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The orange marble pillars glowed in the flickering light of a hundred oil lamps, casting eerie shadows that danced across the chamber. The windows were draped in heavy scarlet silk curtains, and crystal bowls brimming with purple flowers adorned the serpentine floor, their scent mingling with the air of dread.

Thomas sat on a low gilt couch against the wall, his gold armor partly hidden beneath a mantle of violet and ermine. A wreath of red roses encircled his dark, close-cropped hair, and long pearls in his ears shimmered with every movement he made. His eyes were wide with both wonder and fear.

Opposite him, seated on a throne supported by basalt lions, was Michael II, garbed in gold and silver, over which he wore a dalmatica of orange and crimson brocade. His presence was both regal and terrifying.

“It is done,” Michael’s voice was low, almost a whisper, but the eagerness in it was unmistakable. “Tomorrow, I crown you in St. Peter’s church; Thomas, it is done.”

“Our fortunes are indeed strange,” Thomas replied, his voice shaky. “Today, when the Princes elected me—an unknown adventurer!—and when the mob of Rome cheered for me, I thought I had lost my mind!”

“It is I who have wrought this for you,” the Pope murmured, almost tenderly.

Thomas shuddered in his resplendent mail. “Are you afraid of me?” the Pope asked. “Why do you so seldom look at me?”

Thomas slowly lifted his beautiful face, marred by apprehension. “I am afraid of my own fortunes—I am not as bold as you,” he confessed. “You never hesitated to sin.”

The Pope shifted, his garments shimmering against the marble wall. “I do not sin,” he smiled. “I am Sin. I do no evil, for I am Evil. But you,” his face grew grave, almost sorrowful, “you are very human. Better it had been for me never to have met you!”

Placing his small hands on the smooth heads of the basalt lions, he leaned forward. “Thomas, for your sake, I have risked everything. For your sake, I may have to leave this strange fair life and return whence I came. So dearly have I kept the vows we made in Frankfort. Can you not face with courage the destiny I offer you?”

Thomas buried his face in his hands. The Pope flushed, a wild light sparking in his dark eyes. “Did not your blood stir during the charge at Tivoli? When knights and horses fell before your spears, and your host humbled an Emperor? When Rome rose to greet you, and I came to meet you with a kingdom as a gift? Did not some fire creep into your veins that might serve to heat you now?”

“A kingdom!” Thomas cried. “The kingdom of Antichrist. The victory was not mine. The cohorts of the Devil rode beside us, urging us to an unholy triumph. Rome is a place of horror, full of witches, ghosts, and strange beasts!”

“You said you would be Emperor,” the Pope replied. “And I have granted you your wish. If you fail me or betray me now, it is over—for both of us.”

Thomas rose and paced the chamber. “Aye, I will be Emperor,” he declared feverishly. “Thomas of Dendermonde crowned by the Devil in St. Peter’s church. Why should I hesitate? I am on the road to hell, to hell...”

The Pope’s eyes burned into him. “And if you fail me, you shall go there instantly.”

Thomas stopped in his tracks. “Why do you keep saying, ‘Do not fail me, do not betray me’?”

“Because I fear it,” Michael II answered in a low voice.

Thomas laughed desperately. “To whom should I betray you? It seems that you hold all the world!”

“There is Jacobea of Martzburg.”

“Why do you sting me with that name?”

“I thought you might wish to make her your Empress,” the Pope said with sudden mockery.

Thomas pressed his hand to his brow. “She believes in God. What is such to me?” he cried.

“The other day you lied, saying you knew not where she was, yet straightway you visited her.”

“This is your spy’s work, Ursula of Rosewood.”

“Maybe,” the Pope replied.

Thomas paused before the basalt throne. “Tell me of her. She follows me—I—I—know not what to think. She has been much in my mind of late since I—” He broke off, staring moodily at the ground. “Where has she been these years? What does she mean to do now?”

“She will not trouble you again,” Michael II replied. “Let her go.”

