Fire Master Part 6

"Shamira!" I stammered, my voice ending in a moan.

It was she, the Enchantress of En-Dor. At first, I didn't believe that luck had given me her again. Alone, he wouldn't be able to walk to his house on the other side of the city, much less escape from the overseers, so I blessed the happy coincidence, which I later learned was not random.

"Shamira... How did you find me? In this big city..."

"Somehow I sensed you were in danger. I sent spy spirits after you, but they couldn't cross the sea, so I left some of them keeping vigil in the port of Ostia and in other places around the country. I had hoped that you would return to Rome because I knew you were still alive. Early today, one of the specters warned me that the Renegade Angel had disembarked from a slave ship and was brought to the Eternal City."

Flower of the East rubbed her wrists to ease the pain of the cable that held her, and the sorceress noticed the small marks. It wasn't difficult to conclude that the girl and I had been together the entire trip. Therefore, the spirits must have warned about the journey up the river.

"Your eyes are powerful, girl," said Shamira, recognizing the girl's value. "It's a daughter of Shang?"

This Chinese clan, I later learned, was the first to rule China, until it was defeated by the warriors of Zhou in 1122 B.C. The Shang kings developed ideographic writing and, according to the ancients, had the power to speak to their ancestors through oracle bones, a set of wands marked by mystical inscriptions. They were endowed with unique mediumship and great intelligence.

Flower of the East answered Shamira's question with a nod, and the sorceress understood that she couldn't speak because of her cut tongue.

Suddenly my head fell forward, and I burst into a haemorrhagic cough. Droplets of blood rushed down my throat, and I spat a mixture of saliva and plasma onto the floor of the platform. In an instinctive action, Shamira took out a cloth handkerchief and made to press it against my mouth, but I stopped her.

"This blood is deadly," I murmured, remembering the sad end of the henchman on the boat.

"I know," she replied, looking at the red stain that stained the stage. "But there is no danger; I'm under a protection spell," she explained.

With that said, she wiped the trickle that ran from the corner of my mouth and analyzed the blood with her fingers. Her expression tightened, and she realized the gravity of the situation.

"And poison! Spirit poison. You won't be able to resist much longer. I have to take you to my home. Maybe I can still save you."

"No!" I protested, remembering why I had come to Rome. "No, Shamira. We must go back... Listen..." I could barely speak. "Zamir, the old wizard of Babel, did not die in Mar de Rocha; he remains active. He was the one who set this trap for me, and now he's after you. From what I heard, it was this damned summoner who murdered Drakali-Toth and the other master sorcerers. It's risky to return to your domus. He could be lurking."

"I assumed he was the killer, but now you make me sure. Zamir was my old tutor," she replied thoughtfully, probably imagining what she would do next. "But no, I can't leave you here, or you will die."

"If we continue, we will both die. You must flee, Shamira, while there is still time." She squeezed my arm tightly and sat me down.

"No, Ablon. If I have to face Zamir alone, I will face him. I'm already prepared for that. I will not allow you to die. You saved me from the search engine a long time ago, and now it's my turn to help you."

I saw that there was happiness and sweetness in her eyes, but her heart was heavy to see me in that state of weakness.

The shopping square began to empty, but Alexius remained on the platform, delighting in counting the silver coins. In the distance, a big guy frowned when he saw me in the arms of a beautiful woman. It was Cassius of Calabria, who had beaten me on the first day of the journey. He was accompanied by a team of broncos, and Shamira, intelligently, realized that he was one of my aggressors. For a moment, I thought the witch's wrath would descend upon the slavers, but in a moment, with a sensible attitude, she swallowed all her anger and concentrated on getting me out of that den of vultures.

"Let's go, Ablon. These rats are not worthy of our revenge."

The woman stood up in a graceful movement and chose at random a passerby on the street, a commoner type, probably a craftsman or dockworker. She offered the guy five sesterces, Roman copper pieces, only to put me on a horse. The girl, alone, could not bear my weight nor did she wish to ask for help from Alexius's rude overseers.

As she already knew that I would be at the Emporium before I even left the house, the necromancer had brought with her two saddled horses—a gray stallion and a white mare—both of excellent breed. The commoner pushed me onto the back of one of them, with Flower of the East, and Shamira sat on the mare's back. Then she dismissed the charger.

It was five in the afternoon, and there was less than half an hour before the poison would end my life.

Non-Domus Ambush

Shamira's house was on a quiet street, almost right at the foot of the Capitoline Hill, one of the seven Roman hills. The Capitol, as it was also called, was like a large round stone and yet it maintained its steep slopes, just as it was in the time of the Latin villages. In the past, the seven villages on the seven hills came together in a federation and began to build a wall that would delimit the future city. Eight centuries later, no trace of the Latins remained. In the first years of the 1st century, at the time of this report, a complex of temples dominated the top of the hill, which was very reminiscent of the Acropolis of Athens. The grandest of these sanctuaries was the Temple of Jupiter, whose rear wall, supported by marble columns, projected, at the end of that April afternoon, an oppressive shadow over the land occupied by the domus of the Enchantress of En-Dor.

The sun was setting when we rounded the Forum of Augustus. The urban movement, at that time, began to decline. During the day, no vehicle on wheels could travel the streets. Rome had, then, two million inhabitants, and such an intense coming and going of cars transformed the avenues into a pandemonium. As a result, the poor were forced to walk, while the rich were transported in litters or on the back of horses.

It was almost night when we stopped in front of the domus. Roman noble houses had high facades, with wooden beams and brick walls, covered with resistant mortar. The ceiling was made of tiles overlapping in scales, and the floor, decorated with mosaics that portrayed mythological beings and legendary heroes, was stunning. A thick double door led to a covered hallway, which led to the central living room, generally characterized by an opening in the ceiling, useful for ventilating the room. On the floor, below the ventilation gap was a small pool, adorned with statues, that stored the rainwater. On hot days, the Romans used it to cool off. Around the atrium were the rooms, a staircase that led to the second floor, and the passage to the tablinium, a meeting room often used as a studio. Then the mansion advanced, opening again into a courtyard surrounding a covered passage, or peristyle. In the heart of the courtyard there were, in almost every Roman residence, a sumptuous flowerbed that housed a sanctuary dedicated to the domestic gods. To the right of the peristyle were the dining room and kitchen, and to the left more bedrooms, sometimes adapted into workshops or offices.

When the horses stopped in front of the domus, Shamira woke me up. "Ablon, you need to make one last effort to walk. We have to enter the mansion."

