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.