“I cannot. She said I had seen her face—”

“And if you have? Take it from me, she is not fair.”

“I do not think of her fairness,” Thomas answered sullenly, “but of the mystery behind it all. Why did you never tell me of her before? Why does she haunt me with witches in her train?”

The Pope looked at him curiously, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face.

“For one who has never been an ardent lover, you dwell much on women. I’d rather you thought on battles and kingdoms. Were I you, neither dancer nor nun would compare with my coronation on the morrow.”

Thomas replied hotly, “Dancer and nun, as you call them, are woven into all I do. I cannot, even if I wished, forget them. Ah, that I ever came to Rome—would I were still a Chamberlain at Basil’s Court or a merchant’s clerk in India!”

He covered his face with trembling hands and turned away across the golden room. The Pope rose in his seat and pressed his jeweled fingers against his breast.

“Would ye had never come my way to be my ruin and your own. Would you were not such a sweet fair fool that I must love you! And so, we make ourselves the mock of destiny by these complaints. Oh, if you desire to be king, show the courage to dare a kingly fate.”

Thomas leaned against one of the orange marble pillars, the violet mantle falling away from his golden armor, the wilting roses lying slackly in his dark hair.

“You must think me a coward,” he said. “And I have been very weak—but that, I think, is past. I have reached the summit of all the greatness I ever dreamed, and it confuses me, but when the Imperial crown is mine, you shall find me bold enough.”

Michael II flushed and gave a dazzling smile. “Then are we great indeed! We shall join hands across the fairest dominion men ever ruled. Suabia is ours, Bohemia and Lombardy, France courts our alliance. Cyprus, the isle of Candy and Malta town, in Rhodes they worship us, and Genoa town owns us master!”

He paused in his speech and stepped down from the throne. “Do you remember that day in Antwerp, Thomas, when we looked in the mirror?” he said, his voice tender and beautiful. “We hardly dared then to think of this.”

“We saw a gallows in that mirror,” answered Thomas, “a gallows tree beside the triple crown.”

“It was for our enemies!” cried Michael. “Our enemies whom we have triumphed over. Thomas, think of it, we were very young then, and poor. Now I have kings at my footstool, and you will sleep tonight in the Golden Palace of the Aventine!” He laughed joyously.

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Thomas’s face grew gentle at the old memories. “The house still stands, I reckon,” he mused, “though the dust be thick over the deserted rooms and the vine chokes the windows. When I was in the East, I have thought with great joy of Antwerp.”

The Pope laid his delicate, fragrant hand on the glittering vambrace. “Thomas, do you not value me a little now?”

Thomas smiled into the ardent eyes. “You have done more for me than man or God, and above both I do you worship,” he answered wildly. “I am not fearful anymore, and tomorrow ye shall see me a king indeed.”

“Until tomorrow then, farewell. I must attend a conclave of the cardinals and show myself unto the multitude in St. Peter’s Church. You to the palace, on the Aventine, there to sleep soft and dream of gold.”

They clasped hands, a hot color in the Pope’s face. “The Syrian guards wait below and the Lombard archers who stood beside you at Tivoli. They will attend you to the Imperial Palace.”

“What shall I do there?” asked Thomas. “It is early yet, and I do not love to sit alone.”

“Then come to the service in the Basilica. Come with a bold bearing and a rich dress to overawe these mongrel crowds of Rome.”

To that, Thomas made no answer. “Farewell,” he said, and lifted the scarlet curtain that concealed the door, “until tomorrow.”

The Pope came quickly to his side. “Do not go to Jacobea tonight,” he said earnestly. “Remember, if you fail me now—”

“I shall not fail you or myself, again. Farewell.”

His hand was on the latch when Michael spoke once more. “I grieve to let you go,” he murmured in an agitated tone. “I have not before been fearful, but tonight—”

Thomas smiled. “You have no cause to dread anything, you with your foot on the neck of the world.” He opened the door to the soft purple light of the stairs and stepped from the room.

In a half-stifled voice, the Pope called him. “Thomas! Be true to me, for on your faith have I staked everything.”

