Morning came at last — the morning of the theological debate that had the whole of Europe watching.
"Rodrigo, why are you going to debate that Martin in public? It's completely unnecessary, and you don't need to go yourself."
Inside the great cathedral of St. Novella, opposite the current Pope Alexander VI, sat a cardinal. He was also an old man, but his voice rang out strong and sure; his eyes shone with a rare passion and vigor.
His name was Giuliano della Rovere — the very man who, in the course of history, would become Pope Julius II, the so-called Warrior Pope, and one of the most consequential pontiffs remembered by the Curia. He had even posed as the model for a sculpted Moses.
In truth, the "honest believer" Leonardo had earlier referred to within the Roman Church was this man: a cardinal whose integrity set him apart from the venal prelates and popes that had become so common. In theory, someone like Giuliano should have had little in common with a morally dubious pontiff like Alexander VI.
But, to many people's surprise, the two were on unexpectedly cordial terms.
"Giuliano — I'm dying. A few days ago I realized I can't bear the sunlight anymore. That must mean my time's come."
Alexander VI did not answer Giuliano directly. Instead, he lifted his gaze to the cathedral that had stood for a thousand years. The building itself — the silent symbol of the Church's awe and faith — was where today's debate would be held.
"...Is that so? You've borne a lot," Giuliano said, an expression of mixed feelings crossing his face.
He knew too well that the old man before him had made dealings with death-worshippers long ago to cling on. It was an undeniable corruption — but Giuliano also understood why his friend had done such things.
"When I'm gone, that rotten College of Cardinals will have no choice but to select you. You, whose name is already synonymous with moral rectitude. Then, once you're pope, you can reveal the proofs of my misdeeds and those other rats — leave not one alive. My children will help you. Oh — be merciless with the Borgia family too. If they must be cut down, cut them all down. There needs to be blood."
The old man laughed — dispassionate, as if the fate of his own family meant nothing.
"Have Caesar and the others been prepared...?" Giuliano asked. He meant Caesar Borgia, Alexander's illegitimate son — the man Leonardo had once described as having "a tranquil face and eyes as clear as an angel's." Niccolò Machiavelli would later base his Prince on Caesar.
"It's already been decided for some time. The Borgia have ridden me to the summit, but their root is hollow. Once I've saved the Church and helped you, everything will crumble at your command." Alexander's voice was light.
"You and your uncle have done so much for the Church," Giuliano muttered.
"Ha — my uncle's a fool. The moment he took office he rushed to rehabilitate Joan of Arc in France and stalled the united campaign against the Ottomans... everyone's afraid. They fear the Church might regain its old power."
"You handled the inquiry into Joan's case — her mother's words were guided by you, weren't they?" Giuliano pressed.
"I had to — the woman was old and burdened with grief, and the story was a fabrication. France's nobles have always seemed to me to be a mixed lot, but that young woman was... worthy of respect. Also, once you're pope, remember to ban the Malleus Maleficarum."
"But the Ottoman pressure on Europe..." Giuliano's voice trailed, worry shading his tone.
Since the Middle Ages Europe had been buffeted by disasters and upheaval; in such times of instability the social order frayed. The rise of the Ottoman Empire had shaken Western Europe's spiritual certainty. Lacking security and trust, people clung to scapegoats — calling others witches to explain misfortune.
"Before I fully become what I have become, I'll charge into Constantinople myself and slaughter as many of those sorcerers as I can. That'll keep them quiet for decades." Alexander chuckled, as if describing some private fantasy.
"...Is that so?" Giuliano's voice had gone hoarse.
"Hah! I've been holding back for so long — I want to kill. I will, willingly. Don't make that face."
Alexander raised his head and looked at the murals inside the cathedral — images of the Church's founders and the Borgia family's saviors. As the painted faces came into focus he felt a nameless, intense emotion well up.
He knew the nature of his deeds; even if they were masked, they were vile. Many had died because of him.
Corruption. Debauchery. Means without scruple. A name that would stink through the ages.
He could accept all of that. There was one thing, however, that he could not bear — even imagining it terrified him more than anything.
"The ancestral creed of the Borgia family is to offer everything to Lord Novia."
When he was young, that was what the elders of the family had solemnly told him.
But why?
The child had asked in confusion.
"Our family migrated from Rome. At that time, our ancestors were starving—truly at the brink of death. Their parents and younger sister were waiting at home, all about to perish. And then, it was Lord Novia, who came with Lucius from Anatolia to Rome, who gave them food. That's how our bloodline survived."
What a foolish, ridiculous creed.
The child had once screamed that in his heart—furiously, almost rebelliously.
He remembered it well. That outburst had come from pure, youthful impulse: his ancestors must have been idiots, he had thought, to make such a clumsy and sentimental vow that would bind all their descendants.
But as he grew older, Pope Alexander VI came to understand that he did not, in fact, despise Lord Novia's teachings. In fact, from a very young age, he had begun to form his own understanding of them.