Hearing her words, I threw myself out of the saddle and, I don't know how, managed to stand. Recognizing my growing fragility, she supported me with one arm, and with the other, she pushed the heavy wooden door open. It was at that moment that my sense of danger, which I thought was lost, gave its last sign of threat.

"Shamira, something is wrong," I insisted. "We can't go in. The enemy awaits us."

Calm and confident, the woman didn't care about the alarm. She looked at me deeply and, with an air of tenderness, gently kissed my face.

"Warrior, you need to trust me. There is nothing to fear," she replied, and led me to the hallway. Flower of the East followed.

The mansion was shrouded in an eerie gloom, for dusk had come, and there were no servants to light the lamps. We crossed the corridor and entered the atrium, the main room. So, my fears were realized, and the worst happened.

A slender figure stepped out of the shadows like a mouse in the darkness. It was leaning against the wall at the other end of the atrium, blocking the passage to the peristyle courtyard. I couldn't see her clearly, but I understood that she was approaching slowly, at the same time as she was chanting a magic formula. Aware of the danger, the sorceress took the lead, intending to use her own body as a shield. Flower of the East retreated, seeking refuge in the entrance corridor.

Suddenly the atrium lit up with a flickering mystical light, and I saw that the enemy's hands burned in green flames. At the attacker's command, a ball of fire rushed from the tip of her fingers and crossed the room with astonishing speed, exploding violently when it found the necromancer. In the face of such an impetuous attack, Shamira's clothes were reduced to dust, and naked, she lost her balance and was thrown to the ground. But it didn't look like she was injured. The ceremonial dagger she carried beneath her cloak did not break and was thrown away by the violence of the shock.

The figure approached, but the woman escaped. Still dazed, the Sorceress of En-Dor crawled towards one of the side doors, which probably led to a common room. Without the support of the woman, I gave in to weakness. The shadow approached me, emerging from the blackness. I looked up and saw the enemy, a middle-aged man, thin, tall, with tanned skin and a thin nose. He preserved, perhaps for all those years, the pointy goatee. The almond-shaped eyes were lightly painted with the same makeup used by the Babylonians. Only his clothes had changed, and now the mystic was wearing a long black tunic over a cotton robe.

It was Zamir, the Sorcerer of the Desert!

His face became clearer as he met the last rays of the afternoon.

"You, here?" he was surprised. "I thought I had finished him off with the ambush in the Tiny Forest."

I couldn't answer. The muscles went into convulsions due to the action of the poison.

"Fortunately," he continued, "I took some precautions so that your unexpected presence would not compromise my schedule. Although I don't see how I could be bothered," he said, realizing my terminal situation. I noticed that there was no expression of arrogance or jubilation in his eyes. For him, it was as if this murder were a common task, a daily activity. "I will settle my dispute with the sorceress, and in the meantime, I will decide what to do with you. It's regrettable that your blood is contaminated. It would be a formidable ingredient in my ceremonies."

Without fearing a reaction, the wizard shrugged and walked towards the door Shamira had entered. I gathered energy and moved forward, but an unforeseen force stopped me.

A mystical and invisible wall blocked my progress, enclosing me in a restricted area. I watched then, upon looking at the ground, that I was, in effect, within a magical circle of imprisonment, used by wizards to capture spirits, but it also worked with carnal beings. The ring outside was drawn with charcoal and adorned with inscriptions that I couldn't decipher. The curious thing, I thought, was that both Shamira and Flower of the East had stepped on that seal and were not held back by the power of magic. And soon I, who am a celestial, supposedly immune to these charms, was caught by the spell. I assumed, then, that this was a targeted ritual, performed to affect a specific entity. At first, I didn't understand how the summoner had achieved that effect, but then I remembered his performance in the Tin-Sen forest when he used one of my lost feathers to perform the spell of summons and drag me into that infernal forest.

The Desert Sorcerer wasted no time lecturing about his taric. He opened the bedroom door and went into darkness, following the necromancer's trail.

Like a Fish on a Hook

What happened next was not witnessed by me, and everything I know was reported by Shamira when I returned to Rome years later. At that moment, as Zamir pursued his plan, I lay agonizing inside the magical seal, which imprisoned me in an invisible circle.

When he was sure that I could no longer face him, the summoner entered through the bedroom door, but instead of finding a small bedroom with a cornered and fearful woman, what he saw was a narrow, rocky staircase, with damp walls, that led down to a supposed basement. Constructions below the soil in Roman noble houses were uncommon, but the wizard saw no absurdity in this and continued his march.

"Like a fish on a hook," said the magician to himself, without understanding the woman's attitude, who had run to a place from which, surely, there was no way out.

The staircase ended in a square room, with a high ceiling, apparently empty. It was spacious, as the darkness covered its alcoves, and the wizard could not see the entire room. However, he found what he was looking for: Shamira, naked, lying on her back on the stone floor, still stunned by the green fire impact. This, also called the fire of Xahra, is not the product of earthly combustion, what normal flames look like. It burns and exists only on the astral plane, not in the physical world. It means, therefore, that the flames cannot be extinguished by water, wind, or any other worldly methods. The result of this spell is hideous to say the least—the soul, not the body, of the victim is affected. With the spirit destroyed, the person's entire essence is erased, thus meeting final death—not just carnal death, but the terminal conclusion of their existence.

The naked woman stood up, her attention fixed on Zamir, who had stopped at the stairway, making any attempt to escape impossible.

"Finally, my endeavor is approaching its conclusion," said the wizard, recognizing victory.

"So it was you who murdered Drakali-Thoth?" asked the woman, already knowing the answer.

"Murder isn't quite the word. I, so to speak, surpassed him and felt entitled to kill him. After I used the ritual of knowledge on his spirit and absorbed his powers. It wasn't that difficult, you know."

"What about the other wizard masters?"

"They suffered, I must admit, the same fate. They weren't really a match for me, but I don't recriminate. After all, who am I? I am and always have been the greatest wizard on earth, but your performance and that of the Renegade Angel in Babel buried my nation and everything it represented," he seemed nostalgic for an instant. "Ah, sorceress, if you knew what I had planned for the future of my country, of my people, in that time beyond the world, beyond history... But don't understand this as revenge. I don't want to seem taxing. You acted wisely and deserved the triumph."

"You are as deranged as your former king, Zamir," Shamira thought she saw a sneer on the wizard's cheek.

