Page 51 of Skotos
As he opened it, the bulb above us sputtered, casting jagged shadows across the map and book. In that moment, I realized something.
We weren’t hunting a killer.
We were waking ghosts.
A chill crawled across my skin.
Marini adjusted his glasses and slowly turned the pages, each one a stiff flap of parchment etched with hand-drawn crests, seals, and symbols. He muttered to himself in Latin, sounding more like some motion-picture witch than a Catholic priest.
“I have seen it,” he murmured. “The spear. Somewhere . . . I know it.”
Thomas leaned in. “Where? When?”
“It was not recent.” Marini shook his head, agitated now. “Not . . . officially recorded. A footnote, perhaps. An annotation scrawled in the margin of an older translation.”
He flipped faster now, turning past whole centuries in heartbeats. The tome was an atlas of forgotten allegiances—flags of breakaway abbeys, marks of military orders no longer sanctioned, the sigils of nobles whose names hadn’t been spoken aloud in a thousand years.
He stopped suddenly, fingers trembling.
Silence shrouded the chamber.
Even the light bulb dangling above stopped flickering.
“This family,” he said, pointing to a faded crest. “It is not the same, but similar. The head, the shape, a stylization, perhaps.”
Thomas and I leaned closer.
The spear was thinner, straighter, but undeniably reminiscent. Was it a variation? A prototype? Or perhaps a forgery?
“Who were they?” I asked.
“An order loyal to Avignon during the Great Schism. They were denounced as heretics once Rome was restored.” He hesitated, his brow furrowed. “But I cannot say whether this is the same. Only that it . . . echoes with similar tones.”
Marini’s fingers flipped another page—and froze.
“There,” he whispered. “This is it.”
Thomas and I crowded closer. The drawing was simple but haunting: a long, jagged spear laid over a black circle. Beneath it, the Latin inscription:
Ordo Sancti Longini: Lancea et Umbrae
“The Order of Saint Longinus,” Marini translated. “Spear of Shadow.”
He read aloud from the faded script:
Founded in the year of our Lord 1456 by a conclave of knights and clerics, the Order Sancti Longini claimed guardianship over the relic of the Lancea Longini—the spear said to have pierced the side of Christ. Though many relics bear this claim, the Order believed theirs to be true. Their devotion was rooted in secrecy. They operated apartfrom Rome, outside papal sanction, existing only in shadows, believing in the divine judgment of violence. Their enemies were many—heretics, kings, and those deemed unworthy of the Church’s grace.
He paused.
“My translation may be a bit off, but I believe the basic meaning to be correct.” Then he mumbled, almost to himself, “This annotation is dated 1483. It says the Order was declared anathema by the Holy See and excommunicated in absentia. No record exists of its members. Only . . . sightings, alleged assassinations, and cloaked figures bearing the mark of the spear.”
“And this was recorded here,” I said slowly, “centuries ago.”
Marini nodded. “Buried and forgotten, but not erased. Benedictus wrote, ‘We seal this knowledge for the safety of the soul and the preservation of peace. To know the Lancea et Umbrae is to walk with peril in one’s shadow.’”
“Could this be a resurgence? A revival of some sort? A group reliving the missions of the past in the present day?” Thomas asked. “Surely, this Order doesn’tstillexist? Hasn’t continued to exist throughout the centuries?”
Marini didn’t answer. His eyes scanned the next few pages, searching.
