part of the ground floor housed a tavern with rough wooden tables, benches, and stools. In the backroom, where the family found refuge, a flickering fire burned in a small stone hearth, casting a warm, comforting glow on the wooden benches neatly arranged around the room. In front of the fireplace, a rough wooden cross leaned against the wall, watching over the faithful gathered in the small home-turned-sanctuary. A red cloth bearing the Chi-Rho symbol hung above the cross, reminding them of Christ’s sacrifice. In the corner, a small wooden altar awaited offerings and prayers for the one true God. Before it, an eternal flame burned, kept alive by the community members in turn, a symbol of the ever-burning light of Christ. The air was filled with the smells of burning wood, lamp oil, and incense used during services. A humble place, yet rich with spirituality, where Christian followers could gather and pray in safety, sheltered from persecution. At that moment, they felt wrapped in the warm, secure embrace of their community. The dim light from the oil lamps illuminated familiar faces, all animated by an unshakeable faith. A sense of peace and comfort pervaded the room, a safe haven. Tears streamed down her face as she knelt, the cold of the stone beneath her knees blending with the warmth of her emotions. Her faith was strong, her hope unshaken. In the darkness, within the walls of that domus ecclesiae, they found the strength to persevere and continue professing their faith. A whisper of prayers rose in the air, mingling with the rustle of garments and the crackling of the lamps. The woman closed her eyes, focusing on the sacred words, feeling a deep communion with God. In that moment, the night’s darkness was no longer an obstacle but a veil that protected their faith and their hope. An aura of peace and reflection enveloped the modest place of worship, while the faint lights of the flickering flames danced on the stone walls. The voices of the faithful joined in a murmur of prayers to their God, creating an almost mystical atmosphere. Suddenly, that atmosphere of devotion was violently shattered by a sudden crash of wood and metal. A deafening roar split the sacred silence as the door was literally smashed by the terrible blades of Roman axes. A cold, sharp wind blew through the gaping hole, making the flickering flames waver. Darkness and cold poured into the humble home like harbingers of death, exposing the fragility of that refuge. Suddenly, sharp blades rose menacingly above the heads of the helpless faithful, cruelly reflecting the fire’s glow. Screams of terror and anguish filled the air, drowning out the last prayers that had echoed within those walls just moments before. The soldiers entered with deliberate steps, their boots pounding on the floor like the ominous toll of an inevitable doom. Wide-eyed, terrified stares turned toward the centurions, who were already ruthlessly scanning the crowd of believers, eyeing them like predators hunting their prey. Horror etched itself onto the faces of those present, as hands that had just been clasped in prayer moved to cover mouths agape in silent cries of panic. As if trying to escape, some squeezed their eyes shut, desperately attempting to deny the dreadful reality unfolding before them. The possibility of escape was gone. Every exit seemed sealed. Some tried to hide behind the benches or crouch in the dark corners, hoping to go unnoticed, while others stood frozen, paralyzed by shock and blind terror that gripped their bodies. Forced against the walls or kneeling in one final gesture of prayer, they were quickly surrounded by Roman soldiers. Their imposing and threatening presence marked a dramatic turning point in an evening once dedicated to faith and spiritual communion. In that moment of pure chaos and terror, the mother, clutching her youngest child beneath the folds of her cloak, hurried him toward the narrow opening they had entered through. With a desperate tenderness, almost suffocated by panic, she knelt before him. Then, adopting a fleeting posture of prayer, she whispered in a hoarse, urgent voice, «Quick, my child, run! Get out now and run as fast as you can.» The words caught in her throat as a scream tore through the air behind her. With a sudden jolt, she grabbed the boy by the arm, her face a mask of pure horror. «Go to the bishop, tell him we need him and that he must bless us now, or it will be the end of us…» she gasped for breath, while burning tears began to stream down her cheeks. «Tell him we’ve been discovered… soldiers are here and they’re going to hurt us… for God’s sake, run, my child, run!» With that desperate plea in her voice, she pushed the trembling boy toward the exit, one last gentle touch urging him to flee that den of horror. The boy, tears still glistening in his eyes but with newfound determination from his mother’s words, wiped his face with a quick motion. Without speaking, he nodded silently to his mother and, with surprising agility, slipped out through the narrow opening and disappeared into the night. The mother raised her eyes to the heavens, a silent, desperate plea toward the sky as her heart ached with fear for her child, now alone and defenseless in the night’s darkness. The terror freezing her blood was matched only by her anguish as a mother, yet a faint glimmer of hope still burned in that terrible moment. She prayed with all her strength that her final, heartrending words of prayer had been enough for the Lord to hear, that her son would find grace and protection, a merciful hand to lead him away from the imminent danger. That brief moment of reflection was shattered by another scream of agony that twisted her insides. With a superhuman effort, the mother tore her gaze from the sky and faced the Roman soldiers again, her heart in pieces but her spirit unbroken in her role as protector. She was ready to defend her faith and her loved ones to her last breath, standing firm against that murderous fury, never betraying what she believed in. The emotional intensity of that moment was harrowing, the woman’s strength torn between the despair of a mother and the steadfastness of a martyr. Yet, her figure stood tall, a proud, final bulwark against the relentless horror that advanced towards her.