"Nimrod was never king of anything. He was lost. I had manipulated him since childhood. I was the true ruler of Babel. When you die, consumed by green fire, my path will be free again, and I will raise a new nation on the ruins of the old. When my undertaking is closed, I will no longer be Zamir, the Summoner, much less Zamir, the Necromancer, but Zamir, the Archmage, or the Great Wizard, the only master of all branches of magic."

The sorceress remained silent, and the wizard continued:

"I know what I'm going to ask is a little strange, but I beg you not to misjudge me. I'm not a bad person. I am just a product of inevitable human evolution. After all, we are human, you and I, with the grace of Deus Yahweh."

Tired of those pedantic words, Shamira said:

"I see that you are very convinced of your desire. Persistence is a valuable quality. But I can't say I'm sorry to ruin your plans."

The seeker frowned in a confused expression. What did that helpless girl mean by such an explosion of bravery? It was over; he was defeated!

"And what are you going to do? Will you summon their spirits? Will you draw a seal on the ground and wait for me to trip within? There's no time for these things anymore, girl. Your brief adventure as a sorceress ends now."

In a new stream of screams, the summoner spat out his magical formulas, and Xahra's fire returned to him. He lightened his hands in preparation for the final blow.

But before he formed the fireball, the flames that sprouted from his fingers lit up the room, and the light shone in the alcoves. Inside each of those entrances on the wall rested ancient statues, blackened iron, representing Babylonian idols. They were tribal icons, figures of the poor and slaves, and not of the high aristocracy that governed the city.

Only then, when looking at those statues, did Zamir understand that this was a particularly special sanctuary, prepared, and that the fabric of reality down there was incredibly thin. And he also remembered the origin of those idols, inferring, with a twinge of terror, their real usefulness.

"They are figures from Babel... But how is that possible? The city was swallowed by sand."

"Ever since I heard about the first murder of the wizards, about a century ago, I suspected that you could be involved. Before coming to Rome, I took a long trip to Asia and found these objects in the desert. They don't have much divine representation, but all I needed was some fragments of the ancient city. With them, I set up this sanctuary."

"But for what? For what purpose?" the wizard's voice already sounded agitated. Shamira didn't respond. It wasn't necessary.

Astral figures appeared in the air, swirling like smoke, until they took shape. They were ghosts, of translucent, intangible bodies, that felt very comfortable in that secluded place, where the membrane was fragile and thin. The sanctuary was made for them.

The wizard's face was filled with terror as he distinguished the specters. Those were the spirits of slaves who, 2,300 years earlier, built the Tower of Babel. Since their physical death, those souls were tied to the earth, prevented from going to heaven, and that would be the case as long as the architect of that unfortunate construction lived. Babel's first slaves, who died working on the Pyramid of Prata, during the reign of Cush, had their spirit freed when the Sons of Japheth captured the monarch and sentenced him to death. But the second body of slaves, those who rebelled during my attack on the capital, perished without judging their evildoer. They could not go to paradise until this pending issue was resolved, which would be done in a moment.

"These ghosts were once slaves, who died under the whips of their men," explained the woman, the necromancer.

"But me?" he stammered. "What harm could I do to these people?"

"You ruled Babel at the time, and these are the former workers of the tower. Wouldn't they recognize?" The mere sight of ghosts was Dantesque. Just like the spirits of Enoch, they also writhed, in an eternal expression of horror.

"Workers? Slaves?" Zamir seemed to have gone crazy. "But I don't know these people..."

One of the spirits formed in front of him, and upon seeing the smoke, the wizard backed away. The mystical mist revolved, outlining the face of a very old woman. The mist retracted, and the old woman's face gave way to the image of a very young girl, with dark skin, fine features, and straight hair. A voice—what else? It sounded like a noise, resonated in the basement.

"Don't you remember me, wizard?" asked the specter of the little girl. His speech was macabre, and the wizard's blood ran cold. "I am Adnari, one of the palace slaves."

It was really possible that Zamir wouldn't remember her, especially in that state of stress. Trying to recover from his astonishment, the magician shouted, facing the astral bodies:

"You are just tormented spirits! They can't hurt me, they can't threaten me."

Adnari's response was merciless: "No, Zamir. Here, in this sanctuary, our powers are supreme!"

And indeed they were. Zamir, through the knowledge of necromancy that he had acquired when he killed Drakali-Thoth, had known this from the moment he saw the ghosts, but he had a hard time accepting his fate. To admit that it was to admit defeat and recognize that, for the second time, he had been surpassed by the Enchantress of En-Dor. No could be destroyed! He was the greatest wizard in the world. He was the only one who had contact, still in Babel, with ancient magic, with the remains of Enoch's magic, with the secrets of the ancestral world. Who, in good conscience, would dare challenge him? He had faced the great wizards, and he had won them all. How could he be surpassed by a woman, by a girl?

"Like a fish on a hook," said Shamira, replicating the words of the person being sought.

Cornered, the wizard trembled. Like how he acted in Mar de Rocha, when he witnessed my attack on the Babylonian platoon, he was completely overcome by despair. He was lost, and all he could do was run away, running like a terrified child—not that that would save him. He turned around and armed his muscles for a sprint, intending to climb the stairs and leave the sanctuary. If he could get out of the basement, he would be free! The ghosts couldn't molest him out there, where the fabric was thick.

But before he started the race, the specters attacked.

The translucent shapes came together and closed a ring of mist, which enveloped him. Others blocked the exit, forming a wall of mist. A third mass grabbed him. The spectral arms passed through his flesh and found the spirit of the sorcerer. The astral fingers sharpened into claws and pulled the enemy's soul out of the body. The spiritual head came out first, but the summoner resisted, holding on as best he could to his worldly carcass. The eyes rolled back in pain, and the mouth opened in a hideous scream, until his entire soul was sucked out. The mists swallowed him, and the wizard's spirit disappeared in smoke.

On the physical plane, the trembling body stopped and retracted into the ground. Then a horrible spectacle began, monstrous. The deceased's skin began to wrinkle incredibly quickly, and the corpse withered. The eyeballs fell apart, and strands of hair grew. The next moment, the tissues gave way, and the organs atrophied. The epidermis stuck to the bones until it dried. So the skull, the teeth, and the bones crumbled, and finally everything was reduced to dust. By drinking the blood of the renegade Ishtar, Zamir had prolonged his life beyond the limit, in an unnatural way. When he died, the centuries came to claim their legacy and collected, within seconds, everything that was owed to them.

At the end of this terrifying episode, the ghosts disappeared. They were free forever. Thus died Zamir, the Seeker, and with him what was left of the legendary Babel, that accursed city.

