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The Feast of the Assumption draped Rome in a veil of eerie grandeur. Heavy clouds clung to the sky, casting a somber pall over the city as intermittent thunder rumbled in the distance. Within the Basilica of St. Peter, a scene of bewildering splendor unfolded.
The church gleamed with a bewildering array of colors and textures. Thousands of wax tapers and colored lamps illuminated every corner, casting a soft yet burning magnificence upon the marble walls, ceilings, and columns. Azure and silver adorned one part of the church, while cloth of gold draped the altar steps, nearly obscured by a sea of lilies. The mosaic capitals sparkled like jewels, adding to the opulent spectacle.
The congregation knelt upon the marble floor, save for Emperor Balthasar and Empress Ysabeau, who sat under a violet canopy, a symbol of their imperial presence. Balthasar, though clad in imperial purple and the circlet of dominion, bore a pale and troubled countenance. Ysabeau, resplendent in gems and silver, exuded regal grace despite the heavy weight of jewels and crown.
Their son, standing nearby in white satin, seemed overwhelmed by the grandeur surrounding him. Courtiers, knights, and nobles filled the space around the throne, creating a tapestry of power and opulence.
Amidst the congregation, Thomas sought the familiar face of Jacobea of Martzburg but found her elusive amidst the vast and varied crowd. A faint chant rose as the monks and choristers prepared for the grand procession.
Cardinal Orsini, a vision of brilliance, led the way towards the open bronze doors. The arrival of the Pontifical train signaled the climax of the ceremony. Pope Michael II entered, adorned in resplendent robes that shimmered with jewels and gold.
As the Pope took his seat, a hush fell over the congregation. Ysabeau, her gaze fixed on Michael II, felt a strange mix of awe and trepidation. The Pope’s regalia dazzled with its opulence, his delicate features contrasting sharply with his aura of authority and pride.
The chanting of the boys and the murmured prayers filled the Basilica, punctuated by the occasional rumble of thunder. Ysabeau, overwhelmed by the weight of her jewels and the gravity of the occasion, could feel the tension mounting. Emperor Balthasar, casting secretive glances at their son, betrayed a hidden sorrow beneath his composed demeanor.
The thunder outside seemed to echo the solemnity within, as if foreboding loomed over the magnificent spectacle, hinting at darker forces lurking in the shadows of this grand celebration.
The Basilica pulsed with a strange energy as the rich voices of the choir soared in triumphant song.
“Alleluia, alleluia. Assumpta est Maria in Coelum; Gaudet exercitus Angelorum. Alleluia.”
As the Pope descended from the dais and approached the high altar, Emperor Balthasar and Empress Ysabeau knelt in reverent silence, like all the others. The atmosphere crackled with anticipation, a prelude to an unearthly event.
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When the Pope displayed the Host, a captured star in his hands, a deafening crash of thunder shook the very foundations of the church. Lightning streaked through stained glass windows, casting eerie shadows and adding to the ethereal spectacle.
The choir’s voices, now tinged with melancholy, echoed through the hallowed halls.
“Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, Kyrie eleison.”
Despite the thunderous interruption, the Pope’s voice remained steady as he chanted the “Gloria in excelsis Deo” with unwavering resolve.
As Cardinal Orsini took up the prayers, a muffled response rippled through the crowd.
“Gloria tibi, Domine.”
Every head bowed, every hand made the sacred sign.
“Laus tibi, Christe.”
The Pope blessed the congregation, his gaze unwavering.
As Emperor Balthasar and Empress Ysabeau rose, a soft, ominous sound filled the air. Ysabeau, sensing something amiss, grasped her husband’s hand.
“Who is this?” she whispered, her eyes fixed on a tall monk clad in the garb of the Black Penitents.
“I thought Cardinal Colonna was to preach,” Balthasar murmured, his fear palpable.
Ysabeau glanced at the Pope, whose serene demeanor belied the tension in the air. The monk in the pulpit seemed to cast a shadow over the congregation, his presence eliciting a sense of foreboding.
As the monk unfurled a parchment and began to speak, his voice carried an eerie familiarity—a voice from beyond the grave, stirring whispers of dread and mystery among the gathered faithful.
“In the name of Michael II, servant of servants of God and Vicegerent of Christ, I herewith pronounce the anathema over Balthasar of Nola, Emperor of the West, over Ysabeau, born Marozia Porphyrogentris, over their son, Wencelaus, over their followers, servants, and hosts! I herewith expel them from the pale of Holy Church and curse them as heretics!
“I forbid any to offer them shelter, food, or help. I hurl on their heads the wrath of God and the hatred of man. I forbid any to attend their sick-bed, to receive their confession, or to bury their bodies!
“I cut asunder the ties that bind the Latin people in obedience to them, and I lay under an interdict any person, village, town, or state that succours or aids them against our wrath! May they and their children and their children’s children be blighted and cursed in life and in death, may they taste misery and desolation on the earth before they go to everlasting torment in hell!”
With these chilling words, the cowled monk raised a candle high, its flame flickering in the dimness.
“May their race perish with them and their memories be swallowed in oblivion—thus! As I extinguish this flame may the hand of God extinguish them!”
He cast the candle onto the marble floor, snuffing out its flame in an instant. A slow smoke curled and vanished, a silent omen of doom.
“For Balthasar of Nola cherishes a murderess on the throne, and until he casts her forth and receives his true wife, this anathema rests upon his head!”
Emperor Balthasar and Empress Ysabeau, gripped by terror, watched as the monk ended his proclamation. In a swift, startling move, the monk threw back his cowl, revealing the stern, pale features of Melchoir of Brabant, crowned with the imperial diadem.
A frenzied shriek tore from Ysabeau’s lips as she collapsed on the throne steps, her crown tumbling to the ground.
Groaning in anguish, Balthasar rushed to lift her, but when he glanced back at the pulpit, it stood empty, as if the ominous figure had vanished into thin air.
Ysabeau’s cry jolted the assembly into chaos. People surged towards the door, driven by fear and disbelief.
Amidst the turmoil, the Pontiff rose, his voice cutting through the panic as he calmly chanted the Gratias.
Balthasar, wild-eyed and desperate, gathered his child and supported the Empress, who fought back to consciousness. With a determined stride, he led them out of the church, into the thunderous streets where he was no longer welcomed or revered.