The world and humankind are cruel—cold and merciless.
But that man, Lord Novia, refused to believe that cruelty, malice, and depravity were mankind's true nature.
He would not accept it.
On one side was an endless, revolting sea of depravity; on the other, the rare and noble gleam of virtue. If one had to choose a side, he would rather stand with virtue—even if it was the losing side.
That wish, that conviction, was described by the Church as "a world that shall never call kindness a weakness."
Even knowing how venomous and pitiless this world was, he would never accept it as right.
He would not bow to the cruelty of reality.
It was not merely an ideal to pursue—it was a declaration of his dignity as a human being.
Perhaps a thousand years had changed the world. The world that Lord Novia saw was no longer the same as the one Alexander VI now faced.
Even so, Alexander VI could not bring himself to believe in humanity as Novia once did.
Yet, despite everything, there was still one hope he shared with that ancient saint—
That when parents give to their children, they do so not for reward but from love;
That in giving selflessly, they find joy;
That when friends act kindly for one another without expecting payment, they feel happiness;
And that such compassion between people is the purest form of human connection—
The most beautiful thing in existence.
"You still haven't told me," said Giuliano quietly, "why you insist on debating with Martin."
The Pope fell silent for a long moment. Sitting in the old armchair, he gazed downward before finally speaking:
"For the same reason the Council of Nicaea was once convened. Debate, when necessary, must never be avoided. I want to see whether this reformer, Luther, can stand as Saint Augustine once did."
---
By noon, the grand theological debate that had seized the attention of all Europe began beneath the solemn arches of the Holy Novia Cathedral.
The high dome was covered in glorious frescoes depicting saints and messengers. Their faces, caught in the dance of light through the stained glass, seemed to watch silently from above.
Colored rays streamed through the windows, painting the marble floor in hues of crimson and gold—an ethereal sanctity hanging over all who entered.
At the center stood a long, dark-wood table, dividing the two sides. Upon it lay stacks of worn manuscripts and sacred texts—heavy not only in weight but in the wisdom of centuries, their edges frayed by the passage of time.
The air carried the scent of incense and parchment, that unique fragrance of reverence and age.
At either side of the table stood two figures—one old, one middle-aged.
The younger was the German reformer, Martin Luther.
From the pews, hundreds watched with breathless attention as the Pope and the reformer faced one another.
"Martin," said Alexander VI with a calm smile, "if you repent here and now—if you retract your blasphemy against the Church—what say you?"
Luther snorted. "Blasphemy? The authority and supremacy of the Roman Church—everyone knows it was made by men after the fall of the Western Empire, not granted by God."
"Oh?" The Pope raised an eyebrow. "Then you stand before me to proclaim your defiance—not only against me, but against the entire Church?"
"Without Saint Augustine, would there even be a Roman Church?" Luther shot back. "And before Augustine, without our Lord Jesus Christ and Saint Novia, what Church would there be to speak of? The Church has turned its believers' devotion to goodness into blind obedience to authority!"
The crowd of Luther's students erupted in applause.
The Pope remained expressionless. "Then tell me, Martin—do you acknowledge that the Gospel of Matthew is true?"
"Of course," Luther replied at once. "All four Gospels are divine truth."
"Then you cannot deny what is written in Matthew, chapter sixteen, verse eighteen. How does it go?"
Luther stepped forward and began to recite:
"And I tell you that you are Peter..."
The students joined in unison, their voices echoing through the church. Even some clergy joined in, until the hall rang with the familiar verse:
"...and on this rock I will build my Church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven..."
"Enough," said Luther, raising his hand. A few continued softly to the end:
"...whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven."
The last words faded.
The Pope spoke again. "Then, Martin—how do you interpret this? Our Lord said He would build His Church upon Peter, did He not?"
Luther smiled faintly. "Your Holiness, you who have studied scripture for decades—how have you seen, and yet not heard?"
"Oh?" said Alexander VI. "Then enlighten us."
"You have misunderstood it entirely."
The crowd murmured.
"Peter," Luther continued, "in the original tongue, means little rock. In Latin—Petrus. And the word for rock is Petra. Do you see? Petrus is but the diminutive of Petra."
He paused, letting the point hang in the air.
"So when Jesus said, 'You are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my Church,' He did not mean that the Church would be built upon Peter. He meant that Peter was but a small stone—and the Rock upon which the Church would stand is Christ Himself."
Luther turned to face the Pope.
"Thus," he said clearly, "the foundation of the Church is not Peter, nor Augustine, but Saint Novia—the Spirit. The true authority of faith does not belong to the Roman Church."
He raised his hand and declared,
"The righteous shall live by faith!"
The hall trembled with the echo of that phrase.
From that conviction would later rise his rejection of indulgences, of papal absolution, of the Church's monopoly on grace—all stemming from that one truth: faith alone.
The Pope smiled faintly and shook his head.