Beyond the world, beyond history...

A Road Marked with Blood

Shamira wasted no time. She stumbled up the stairs and ran back to the lobby. And there I was, stretched out on the floor, still trapped by the invisible wall.

The night had arrived cold, bringing in its mantle the final annunciation. Little by little, life faded away. The heart, tired, beat slowly, drowned in the murderous venom. I couldn't move. All my muscles died, but I still had weak senses.

The poison had won.

The necromancer appeared in the atrium, and I thought this was one last delirium. I didn't imagine that she could face Zamir, much less beat him, but she could. She could. Maybe she always could have. The sorceress was alive, unharmed, and that was my final wish. My mission had been completed.

Shamira broke through the magic circle, to which she was immune, and hugged me. Flor do Leste and Shamira were saved. As for me, I always knew, ever since the fight with the prey, that the toxin would follow me until the end.

"Death—then why did I insist on clinging to life? Why was I reluctant to surrender to the void?"

I tried to open one of my eyes and saw the necromancer's white face. She cried. Further back, a silhouette of a little girl sobbed in the dark. It was Flower of the East.

"Ablon, resist," begged the woman. "You can't die. You won't die."

"I fulfilled my mission, sorceress, or at least part of it. And I'm proud of that. We angels warriors, that's how we are. Death is just the end of the quest."

A new torrent of tears ran down her soft face.

"How will I live without you, renegade? You saved my life. You gave me a new chance. And now, what will happen?"

"Now you will go alone, Shamira. My road is covered in blood."

"No!" she said with a look. She didn't want to let me go; she didn't want me to leave her. Her strength of life was extreme, sublime. Without it, I would have let myself be carried away by the night, into the eternal emptiness of existence. The unity of the cosmos cried out to me. But the universe could wait.

In an unexpected move, the sorceress stretched out her arm, and in a dark corner, she found her dagger. With a flick of the wrist, what else felt like a dance, she brought the dagger closer to my body. For a moment, I didn't understand what she intended to do.

"You have to resist, warrior. You can't die," she repeated determinedly, swallowing the cries that had spilled a moment ago.

With her right hand, she raised the knife, preparing for an attack. With the other, she rubbed her fingers above her ribs, and I understood what she was looking for: my heart.

"Ablon, hold on! You're not going to die," she said finally. "I love you."

Before I could react, I felt a stab pierce my chest. The blade went through my skin and tore the vena cava an inch below the heart muscle—the precision of the incision had been perfect. There was a muffled noise, of metal penetrating flesh. For a long, unforgettable second, nothing happened. The next moment, the spurt of blood.

An intermittent spray of plasma and poison splashed upward, staining the courtyard floor and covering the tiled mosaics red. A large puddle advanced across the ground, flooding the drawings of coal that demarcated the magical seal.

I don't remember seeing anything else after that.

Consciousness faded.

Thirty Years

The sensation was that of being dredged, pulled down with astonishing speed. A force not inferior to the divine led me to the deepest pit of the abyss, and then I was released. I felt my body float, then I went up, I climbed alone, lightly, until I emerged, tearing the watery membrane with my face.

A new myriad of impressions, already forgotten, awakened me to life. The delicious smell of the air filled my lungs, bringing a whirlwind of intense aromas. I felt, once again, the fragrance of the flowers that colored spring, the taste of rain, the perfume of the earth. Was I alive again, or was that the zone beyond the darkness, the path after the twilight?

The light was dim, indirect, but it was easy to see—my heightened senses had returned, and I could see and hear murmurs through the walls. I opened my arms and understood that I was squeezed into a space, as if confined in an uncovered coffin. Only the ceiling appeared in the distance, and it was high, dark, all made of limestone rock. I bent my spine, trying to sit down.

As I took in the surroundings, I realized that I had been lying in a sarcophagus, or so it seemed, covered up to the edge with a colorless liquid, mixed with red blood stains. On the surface of the water, chopped fragments of plants floated, or rather, herbs, herbs with a penetrating odor. The coffin was placed on the floor, in the center of an empty room, surrounded by alcoves where strange statues of iron rested. In one corner was an arched passage and a staircase that went straight up. It wasn't a room, but an underground chamber. It was humid, and from the pressure of the atmosphere, I knew it was only a few meters below the ground. I imagined that I had remained immersed in that aromatic liquid for a whole day, because it was already morning. Rays of sunlight invaded the passage, drawing images of light on the floor of the room.

But I wasn't the only one occupying that enigmatic enclosure. A woman stood guard, leaning against the wall, like one of the iron figures, almost motionless. With small steps, she came closer when she saw me get up. The way she walked and the smell of her skin left no doubt—it wasn't Shamira, but then who could it be? With my keen vision, I noticed that she was short, thin, and had beautiful oriental features, despite her appearance. Roman stole. The mark of age was already weighing on her, and I calculated that she was over 40, despite the delicate manners and a girlish look. Only one person looked at me like that.

"Flower of the East?" I exclaimed, still hoarse from waking up.

I hadn't been mistaken, and how could I? That was Flor do Leste, the little Chinese woman I had met in the Far East, when taken by the Greek caravan. But what had happened to her? She was no longer a little girl, but a woman.

"We were waiting for your recovery, general," said someone coming down the stairs.

"Shamira," I murmured, clinging to the sides of the sarcophagus. "What happened here?"

The sorceress looked at Flower of the East and then turned to me.

"Ancestral magic and Chinese medicine brought you back," she explained. "But the real merit is not ours. I said you wouldn't die. You were too strong to succumb to the attack of any spirit."

"But what about the poison?"

"It was expelled from your body, absorbed by the herbs that float in the water," she pointed to the coffin, and only then did I notice that my chest was covered in small gashes, superficial cuts through which the toxin should have come out. "You were purified during the time you were asleep," and then the necromancer looked at the Chinese woman, noticing her mature appearance. "And this period, I must say, wasn't short."

"Then it's explained. That's why I thought Flor do Leste had aged. But it was me who was in lethargy, suspended while my body recovered."

"Any trace of the venom could kill you later, so all your blood had to be drained. A relapse would be fatal. I studied these spirits and investigated Zamir's plot. I discovered that scorpion venom can be contained, but it is difficult to expel. It remains latent until a new episode wakes you up. The effects return suddenly and are even more devastating."