Chapter 2. The bishop

Darkness wrapped the Appian Way in an impenetrable cloak, with only the sound of Isaiah’s hurried footsteps, the fleeing child, breaking the sacred silence, echoing among the large basalt slabs worn by centuries of cartwheels and trampling feet. Reaching a small, cleverly concealed entrance between the ancient walls lining the road, Isaiah slipped through with feline agility, vanishing into the dark void that swallowed him in even denser blackness. A shiver of fear ran down his spine, but determination pushed him forward, forcing him to face the enveloping darkness. In a silence so profound it felt unreal, Isaiah advanced through the narrow underground tunnels, his path barely illuminated by the flickering flames of sparse oil lamps placed at intervals along the way. The walls, rough and damp to the touch, were adorned with graffiti, Christian symbols, and frescoes that emerging from the shadows, seemed to whisper stories of martyrs and unshakeable faith to the boy. Each step on the earth floor, strewn with dusted pebbles, seemed to awaken the voices of ancient believers, urging him not to halt his journey. The tunnels unfolded in an intricate labyrinth, a maze laden with mystery and allure. Isaiah, now familiar with the routeimbly overcame obstacles, driven by an impulse guiding him toward his destination. His heart pounded in his chest, a melody of courage and urgency. After a long trek, a soft light revealed the entrance to a crypt. With measured steps and bated breath, Isaiah approached, finding inside an elderly man dressed in priestly garments, immersed in prayer. His presence radiated an almost tangible peace and serenity, a stark contrast to the anxiety tormenting the child’s heart. For a moment, Isaiah stood motionless, captivated by the sacred aura surrounding the bishop. However, the gravity of his mission gave him the strength to interrupt that moment of contemplation: «Bishop, bishop, soldiers have come to the church and they want to hurt mom and dad, and... well, they want to hurt everyone. Mom said we need to be blessed right away, otherwise...» The words spilled from the child, agitated and between labored breaths, striking the old priest’s heart like a hammer blow. He rose promptly. «Where, my son? Which church are you talking about?» He knelt before Isaiah, gently gripping his shoulders. «I don’t know what it’s called...» the little one sobbed, his eyes reddened by bitter tears. «We’d never been there before. It’s... it’s where the tavern is.» «The house of Saint Clement?» the bishop probed, grasping a glimmer of hope in those confused words. «Yes, yes bishop, that’s the one!» Isaiah nodded frantically, as fresh tears flowed hot down his flushed cheeks. The bishop approached the crypt wall, a surface alive with history, full of Latin inscriptions stretching back to time immemorial. The walls were a palimpsest of centuries of faith, with requests for blessings and pleas to the Lord: engraved, painted, or traced with various pigments. Hands of devout priests, over the centuries, had left their prayers there, creating a connective tissue of supplication and benediction. With hands trembling from emotion and the urgency of the moment, the bishop grasped a sharp stone and carved a new message among those ancient supplications: «O Domine, benedic fratribus sororibusque qui in hoc momento in domo Sancti Clementis tibi dedicata orant. Protege eos ab aggressoribus. Utere sacro igne fidei eorum ad malum quod super eos impendere stat destruendum. Amen.» - “O Lord, bless the brothers and sisters who at this moment are praying in the house of Saint Clement dedicated to You. Protect them from attackers. Use the sacred fire of their faith to destroy the evil that is about to befall them. Amen.” Having finished the inscription, the bishop prostrated himself, immersing in a deep moment of prayer. He remained so for several minutes, in a silence so sacred that every sound seemed to vanish in the crypt. His eyes were tightly shut, and his hands, firmly clasped, were the symbol of a devotion that transcended words. The priest’s lips moved silently, as if imparting a blessing too sacred for mortal ears. After dedicating that time to the Lord, slowly, the bishop rose. With a gesture full of love and protection, he gently placed a hand on Isaiah’s head, looking at him with eyes that conveyed hope and reassurance. «Go, my child. Return to your family. Your mother, your father, and your siblings are waiting for you, safe and sound», he said with a firm yet gentle voice, as if transmitting a certainty that went beyond mere faith, a promise that destiny, no matter how dark it may appear, always hides a light of hope.

