Felix hastily buckled the last strap of his armor, a set of dark, road-worn leather dotted in silver rivets fixed to steel plates beneath. The pistol, discharged and now useless, was slipped into a satchel at his hip and covered with a leather flap that was pulled tight to conceal it.


    Sword in hand, Felix approached the doorway, letting its keen edge lead the way. His every step was deliberate, his boots sinking into the worn floorboards without a creak.


    He made his way down and paused at the base of the narrow stairwell, his back against the stucco wall, listening for footsteps before turning the corner into the parlor. He didn’t have to look far to find the innkeeper. The portly man was sprawled behind the bar in a pool of his own blood, his rosy complexion now deathly white. His neck had been neatly opened by an expert blade. Upended wine bottles on the counter were still spilling their contents onto the floor. The purple wine met with the crimson blood of the innkeeper, mixing into a macabre magenta that gave off the acrid scent of copper and fruit perfume.


    Felix felt a pang of sympathy—truly, the man had been a decent host. But Rome had a way of devouring its own.


    Outside, the streets were quiet, the maelstrom of sword and shot from just minutes before was replaced by an unsettling calm. Felix surveyed the dim alleyway. He was alone. Save his horse and the damned goat, which balanced atop the saddle looking back at him. Felix narrowed his eyes as he approached the beast.


    “Can you talk, goat?” he asked with cynical curiosity. “Did you warn me of danger?”


    The goat said nothing and returned only an inscrutable, obstinate stare. Felix lowered his eyebrows. “Silent now are we? So be it. I saved you, and you saved me. Call us even.”


    The goat let out a guttural bleat, raising and kicking its front leg towards Felix.


    “Enough of that,” said Felix, reaching out and shoving the beast off the saddle. Caesar tumbled from its equine perch and landed gracefully, unbothered, on all fours.


    Leaping to the saddle, Felix spurred his horse to a gallop and made his way through the narrow streets of the city. The moon chased him as he rode.


    Rome at night was a city of ghosts—a thousand cities layered on one another, ruins stacked upon ruins, bones beneath stones. The haunting sounds of distant revelries flooded the streets from hidden grottos, where vintners hawked their wine. They preferred the cave-like alcoves to keep the wine cool.


    Decorated with chipped and crumbling tile mosaics, these basements once served as secret holy places where blasphemous gods were venerated. Now people return to them to hide from God and sin with impunity—hopeful that Jupiter or Apollo might condone their illicit activities and hide them from judgment.


    A few inebriated men paraded about in the dark city streets, sometimes stumbling, sometimes propping themselves up against adoring women in scandalous silk gowns. The wine would loosen their minds, and the women would loosen their wallets. Felix, especially in his youth, was familiar with the brief, and all too often transactional encounters.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    At that moment, riding beneath the night sky, he gulped down a rising sense of guilt. Felix was not without sin. His justice, although as righteous as it was final, was never pure.


    Felix was not born as others, but rather, discovered. He was found on Christmas, left on a bloody butcher’s block, and no more than an hour old. A fresh snow had settled on the screaming child. A kindly peasant couple, unable to have children of their own, found him. They named him Felix. It meant luck. A winter gift from God for a family that had no children of their own. But they were gone now, and it was his fault. They were wrong to name him that—luck was not a friend. He was not a blessing. He was no gift.


    Felix took notice of the Colosseum below him. Centuries of earth had lifted city streets high above the old architecture. Crippled by earthquakes and the grabbing hands of masons starved for stone to erect their own works, it still stood as a marvel—even in its sorry state.


    Once a den for thieves, The Pope founded a fraternity of monks to rebuild it. They took refuge there, living within its crumbling walls. Every day they returned a block and pulled up roots that undermined its foundation, and every day another stone fell and the burgeoning plants returned. Just as Sysiphus knew, heavy stones preferred the cradle of the ground.


    Felix slowed his horse as he approached the Flaminian Gate at the north of the city. The gate was half buried but still served its purpose, allowing entry through the Aurelian Walls that protected Rome. There was a time that Rome was in need of no walls and sought its protection through its legions. But, as time passes, we all must put up walls to protect ourselves. The higher the walls, the greater the threats. These walls were very high, and shot up towards the sky at an oblique angle. They were topped with towers and parapets not made from the cobbled granite of northern castles, but the reddish kiln-fired brick of the old Italians.


    The gate was manned by two armored sentries equipped with long halberds. Their steel-clad forms flickered in the light of fires that burned within iron braziers that lined the path.


    When Felix rode near them their eyes did not greet him. Instead, their focus was drawn to something behind him.


    Felix whirled his horse around by the reins and gripped his sword, readying himself for another attempt on his life. His previous attackers must have known that three men would not be enough. How they tracked him down so quickly, he did not waste time to contemplate. He was ready.


    Appearing through the dark, slowly trundling into the brazier firelight, was Caesar the goat.


    Felix''s breath left him in a gust of disbelief. He let his sword arm drop, shoulders sagging in defeat. “Away with you,” he growled.


    The goat was silent.


    “You’ll slow me down, and I will take you only toward danger.”


    The goat offered no response, merely waiting. Felix contemplated the absurdity of it.


    Caesar stood still and solemn at the edge of the firelight. Its spiraling horns and long goatee the very image of some dreamed demon. But Felix knew better than to believe such superstitions. Demons were real, and they lay in men, not this poor creature.


    Grinding his teeth, Felix finally conceded. “Fine. Come on, then.”


    Caesar kicked up its legs and sprinted beside him.


    Then, as a most curious pair, they exited through the city gate together.


    The guards looked at one another, baffled as to what they had just witnessed, then returned swiftly to attention.