"Then by your reasoning, anyone may interpret the Scripture as they please. How, then, can truth be upheld?"
"You're right," said Luther, "everyone can interpret it—for faith belongs to all, not to Rome. Every soul that believes sincerely has that right. As Saint Novia once said, 'Whosoever believes holds the key.'"
He turned to the audience. "We don't need the Church to tell us what to believe! For centuries, you've misled the faithful!"
A young student stood up and shouted, "We don't need the Church! We don't need the Pope!"
A wave of voices rose in defiance.
The Pope sighed. "Martin, you tread the same path as Jan Hus—a heretic burned a century ago. Do you seek the same fate?"
---
Paris, November 7th, 1455.
The Notre-Dame Cathedral was packed with clergy and citizens.
All eyes were on an elderly woman—Isabelle d'Arc, mother of Jeanne d'Arc. Her pale face was streaked with tears as her sons supported her trembling body.
"My daughter grew up in the fields and meadows," she said, voice breaking. "She was baptized, confirmed, raised in the fear of God. She respected the Church, she prayed for France... she never thought, said, or did anything against our faith..."
Her voice quavered with grief.
"Her enemies summoned her to trial, denied her counsel, condemned her with lies and cruelty, and burned her alive."
The mother's wails filled the cathedral—but in her hands, she held a papal decree. Pope Callixtus III had ordered a retrial.
A year later, in 1456—twenty-five years after her death—Jeanne d'Arc was declared innocent, a martyr of faith and country.
And when her mother's cry of justice echoed through Notre-Dame, it had already become a prayer to Heaven itself.
"Is that so..." murmured Alexander VI. "France once heard the voice of God. A girl walked the path of battle for her dream, her village, her homeland, and her Lord. Farewell, Jeanne of Domrémy—your dream of peace still shines in Novia's sky."
The sunlight over the village was faint—but beautiful.
That had been over sixty years ago.
For Alexander VI, those had been his golden years.
"Do you think I fear the pyre?" Luther shouted. "Countless saints have burned before me! I reject your authority—but I do not rebel against God!"
"Ah, Martin," said the Pope sadly. "Do you know how much blood has been spilled in the name of such defiance?"
But Luther no longer listened.
"If this is heresy," he cried, "then we shall be proud heretics! We do not need the Pope! We do not need the Church!"
"Down with Rome!"
"Down with the Church!"
The cries of the young men surged beyond the cathedral, spreading across Europe.
The debate could not be settled. Neither side would yield, and so it ended in uneasy silence.
As the crowd dispersed, Pope Alexander VI lingered, staring up at the murals. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw movement among the painted figures—an artist's gaze, meeting his own.
Perhaps it was a trick of light.
Perhaps not.
For one of the spectators, Favia, it was hard to tell.
He remembered a child he once met long ago in Rome—a starving boy, gaunt and filthy, eyes lifeless.
"Th-thank you, sir... for God's grace."
"Take more," said the man kindly.
"R-really? Even if I die... my mother, my sister, my father... they're still waiting..."
"Then hurry back," he'd said. "Don't keep them waiting."
"...Thank you."
The memory resurfaced as Favia looked at the frail old man before him—the Pope, trembling but smiling faintly.
"Rodrigo," Favia whispered, "you are a worthy believer."
Those few words—so simple, so sincere—were all the old man needed.
They were his final blessing.
"...Thank you."
The Pope's reply was not a prayer.
It was merely gratitude—pure and human—like that of the starving boy he once was.
"No," said Favia soft
ly, stroking the Pope's withered face.
"Thank you."
His touch was gentle—
as if in anger, in mourning, in compassion, in joy, in sorrow, in love.
And as his trembling hand lingered there,
the Pope's expression softened—
peaceful, at last.
Suddenly—
"Thank you for your hard work."
How much time had passed before he finally murmured those words?
"You're the Pope. Don't keep everyone waiting—go on, you should head back."
Beneath the blazing sun that crowned the deep, endless blue of the Roman sky, the light that swept across the city was dazzling—
yet still, it could not compare to the beauty of the figure before him.
Was this… a dream?
When he came back to himself, the old man found the church empty.
Perhaps it had been a vision born of his heart.
Perhaps it had truly happened.
Either way, he smiled softly, bowed his head, and offered a small nod toward the silent sanctuary.
No matter what the truth was, he had witnessed a radiance—
the very radiance that had forged this moment,
and one that gave him the strength to stand proud even now.
---
"…Favia, where did you run off to just now? And why use illusion magic?"
"To meet someone."
"Someone? Who?"
"A…" The silver-haired youth paused for a moment, then continued,
"…a very bad, very good man."
As his words faded, beneath the twilight skies of Rome, the silver insignia upon his chest began to glow faintly—
a deep violet gleam, cruel and beautiful, flickering like a shard of twilight itself.
At that same moment, the silver-engraved ornament slowly lifted,
its tip turning toward the Mediterranean Sea.