Hibernating. I had entered a kind of natural hibernation for the second time. Maybe that was an inherent defense, a way for my body to respond to danger. But how long had I slept? There was no way of being days or months, but years, many years. What would have happened during that period? How was the world going?

Still slightly dizzy, I got up and left the sarcophagus, while the last remnants of blood contaminated ran down my skin. I could already feel the power of my muscles returning and the rhythmic throbbing of my heart—the weakness was definitely gone. I was alive, strong, healed, thanks to those two women, who dedicated everything they had to save me from emptiness. Nothing I did could make up for that act of love. Instead, I gave the Chinese woman a grateful look and then Shamira. And then, when I noticed her soft skin, I remembered that last moment, before the blow of the knife, and what she had told me.

"Shamira, before I went into a daze, you told me..."

She interrupted my sentence: "Ablon, there's no time for that now. You need to complete your mission."

My mission! Nathanael, Jerusalem, the Holy Child! I should have gone to meet the ofanim and his angels, after warning Shamira about Zamir. Was there still a chance to pursue my demand?

"Flower of the East told me everything she knew about your venture," explained the necromancer. "There is time, but you need to hurry. Legionnaires serving in Palestine arrive at the port of Ostia with news about this man, who calls himself king of the Jews. I suppose this is the Savior you search for. But you have to leave immediately, as he is in danger."

Yes, but could I help you? Alone, certainly not. I imagined what someone with heavenly power and endowed with free will would be like. What a magnificent being he must have been. Would I be up to defending Nathanael?

"How long did I sleep?"

"Thirty years have passed."

"Then there isn't a minute to waste," I replied, quickly composed.

The two women led me to the lobby, at the end of the stairs leading to the basement. It was spring, and the sun reflected on the tiles. I heard the sound of commerce in the distance and concluded that the shops in Rome had just opened. It couldn't be later than seven o'clock in the morning. From there, I accompanied them to the tablinium, the reception room, a room with wide doors at both ends. One of them opened onto the atrium, and the other gave way to the courtyard ahead.

Four couches decorated the room, and on one of them lay a piece of clothing. Flor do Leste offered me the fabric, and I understood that it was a gift made by her. It looked like a Chinese kimono, but made of linen and then dyed black. The shirt was fastened to the collar with small buttons of string, with a length that reached the height of the thighs. The dark pants were from the same fabric, and a pair of leather boots gave the singular outfit a timeless look. Next to the costume rested two knight's armbands, similar to those I had acquired in the city of Turfan, within the limits of China. It wasn't a superb outfit, but it was practical and durable. The Chinese woman knew my preferences.

I washed in a common tub and trimmed my beard before getting dressed.

"The cuts on my body have healed," I noticed, before closing the kimono.

"Your regenerative abilities are acting up again. They are now at the height of their power," explained Shamira.

Just before eight o'clock, the witch took me outside, and next to one of the outer walls of the domus, there was an attached room, which faced the street. Many Roman owners rented the space for shopkeepers, but the necromancer used it as a stable and storage room. There rested five horses, all saddled, and Shamira offered me one of them, a brown mare.

"Her name is Selene and she is trained. Go overland to Ostia, then leave her loose in the field. She knows the way back. There is a ship leaving for the East at dusk, and you can still take it." She offered me a pouch of coins. "You don't need food anymore, but take money. The ticket is expensive, but there is enough for the whole journey."

"You thought of everything, didn't you?"

"I had a lot of time for that," she replied, with a pleasant smile.

I accepted the offer and got on the horse. But before leaving, Shamira called me. There was a small package in her hands, a tiny piece of discolored velvet.

"Take this, Ablon." I unrolled the cloth and there was a feather stained with blood. "And yours. Zamir used it to prepare the spell that imprisoned him in the magic circle that night of the attack on my house."

I returned the object with some disgust. A piece of me used as an ingredient in profane rituals... That idea made me sick.

"Destroy this for me. And let's hope there aren't any more of them lost out there."

"I don't think they exist. If there were, Zamir would have used them." I commanded the animal, and it went to the sidewalk. But before speeding up the trot, I realized that my two saviors needed at least a word of goodbye.

"Shamira, Flower of the East, I'm sorry I have to leave you like this."

"There is nothing to feel, warrior. You have a mission to accomplish. A legion awaits you," replied Shamira, in an epic tone.

I nodded. "I'll send you news when I get to Jerusalem, even if I have to send a messenger by sea."

She agreed and, with a wave of her hand, said goodbye to me. I knew, perhaps better than I, the urgency of my trip.

I released the mare's rein, and the mount raced through the streets.

Ostia and Caesarea

On horseback, I crossed the Porta Latina, one of the city's main exits, and headed towards the Via Ápia, the longest of the Roman roads. I continued across the field as quickly as I could, observing the gigantic aqueducts over the stone arches, which cut through the farms and converged like viaducts towards the metropolis. Before noon, the Eternal City was already distant.

I took a ship leaving Ostia and embarked on a peaceful journey, this time as a passenger, and not as a slave.

The central port city of Palestine was Caesarea, where we landed days later. The Jewel of the Mediterranean, as it was called, was built by Herod the Great, king of Judea, in honor of Emperor Caesar Augustus, and quickly became the largest Roman center in the region. The port of Caesarea was probably the most magnificent engineering work in Israel, with its walls that advanced into the sea, forming a natural and safe pool for ships to dock. The gate at sea where the boats entered was flanked by large marble statues, and further on you could see the lighthouse tower, much smaller and more modest than the one in Alexandria.

It was the month of April, certainly the most pleasant of all, when the rainy season had already finished, and the heat was still not that strong. The roads, which filled with mud at the end of winter, were dry again, and despite the arid climate, characteristic of that part of the world, thin grass grew.

Instead of taking the shorter road, which would take me directly to the upper part of Jerusalem, I thought it better to divert to the south, because the passage was guarded by astral sentinels, invisible to human eyes. I wasn't sure which side they were on, so I thought it prudent to enter the gates, look for Nathanael, and only then reveal my presence. So, I chose to go around the Mount of Olives and enter the city from the other side, through the main entrance.

At dawn that Friday, April 7th, I arrived in Betânia, a village located at the foot of the hill.

By noon he already dominated the top of the hill. It was a clear spring day, with no clouds in the sky, and the temperature had warmed. From above you could see the waters of the sea in the distance, ending in a curvature that only the horizon could reach. Below, continuing along the road, the Kidron valley formed a deep bank, like the dry bed of a river, and beyond it my final goal: Jerusalem.

