Rome sweltered in the summer heat, and the Lateran Palace smelled of wine, sweat, and incense.
The marble halls glowed in torchlight, their mosaics depicting saints and martyrs, reminders of a faith that had long since become, to many in Rome, just another coin to be spent.
On the throne of Saint Peter lounged Benedict IX, barely into his twenties, dressed in silk cut to the height of Tuscan fashion.
The fisherman's ring gleamed on his hand, but he toyed with it as though it were a bauble, no more sacred than a signet.
A platter of figs and roast quail sat half-eaten at his side.
He had not bought the throne, not directly.
His father and uncles had.
Gold and kinship had done the work.
Roman mobs had grumbled when he ascended, but they were paid off or cowed.
And so young Benedict sat in Peter's seat, not because he was holy, but because he was a Tusculan, rich, and clever.
It amused him.
