The Pontifex Maximus was tired: of prayer, of the church, of his friends, of his enemies, of Galla Placidia, of the intrigue and the conflict and the not-knowing where you stood or who your friends and who your enemies actually were.

Coelestinus threw down his writing tablet and eased himself out of his seat. The searing pain in his legs as he stood up made him gasp and groan.

‘I cannot be for this life much longer: nascentes morimur’.

He used his sticks to get himself over to the lectulo, but instead of getting into it, he ended up kneeling, his face buried in the stratum. He was not expecting to pray, but his frail arms gave way, his sticks fell out of his pathetic grasp and he stumbled forward.

Now that he was in this prone positi...

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