High walls surrounded the city, which was then divided into four parts: the lower city, the upper city, the suburbs and the temple area, whose main building was Herod's Temple, seat of the council of priests and fundamental point of the Jewish faith. The prayers of all the Israelites of the world converged there, a sanctuary that, in other times, had housed the greatest relic of his people: the Ark of the Covenant. The temple was a tall, imposing building, with doorposts adorned with gold and silver plates. It was at the center of a series of courtyards, surrounded by a thirteen-meter-high wall. The House of God, so referred to by the faithful in his time, was under the control of the high priest, who was also the officer who presided over the Sanhedrin, a council of illustrious figures, of particular prominence in the city.

A tongue of smoke rose from the inner courtyard, where a ritualistic pyre burned offering objects. To the north, the towers of Fortaleza Antônia, residence of the Roman procurator, pointed to the sky, and to the west, leaning against the walls of the upper city, stood Herod's Palace, then inhabited by his son, Herod Antipas.

I took the path that led to the stone bridge over the valley, certain that I would be inside the metropolis before nightfall. An unexpected fact, however, would frustrate my plans, and I would be the protagonist of an event in which he would only find logic two thousand years later.

On the Mount of Olives

It was five o'clock in the afternoon and the sun was dying. The waning moon was already rising in the east, almost imperceptible, defying the afternoon glare. I continued along the main road until I sensed again the presence of the sentries; with my angel eyes I could see them through the fabric. Cherubim armed with swords and armor were everywhere, prepared to defend the perimeter. They guarded the top of the walls, the gates, the surroundings of the temple, the tanks and aqueducts. Many flew in squadrons, protecting the city from above. The winged legions sometimes descended, forming a defense belt and blocking access to the metropolis.

"I didn't think there were so many!" I whispered to myself, stunned by the contingent.

The regular path down the hill—a well-maintained Roman road—was impassable, such was the number of celestial soldiers who watched over her from the spiritual world. I chose to leave the road and follow an unmarked trail, which cut through olive tree plantations. This was a rural area; although it was close to the city, it was deserted when night fell.

I remained hidden among the shadows of the trees until the sun set and then continued along the path. But before I went down the Kidron Valley, which was a steep depression at the time, I noticed that I was being observed and finally discovered. My sneaky walk was sharp, but not enough to deceive trained guards.

There was no point in hiding anymore, and it wasn't like me to run away. Besides, why would I run away? And if those angels were Nathanael's friends? They could assist me and take me to him. And if they were enemies, I was not afraid to fight them. After all, wasn't that what you were there for?

The fabric of reality shook with a thunderous jolt, indicating that some creature of mighty power immeasurable had just materialized. I was surrounded by trees, and the vegetation blocked the view, so I was alert, waiting for a sneak attack or a friendly greeting.

A warrior angel, strong in his golden breastplate, appeared on the path. The sword was sheathed and did not appear aggressive. The wings had not materialized, which required tremendous effort, and in those conditions, any passerby would take him for a common man, just like I used to be confused. In the silver light of the moon, I recognized him and identified, on his armor, the symbol of the legion that, millennia ago, I had led.

Baturiel was, like me, a cherub, a relentless fighter, who had served under me in the Legion of Swords, a division that I commanded before the conjuration. But whose side was he on? Would he have sympathized with Nathanael's cause or preferred to join Miguel, to kill the Enlightened One? What I was most intrigued about, however, wasn't it. The immeasurable power that I had felt just a few minutes ago didn't come from the fighter ahead—it was much more sublime and powerful.

I got closer, still cautious, but the warrior's expression was impassive. It was stiff, like standing guard, and did not move from the path. I understood that I would be the one to take the initiative.

"I'm looking for Nathanael, the Most Pure," I announced. The guard's expression did not change.

"I can't let him pass. I have extreme orders to defend the hill." Given that, I concluded that he was not my ally.

"I don't want to have to fight you, Baturiel. But I also have a mission to fulfill."

"You won't fight me, general," he replied, and I saw him pointing to the side, indicating a second angel that arrived.

The new soldier carried a golden bow and with it he prepared an arrow, a deadly arrow, aimed at my heart. It was Varna, general of the Legion of Bows, an angel woman, as were all archers. She was wearing a metallic mesh shirt, adjusted to the size of her breasts. Her hair was long, brown, and her eyes, sharp like those of eagles on the hunt. Her air was serious, and she did not hesitate for even a moment. Quick as a snake, she aimed the dart but waited for the command.

"Varna never missed an arrow," Baturiel threatened. "You are a renegade angel; you are trapped in the physical world. If your heart is destroyed here, on the material plane, it will be over."

I stopped and analyzed the impasse. I read in the warrior's face that he was not safe. I didn't want to hurt him; I didn't want to give the attack command. In fact, there was a sparkle in his eyes. Something inside him still admired my achievements. I was still, even distantly, their leader in arms.

The situation had reached a critical point. Varna's fingers began to bleed upon contact with her tense bowstrings. She needed to fire or put the bow down. The three of us were motionless, and I was waiting for an opportunity to move forward. But there were angels of great power, among them two generals, and neither of us was willing to give in. The crisis, however, would be resolved in no time.

A fourth angel, also dressed as a man, appeared between the two. The wings had not materialized—I didn't see the need to do so. He was dressed discreetly, in a long, gray tunic, but his presence was sublime. His honey-colored hair, normally braided, was loose and flowed down by the lean and strong body. His appearance was serene, and the power of his aura was magnanimous. That wasn't a common angel.

Before me stood an archangel—Gabriel, the Master of Fire. Nothing more needed to be said. That was my end; it would end there. A renegade angel, discovered by an archangel, would quickly be deleted. He would have no chance against that giant, one of the most powerful entities in the universe, surpassed only by Michael, Lucifer, and Yahweh himself. He didn't wear his golden armor nor his mystical sword, but there was no need either. Even confined to the flesh of an avatar, he was invincible, practically indestructible.

But instead of attacking me, he warned, "Go away, Ablon. We're resolving a family problem here." His voice was almost music, a gentle melody, which at any moment could burst into violent chords.

"I can't back down, Gabriel, not now," I preserved my honor. "Not after everything I've been through to get here. Not after the word I gave."

The archangel moved his head, already knowing that I wouldn't give up so easily. Giving in to my stubbornness, he made a signal, and Varna collected the arrow.

"Leave us. I'll sort it out."

And, at his command, the two angels left. When the officers turned their backs, I alerted Baturiel to the error that I believed I was committing.

"Baturiel, I never thought I was in the middle of this dirt," I said.

