Rome, 452 AD
The dust of the Forum was chalky on his tongue. Enki, now an aging Greek secretary named Leo, stood in the shadow of the crumbling Rostra. He was there to witness not a senator's speech, but a baptism.
King Theodoric the Great, a Goth who had sacked cities and now wore a purple-edged toga, stood in a massive silver basin. The water was not from a humble river, but scented with rose oil. The bishop performing the rite was Leo the Great, Bishop of Rome, who had just negotiated Attila the Hun's withdrawal without a sword being drawn. Power now flowed through the word, not just the legions.
As the Latin liturgy echoed, Theodoric's eyes were not closed in devotion. They scanned the crowd of Roman nobles, calculating the political value of this conversion. This was not a heart unlocked; it was a throne legitimized. A transaction.
But Enki saw the deeper, more insidious transaction that had made this moment possible. It was the culmination of a slow surrender. The Church, once a subversive community of the heart, had first made itself a fortress—defining itself by the legal authority of Bishops and the unbroken chain of Apostolic Succession. To enter, you now had to go through the gatekeeper.
Then, to fill the vast halls of that fortress, it had made itself familiar. It had offered the pagan masses a key they already knew—the veneration of images and saints, a comfortable echo of their household gods. It had broken the second commandment at its core, building the very "Cage of Faith" it was meant to destroy. The words from the mountain, which Enki had heard thrumming in the very fabric of creation, now seemed a distant whisper:
"You shall not make for yourself a carved image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. You shall not bow down to them or serve them..." (Exodus 20:4-5)
They had made the formless Spirit manageable, visible, and safe, bowing not to the Creator, but to the creation of their own hands.
And now, standing in the Forum, Enki witnessed the final, logical step. Having become a fortress and a familiar temple, the Church was now ready to become a throne. The key, once meant to open the door to a personal God, had been set in gold, placed on a chain of office, and was now being used to unlock earthly power.
Later, in the Lateran Palace, Enki was transcribing a decree. He watched as Bishop Leo, a man of immense intellect and will, began to use a new title in his correspondence. A title that made Enki's blood run cold, a title that belonged to the high priests of the old, dead empire: Pontifex Maximus. The Supreme Bridge-Builder.
Scrapbook Entry: "The path was laid brick by brick. First, the authority of the Bishop became the lock on the door. Then, they broke the Second Commandment, making an image the key the world already held. Now, in the Forum, the key has become a scepter. They have built a fortress, furnished it with forbidden idols, and crowned a king. The fisherman from Galilee would not recognize his net. The bridge is no longer to God, but to power."