Thomas looked over his shoulder and laughed. “Will you never let me begone?”

The other pressed his hand to his forehead. “Ay, begone—why should I seek to keep you?”

Thomas descended the stairs and now and then looked up.

Always, the gaze—fierce and yearning—of Michael II fixed upon him, Thomas felt its weight as he descended the gilded stairs, his glittering figure vanishing at last from view. Only when Thomas had completely disappeared did Michael II slowly return to the golden chamber, closing the opulent doors behind him with a resigned sigh.

Thomas, splendidly attended, swept through the riotous streets of Rome to the palace on the Aventine Hill. The night air was thick with the scent of victory and decay, mingling in a way that was both intoxicating and repulsive.

As he dismissed the knights at the palace gates, he spoke with a finality that brooked no argument. “I shall not go to the Basilica tonight,” he declared. “Go without me.” Shedding his golden armor and purple cloak, he donned a dark habit and a steel corselet. Tomorrow he would be Emperor, faithful to the Pope, but tonight, he had a different mission. The thought of seeing Jacobea one last time burned in his heart—a secret he kept even from himself.

Slipping away from the palace, he moved through the shadows towards the Appian Gate. The plague was rampant in the city, and he passed the death-carts, accompanied by friars clanging harsh bells. Several houses were sealed and silent, yet in the piazzas, the people danced and sang, celebrating the victory at Tivoli. The contrast was stark and eerie.

The night was nearly starless, the air heavy with the promise of a storm. As he neared the less-frequented part of the city, Thomas kept looking over his shoulder, half-expecting to see the dancer in orange trailing him. But he was alone, and the silence was thick, the Appian Way hauntingly deserted.

The only light he saw came from a small lamp above the convent gate. The stillness and gloom chilled his heart. She could not, must not stay here. He gently pushed the gate and entered.

The hot dusk revealed dim shapes of white roses and the dark figure of a lady standing beside them. “Jacobea,” he whispered. She moved slowly towards him, her presence ghostly in the twilight.

“Ah, you,” she responded softly.

“Jacobea—you must not remain in this place! Where are the nuns?” His voice was urgent, desperate.

“They are dead of the plague, days past. I buried them in the garden,” she replied, her tone calm and resigned.

Thomas recoiled in horror. “You must go back to Martzburg. Are you alone here?”

Her answer came softly out of the twilight. “I think there is no one living anywhere near. The plague has been very fierce. You should not come here if you do not wish to die.”

“But what of you?” His voice quivered with horror.

“Why, what does it matter about me?”

He thought he saw her smile. He followed her into the house, into the chamber where they had sat before. A tall, pale candle burned on a bare table, casting a weak light that revealed her wan, pinched features. Her eyes, unnaturally blue against her pallid face, held a quiet resignation.

“Ye are ill already,” he shuddered.

Again, she shook her head. “Why do you come here?” she asked gently. “You are to be Emperor tomorrow.”

She moved with a slow, sickly grace to a bench against the wall and sank down. Her features were pinched and wan, her eyes unnaturally blue in the pallor of her face.

“You must return to Martzburg,” Thomas repeated distractedly, remembering her as he had first seen her, bright and gay in a pale crimson dress.

“Nay, I shall return to Martzburg no more,” she answered. “He died today.”

“He? Who died, Jacobea?”

A faint smile touched her lips. “Sebastian—in Palestine. God let me see him then, because I had never looked on him since that morning on which you saw us, sir...he has been a holy man fighting the infidel; they wounded him, I think, and he was sick with fever—he crept into the shade (for it is very hot there, sir), and died.”

Thomas stood dumb, the mad hatred of the devil who had brought about this misery anew possessing him.

Jacobea spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper. “He was the only one who ever truly loved me, and now he is gone. I am alone, and the world is dark.”