"It's not what it seems, general."

Once alone, in the blackness of the night, amidst the olive trees on the hill, I thought the time had come for my extermination, but the Fire Master surprised me again.

"I know about your meeting with Nathanael, of the Ophanim caste," revealed the archangel.

"What did you do with him, Gabriel?" I stiffened.

"The Purest is on a mission delegated by me, if that's what you want to know."

"Nathanael would never obey you."

The Fire Master smiled, noticing that my blood was boiling and that I was holding myself back to maintain my control.

"Nathanael already obeyed me once, at the time of the flood. It is not the first time that the Purest participates in a mission ordered by the great ones. You, who are such a friend of his, should know better your laurels. I thought I knew the whole story, but now I understand what's going on. Your hatred for archangels prevents you from seeing the truth."

I had gone on suicide missions before, of my own free will. That time, however, I had no choice. He would be finished off, so why not die fighting? There would be greater honor for a renegade angel than to perish in combat with one of the archangels?

"You're lying, Gabriel!" I accused. "I have a demand to fulfill and I will enter this city, or I will die trying."

"It's reckless, young man," there weren't many who could call me that. Gabriel was one of them. The archangels are prior to the light; they were created a few billion years before ordinary angels.

Concentrated, I knelt on the soft grass of the hill and used my maximum power to invoke the Wrath of God. I didn't know if my combat technique could prostrate an archangel, but it was time to try everything I had.

"Gabriel, Master of Fire, I have fought countless duels and I am not ashamed to say that, in some of them, I knew defeat. Most of the time, though, I came out the winner. I don't know what the outcome of this fight will be. All I know is that tonight I will be your opponent, under this moon that watches us from the east."

I took a safe distance from the Master of Fire and charged forward, with all the power burning my blood. But faced with the danger of the attack, the archangel did not move. With my right fist, I prepared a punch in the face, and I executed a perfect, brilliant blow. The precision of the assault would knock anyone out, but my clash was interrupted by a type of telekinesis. A field of mystical energy thwarted the trajectory of the punch, and I now tried to beat him, without success. Gabriel didn't need to touch anything to project his strength, which was enormous, much greater than I could imagine. It was as if I was facing a god, and the difference in power between us proved to be abysmal.

"What's the matter with you, general? His potent Wrath of God, or whatever the cherubim call this technique, it's not as big as you thought, is it? His enemies must weaken in the face of so harmless an attack," he spoke like a mentor, not an enemy.

"What are you doing, Gabriel?" I growled, using all my strength to overcome the magnetism that surrounded the enemy.

"Back off, warrior. My goal is not to hurt you," he warned.

"Never," I insisted, and with a new push I tried to confront him.

The more I lunged, the more the invisible force pushed me back, and when I charged again crackling with fury, the mystical barrier reacted, and I was hurled away with relentless violence. My body was thrown like a projectile, opening a ditch in its path, destroying trees and scattering fragments of rock for hundreds of meters. Never in my entire life had I been the victim of such a brutal offensive.

Dazed, I leaned on the sides of the crater to stand up, amidst the dust that dominated the hole.

I tried to look ahead and saw Gabriel's silhouette standing erect on a piece of rock. If I could catch him in that second, unprepared, I might have managed to hit him.

With the skill of a cherub, I leapt out of the crater like a cat in the night and descended with my hand closed to assault the archangel. But my superior dexterity and quickness were of no use. The Master of Fire performed a short fist movement, and I, still in the air, was paralyzed by his telekinesis. Immobilized, as if floating in an energetic sphere, I was totally submissive, powerless to move a single muscle. I couldn't even speak.

Gabriel demonstrated that his patience was running out. When stretching an arm, the sphere projected me again, but this time I stabilized the thrust and landed rolling on a rocky site. In the last instant, however, a stumble threw me to the ground, and I fell prostrate inches from a precipice. The fall was scary from there, even for someone like me, who jumped and climbed with perfection beyond human.

The archangel, I observed, moved at the speed of his blows. When I looked for him, I saw the Master of Fire already at my heels, floating even without wings a meter above the ground. It should be supported by the same magnetic gallows that surrounded it.

"You're defeated," he said. "You have no chance of beating me in combat. Just one simple movement of mine, and you will be thrown down the ravine. Now accept your fate and do as I say. Go while there is time."

I recovered slowly because I knew the danger of his threats. Cornered, I preferred to take him to dialogue.

"If you know that Nathanael came to me, then you know the value of my mission," he showed himself impassive. "Why do you do this, Gabriel? Why do you stop me from watching over the Enlightened One?"

Floating, the Fire Master moved back about two meters, possibly to demonstrate a little aggression.

"You don't understand, general," there was anguish in his words. "Your demand no longer has service."

My mission, ruined? What could lead to its failure, if not my death? Will I arrive late to find the Holy One alive? Or would the archangels have dethroned the defenders of the Boy?

"So the Savior is dead?" I hissed, lost in reverie.

"No, not yet. He was convicted. Not for me, not for Miguel, not for any of the heavenly ones, but by their own people. The Savior was condemned by men, and against that, nothing we can do."

I remained silent, evaluating the idea. Could it be that the Fire Master was lying? No, I didn't need to... I could kill me with the blink of an eye, so why sustain a charade? As if guessing my thoughts, the archangel completed:

"Aren't you the one who always says that we shouldn't interfere with the will of mortals? Wasn't it because what has risen up against us? Wasn't that why he took up arms against the archangels?"

"But that's different, Gabriel..." I articulated, without calculating the words well.

"The Enlightened One, despite his power and wisdom, is also a man. Unlike us, he was graced with free will, like all human beings. The Savior chose his own martyrdom. The fact is accomplished. Now, only I can help you; no one else."

A profound sadness followed the archangel's revelation, and I felt that we both shared equally in the bitterness. For a minute, as the desert wind blew over the ravine, nothing was said. The houses and stone fortresses in the city of Jerusalem resisted the darkness like points of light, imitating the stars in the sky.

It was then that Baturiel, the golden-armored cherub, returned, breaking the silence. The officer arrived walking, and on his leader's shoulders, he released the news:

"Master, our messenger at Calvary has just arrived," he lowered his head in a sign of respect. "The Savior died."

"This problem will be solved," replied Gabriel, as if he had already calculated all the possible exits. I certainly had complete control of the situation, and I imagined that the Fire Master had foreseen every moment of that odyssey.

Baturiel retreated, and the archangel returned to my presence.

