Winter 1500–1501
The frost came early that year.
Florence's rooftops wore a crust of white like old powdered wigs. Smoke curled thick from chimney pots, and the Arno ran slower, muddied by melted snow from the hills.
Inside the di Vero home, Luca's ledger room was warm, lit with oil lamps and padded with wool carpets—but Elias's mind was already far south, beyond the papal palaces, in a city he had not yet touched in this life:
Rome.
---
He didn't ask for permission.
He presented it as an opportunity: a scholarly visit, accompanied by his tutor, to view the rare manuscripts kept at the Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana—an entirely plausible desire for a banker's studious son.
Luca was reluctant.
"It's too far," he said, frowning over his wine. "You're not yet eleven."
Elias looked at him calmly. "It would honour the family's name to have ties to the Vatican's scholars. Even a small one."
Master Giovanni, the tutor, chimed in—he had been bribed discreetly a week earlier with the promise of a rare Greek codex Elias had "convinced" a merchant to donate.
"A journey to Rome would be invaluable," Giovanni said. "He's already surpassed local instruction."
Luca sighed but relented.
"Three weeks," he said. "And no political nonsense."
"Of course not," Elias said.
---
They left in a modest coach with two horses and no guards. The route south passed through Siena and Orvieto, skimming towns Elias had memorized from maps long before. The coach clattered over frozen roads, and Elias kept a private notebook under his cloak the entire time, jotting:
Inns that served merchants.
Which towns had courier stops?
Where Church influence was heavier than noble.
Every landmark was a thread.
And he would sew them all together.
---
Rome, when they arrived, was grander and filthier than Florence.
The domes gleamed in the midday sun, and the air carried incense and rot in equal measure. Elias kept his eyes wide. He wasn't here for scripture or art.
He was here to meet "Marco Vitale."
Or rather, the shell of him.
---
On their second day, Elias slipped away under the pretence of visiting a bookseller. Giovanni was busy arguing over a rare Virgil translation. It was easy.
He walked the narrow alleys south of the Campo de Fiori and found the street he had memorized from the courier's directions: Via della Scrofa.
There, behind an unmarked wooden door above a modest tailor's shop, was the Pellegrini Trade House.
A minor institution. Exactly what he needed.
He entered.
A greying clerk in spectacles looked up from his desk. "Can I help you, young sir?"
"I am here on behalf of Signore Marco Vitale of Naples," Elias said, producing the sealed letter he had sent weeks earlier—crafted with borrowed phrases from Neapolitan nobility and signed in the hand of a "trusted agent."
The clerk opened it. Read. Then glanced at Elias.
"You are very… young."
"I am only a courier," Elias said evenly. "But I've been instructed to verify that the account exists and that future instructions may be accepted in this manner."
The clerk, after a long pause, nodded slowly.
"It does exist. Five Florins were placed two weeks ago. Instructions noted. Grain futures marked under Carpegna & Sons."
Perfect.
"Signore Vitale thank you," Elias said.
---
That night, in the candlelight of his inn, Elias smiled alone.
It had worked.
A ghost named now lived in Rome. It had begun trading—not aggressively, just subtly. A few futures contracts. No real risk. Just presence. Just legs in motion.
Marco Vitale could:
Move coin without being taxed in Florence.
Trade under Roman rules.
Hire agents Elias could never touch directly.
It was the beginning of a shell empire.
No banners. No declarations.
Just lines in ledgers.
And if Elias died?
Marco Vitale could continue. Because names live longer than men.
---
Elias returned to Florence two weeks later. Quiet. Modest. And utterly changed.
Luca asked how the trip went.
"I saw a manuscript written by Cicero himself," Elias lied. "It made me think."
"About what?"
"Legacy," Elias said. "And how words outlive us."
Luca chuckled. "You're too young to worry about that."
"Maybe."
But Elias already knew: he would live centuries. He would outlive cities, kings, and even paper.
And his name?
No.
His real name would never be known.