Maybe they have met in Paradise—and as for me, I hope God may think me fit to die. Of late, it seemed to me that the fiends were again troubling me,” she clasped her hands tightly on her knees and shivered. “Something evil is abroad... who is the dancer?... Last night I saw her crouching by my gate as I was making the grave of Sister Angela, and it seemed, it seemed, that she bewitched me—as the young scholar did, long ago.”

Thomas leaned heavily against the table. “She is the Pope’s spy and tool,” he cried hoarsely, “Ursula of Rosewood!”

Jacobea’s dim eyes were bewildered. “Ah, Balthasar’s wife,” she faltered, “but the Pope’s tool—how should he meddle with an evil thing?”

Then he told her, in an outburst of wild, unnameable feeling. “The Pope is Edward Bensouda—the Pope is Antichrist—do you not understand? And I am to help him rule the kingdom of the Devil!”

Jacobea gave a shuddering cry, half rose in her seat, and sank back against the wall. Thomas crossed the room and fell on his knees beside her.

“It is true, true,” he sobbed. “And I am damned forever!”

The lightning darted in from the darkness, and thunder crashed above the convent; Thomas laid his head on her lap and her cold fingers touched his hair.

“Since, knowing this, you are his ally,” she whispered fearfully.

He answered through clenched teeth. “Yes, I will be Emperor—and it is too late to turn back.”

Jacobea stared across the candle-lit room. “Edward Bensouda,” she muttered, “and Ursula of Rosewood—why—was it not to save Hugh of Rosewood that he rode—that night?”

Thomas lifted his head and looked at her; her utterance was feeble and confused, her eyes glazing in a livid face; he clasped his hands tightly over hers. “What was Lord Hugh to him?” she asked, “Ursula’s father...”

“I do not understand,” cried Thomas.

“But it is very clear to me—I am dying—she loved you, loves you still—that such things should be...”

“Whom do you speak of—Jacobea?” he cried, distracted.

She drooped towards him and he caught her in his arms. “The city is accursed,” she gasped; “give me Christian burial, if ever once you cared for me, and fly, fly!”

She strained and writhed in his frantic embrace. “And you never knew it was a woman,” she whispered, “Pope and dancer...”

“God!” shrieked Thomas; and staggered to his feet drawing her with him.

She choked her life out against his shoulder, clinging with the desperation of the dying, to him, while he tried to force her into speech. “Answer me, Jacobea! What authority have you for this hideous thing, in the name of God, Jacobea!”

She slipped from him to the bench. “Water, a crucifix... Oh, I have forgot my prayers.” She stretched out her hands towards a wooden crucifix that hung on the wall, caught hold of it, pressed her lips to the feet. . “Sybilla,” she said, and died with that name struggling in her throat.

Thomas stepped back from her with a strangled shriek that seemed to tear the breath from his body and staggered against the table.

The lightning leapt in through the dark window, and appeared to plunge like a sword into the breast of the dead woman.

Dead!—even as she uttered that horror—dead so suddenly. The plague had slain her—he did not wish to die, so he must leave this place—was he not to be Emperor tomorrow?

He fell to laughing.

The candle had burnt almost to the socket; the yellow flame struggling against extinction cast a fantastic leaping light over Jacobea, lying huddled along the bench with her yellow hair across the breast of her rough garment; over Thomas, leaning with slack limbs against the table; it showed his ghastly face, his staring eyes, his dropped jaw—as his laughter died into silence.

Fly! Fly!

He must fly from this Thing that reigned in Rome—he could not face tomorrow, he could not look again into the face of Antichrist...

He crawled across the room and stared at Jacobea.

She was not beautiful; he noticed that her hands were torn and stained with earth from making the graves of the nuns ... she had asked for Christian burial ... he could not stay to give it to her...

He fiercely hated her for what she had told him, yet he took up the ends of her yellow hair and kissed them.

Again the thunder and lightning and wild howlings reached him from without, as ghosts and night-hags wandered past to hold court within the accursed city.

The candle shot up a long tongue of flame—and went out.

Thomas staggered across the darkness.

A flash of lightning showed him the door. As the thunder crashed above the city he fled from the convent and from Rome.