"As you can see, there is a lot to do, general. You must leave now," he determined, in a final command. "It's useless to try to break the blockade. The city is surrounded, in the physical and spiritual worlds." And, trusting with the dignity of a vanquished warrior, he shrugged his shoulders and prepared to leave the scene of battle.

I was dumbfounded. He had had an encounter with Gabriel Arcanjo, was defeated, and was still alive. Something didn't fit.

"Wait, Gabriel," I replied. "Why do you let me free? I am a renegade, an outcast, and you, an archangel, an executioner, a giant."

He answered my question with a prophetic answer:

"Before the seventh day reaches its end, we will meet once more. For now, remain in peace on your path," he concluded, evoking the Messenger's emblematic phrase.

All he wanted to know was Nathanael's whereabouts and the Savior's fate. But if the Master of Fire had told the truth, the Enlightened One was dead, and with that, my demand ended there. I wasn't sure if the archangel's words were true or not, but my options were exhausted.

Gabriel floated over the rock to the bottom of the ravine and there he dematerialized his physical body, passing through as a spirit to the astral plane. Once again, the planar transfer shook the tissue, dissipating a colossal wave of energy. Then I saw him through the membrane, flying toward the city.

One Last Kiss

Three months after my fateful encounter with the archangel Gabriel on the Mount of Olives, I returned to Rome, personally bringing Shamira the news he had promised when he left. Neither she nor Flor do Leste, even I, expected me to return so soon, but I must admit, it was pleasant to return to my friend's house, the sorceress, a safe corner, a world apart from the dangers that awaited me on my journey.

In July, the heat in the Eternal City reached unbearable levels, and many aristocrats of the time left their mansions in the capital to spend a season in the villa, the rural property outside the walls of the metropolis. But Shamira had no land in the countryside, only the domus in the capital, and she remained there for the entire summer, studying magic formulas and waiting for my report.

For a whole week, I rested in the comfort of that airy house, meditating in the peristyle courtyard, sometimes bathing in the artificial lake in the center of the atrium and engaging in discussions with the necromancer that covered the night, about all kinds of events, celestial and mundane. It was nice to talk with her, not only because of the variety of topics we shared, but because we simply knew how to listen to each other. Many times, I wanted to stay forever in the girl's company; I wanted the world to stop so we could have our time, an eternal moment of peace.

But the world doesn't stop.

As long as I was there, with them, Shamira and Flor do Leste would be in danger, just as they were Tales, Tommaso, and all the humans and angels I brought into the bosom of my fleeting life.

In one of our tireless conversations, the sorceress told me what had happened in the world of men while I was sleeping. He also told me about his duel with Zamir before I fell into torpor. I, in turn, related my trip to China and my meeting with Nathanael near the wall. I talked about my visit to Enoch and the reunion with Captain Hazai. Finally, I detailed my clash with Gabriel.

"But then you didn't find the angel Nathanael?" asked Shamira, in the domus courtyard.

"This story still intrigues me. Gabriel told me that the Purest was on a mission delegated by him, but he didn't say what this mission was. I'm sure Nathanael didn't lie to me when he said, still in China, that he was part of a group that intended to save the Illuminated. So how could he be in the same party as Gabriel? Gabriel is an archangel. Archangels hate humans, more than all."

"And you think Gabriel was telling the truth?" asked the woman.

"I don't know. If he wasn't, then why didn't he kill me? Why didn't he throw me off the cliff?" She cut one of the branches of a rose bush in the courtyard, trimming the unevenness of the plant.

"I know little, almost nothing, about celestial politics, but if it is the same as human politics, I would say that, to find the answer, you need to first analyze your interests."

"Like this?"

"There are interests behind every movement in the world. What benefit would Gabriel have in leaving you alive? Why would he lie? Why would Nathanael hide it from you? Both the righteous and the wicked are driven by implicit desires."

"Too implicit for me to infer."

"For now, perhaps, but one day the truth will come out. Just be prepared to face it," and he looked at me in subtle praise. "And you are always prepared for anything."

Allow me some self-criticism: "I wasn't prepared to face Gabriel..."

"And of course he was, otherwise he wouldn't be here. Defeating someone doesn't necessarily mean defeating him in combat."

I smiled, mocking the nature that was inherent in me. "My warrior nature doesn't allow me this multiplicity of options," I replied, good-naturedly.

She trimmed another branch from the rose bush, removing the thorns with iron scissors. Flower of the East was nearby, in the studio, writing something on leather parchment. Seeing her sitting on a divan, resting a wooden clipboard on her thighs, my eyes refused to recognize her as a woman. For me, she was an eternal girl, the little Chinese girl who clung to me on cold nights, who had saved me from death twice in a row.

As I watched the oriental woman's graceful movements, my thoughts were lost in the adventures by the rubble of Enoch.

"What happened, Ablon? You don't usually let yourself be carried away by daydreams," the woman noticed, noticing that I had, for a moment, severed my connection with the world.

"This journey was permeated by intriguing facts, Shamira, that I cannot unravel. I keep thinking what would be the connection between them? If there is a connection..."

"You mean the murder of Ishtar," supposed the sorceress, already aware of my meeting with the captain renegade in the ruins of Giant Beauty.

"Her simple death doesn't say much; after all, all renegades are persecuted. But Hazai said that Ishtar was being hunted not only because she was an outcast, but because she had discovered a supposed conspiracy, which apparently involved heaven and hell and threatened the existence of Yahweh himself."

"If Ishtar was right in her investigation, then you can count on this being the best-kept secret in the universe. Whoever is, or was, behind this collusion, will lock you up at seven keys. But I can't imagine who has the power to do that. Even the strongest of archangels would not be an opponent for the Shining One, as you once told me."

"Yahweh is sleeping," I pondered.

"And yet you think someone could molest you?" asked the necromancer, who knew much less than I did about the celestial situation.

I remained silent for a while and then I answered, with conviction: "Of course not," I declared, relieved. "I don't even think I should be thinking about those things right now. There are no facts to work with. Reflecting on this will only lead me to discouragement."

Conformed, I preferred to leave suspicion aside and was content to enjoy the stillness and tranquility that I enjoyed in the Roman mansion, with that admirable woman. But there was a day when, as if habit, my time was up. I couldn't stay there and be selfish enough to attract more enemies to the lives of those I loved. It was an illusion to think it was over. Even having destroyed the prey, more hunters would come for me, and I hoped to be far away from Shamira and Flor do Leste when that happened.

My season in Rome was over.