Chapter 3. The miracle

The flickering glow of oil lamps cast the shadows of the faithful on the rough walls of the humble church, where desperation mingled with prayer. Inside that refuge, time had stopped, suspending every breath in anticipation of their fate. An imposing figure loomed at the entrance like an omen of death. His voice thundered, ending the noise caused by prayers and laments, bringing silence back to that makeshift church: «Which one of you calls himself Fabius the deacon?» said the centurion, roughly grabbing a believer kneeling before him by the tunic, lifting him up and then menacingly pointing his gladius against his chest, right at heart level. «I am», a firm voice resounded from the back of the room. A man, a simple tunic of coarse wool, bordered with Christian symbols discreetly woven along the hem, rose with dignity from his prayer position and advanced towards the soldier. The tunic, a sign of his service and dedication, contrasted with the shiny and threatening armor of the Roman soldiers. As he walked, his face was serene, almost resigned, but in his eyes shone a light of defiance. The dropping the man he had just threatened to the ground, stared at the deacon’s approach with contempt. When Fabius was a few steps away from him, the centurion, with a quick and brutal gesture, struck him in the face with the helmet he was holding under his arm. The impact was violent and direct much so that the deacon collapsed to the ground with his face marked by a bleeding wound that crossed his cheek. Raising the centurion turned to his soldiers with a commanding tone: «Put all these bastards to the sword. None of them must remain alive. Women and children included», he ordered without hesitation. His voice, devoid of any emotion, echoed menacingly in the air. The eyes of the faithful present widened in terror as they desperately sought an escape route or a glimmer of hope in that desperate situation. The room, once a place of prayer and communion, suddenly transformed into a theater of imminent tragedy. Among the soldiers who had received the ruthless order, two advanced without hesitation, the blades of their swords gleaming with a cold glow in the light of the lamps, ready to execute their centurion’s will delay. But the third, a young warrior whose gaze was a tumult of conflicting emotions, remained paralyzed on the spot. His eyes, wide open in the face of the impending massacre, betrayed a deep horror for the action that was about to take place, a scene of violence that threatened to shatter every residue of humanity within him. Despite being alone, at the mercy of a grip of fear that could easily have crushed him, the young soldier found in himself an unsuspected strength, a courage that until that moment he had only glimpsed in tales of heroes and martyrs. With a cry that was a mixture of desperation and defiance, he threw himself in front of his comrades-in-arms, standing up in defense of the defenseless faithful. The order of the empire had forced him to march alongside his commander, but deep in his heart, a spark of faith had begun to shine, fud by the courage and determination of those souls gathered in prayer. That call to sacrifice, that burning desire to protect his new brothers, proved to be an irresistible force. He was willing to pay the highest price, aware that only through the sacrifice of his own life could he honor the values of love, communion, and brotherhood that he had learned to respect and love. At that crucial moment, his choice became the bridge between two worlds, a living testimony to the transformative power of faith. In that crucial moment, the room was enveloped by an atmosphere charged with a mystical and unfathomable. The two soldiers, as well as their commander, were seized by a mysterious and incomprehensible impulse: their weapons slipped from their hands as if the will to hold them had suddenly been taken away, and with a gesture that defied all military logic, they knelt, bringing their hands to their faces in a gesture of supplication, emulating the posture of a faithful immersed in prayer. The eyes of those witnessing this scene, including those of the third soldier, were wide open, incredulous in the face of the miracle unfolding before them. Their wonder turned to dismay when agonizing cries rose from the mouths of the three soldiers, piercing the air, a sound so full of desperation that it made present start. A sinister gate from the bodies of the three men, spreading throughout the room and tinting every surface with an eerie aura. The third soldier, witness to that apocalyptic transformation, felt his own stomach twist in the grip of fear. His comrades, once symbols of strength and power, were now engulfed in flames, transform infernal vision of ash and flesh consumed by fire. An acrid and suffocating odor invaded the environment, making the air heavy and difficult to breathe, while what remained of the three bodies were now only macabre sculptures of ash and burnt flesh. Their limbs were reduced to twisted and blackened bone fragments. The faces, a horrendous mask of pain, with empty sockets and mouths gaping in a silent scream. The faithful, seized by terror and amazement, remained motionless, unable to make any gesture or emit the slightest sound. They were witnesses to an event as mysterious as it was inexorable, a manifestation of forces that surpassed their understanding, a tangible sign that, in that sacred place, something transcendental was intervening in material reality. The scene that had just unfolded before their eyes would forever mark their souls, an indelible memory of the fine line that divides the visible world from the invisible, testifying to the power and mystery that surrounds true faith.