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&nbsp;Before the first blush of dawn, the villa lay in a brittle hush, the kind that always precedes disruption. Alban had slept only fitfully, each creak of the shutters, each rustle in the courtyard setting his nerves on edge. Then, like the sudden snapping of a taut cord, the sharp clang of iron on stone shattered the fragile calm.&nbsp;&nbsp;Once again,&nbsp;hooves struck the marble with a precise rhythm that carried authority, and the harsh call of a centurion pierced the chill morning air. Alban’s heart, trained in the discipline of the forum and the measured poise of a Roman citizen, did not skip a beat. Yet beneath his&nbsp;practised&nbsp;composure, a tight coil of tension wound itself through his chest. The soldiers had arrived.&nbsp;&nbsp;He rose quickly, drawing his cloak around his shoulders. The cold of early morning bit through the heavy wool, and a thin layer of frost glimmered on the flagstones of the courtyard. Alban moved with deliberate composure, each&nbsp;step measured, his gaze calm even as the air thrummed with the approach of danger.&nbsp;&nbsp;At the gate, three men&nbsp;emerged&nbsp;from the mists, their torches casting a cruel, flickering orange across the marble columns. Shadows leapt and danced in the corners of the courtyard, lengthening and shrinking like living things. The centurion’s gaze swept the villa with meticulous calculation, cold as the steel he carried at his side.&nbsp;&nbsp;“We are searching for a priest of the new sect who is said to hide in this area,” he announced, his voice hard as forged steel, reverberating through the colonnades. “By order of the Magistrate, we search every house until he is found.”&nbsp;&nbsp;Alban inclined his head, keeping his breathing slow and deliberate. “You may search again if you wish,” he replied, his voice even, carrying the calm authority of one who has nothing to hide. Yet every&nbsp;fibre&nbsp;of&nbsp;him&nbsp;was alert. He could feel the tension in the air, the taut readiness of the soldiers as they moved toward him, each footfall on the stone echoing like a drumbeat.&nbsp;&nbsp;Once more,&nbsp;the soldiers fanned out through the villa with&nbsp;greater&nbsp;mechanical precision&nbsp;than before. Boots scraped against&nbsp;marble,&nbsp;doors were flung wide, cupboards rattled, and the clatter of metal against wood rang through the corridors.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Beneath the storeroom’s stone floor,&nbsp;Amphibalus&nbsp;knelt in the darkness. The single lamp, hidden behind a false wall, threw long shadows across the walls, trembling with the faint draft that had slipped through the cracks. Every heartbeat became a prayer. Each metallic scrape of&nbsp;armour&nbsp;above him sent a shiver down his spine, and he silently thanked the gods that Alban had thought of this refuge.&nbsp;&nbsp;Alban followed the centurion as closely as propriety allowed, a&nbsp;careful observer, his expression calm. Each gesture was&nbsp;measured,&nbsp;each word chosen to convey neutrality. When a cupboard rattled, he stepped forward, inspecting it with the casual air of a man taking stock of his household. Inside were jars of olive oil, amphorae of wine, and the folded linens of his family—nothing more. Still, his pulse thrummed like a drum.&nbsp;&nbsp;At last, the centurion&nbsp;signalled&nbsp;the conclusion of the search. His dark eyes lingered on Alban, searching for any hint of deceit. “If you hear of this man,” he said finally, voice measured but heavy with expectation, “you will send word.”&nbsp;&nbsp;“I will,” Alban replied evenly, his words carrying the weight of unshakable calm. Inside, however, his mind was a storm of strategy and contingency. The patrol would return, as the emperor’s men always did, and he would need to be ready.&nbsp;&nbsp;Only when the hoofbeats faded into the waking hills did Alban unseal the hidden door. The spring-loaded latch had been lubricated with care, and it moved silently under his hand.&nbsp;Amphibalus&nbsp;emerged, the lamp catching the lines of exhaustion on his face. His cloak hung in folds dusted with the&nbsp;road’s&nbsp;residue, and faint streaks of dirt marked his brow. Yet in his eyes burned the same quiet determination that had guided him since the flight from Londinium.&nbsp;&nbsp;The first light of morning&nbsp;spilt&nbsp;across the villa walls, gilding them in fleeting gold. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sun, illuminating the&nbsp;peristyle’s&nbsp;mosaic floor. For a moment, the beauty of the day seemed at odds with the tension that had settled over the villa. But Alban knew that no light, however bright, could soften the reality of what lay ahead.&nbsp;&nbsp;He considered the choice he had made. Once a Roman noble, trained to&nbsp;observe, to record, to serve the law and&nbsp;maintain&nbsp;order,&nbsp;he had now crossed a quiet threshold. The villa had become a fortress, not merely of stone and marble, but of courage and conscience. Alban’s hands itched with the awareness of responsibility. Every step, every decision, would carry consequences—not just for him, but for those who lived under his roof.&nbsp;&nbsp;Amphibalus&nbsp;moved to the small window slit, peering at the hills beyond, where mist still clung to the valleys. “The soldiers’ eyes are everywhere,” he murmured. “Even the roads you think&nbsp;safe&nbsp;are patrolled, their ears&nbsp;listening&nbsp;for&nbsp;whispers. Your home is a beacon now, Alban. A choice you make in silence will echo far beyond these walls.”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Alban nodded. “I know.” The words were calm, but inside, his mind whirred with plans: hidden paths through the garden, secret alcoves in the baths, even the old wine cellars under the villa. The empire had power, yes, but a clever&nbsp;mind&nbsp;and a resolute heart could hold its own against even the most relentless legionaries.&nbsp;&nbsp;He watched the first birds of morning stir, their wings cutting through the pale gold sky. Life continued beyond the villa walls, indifferent to the dangers that threatened them. And yet, within this quiet refuge, two men—one fugitive, one protector—stood together, bound by choice, conscience, and the unyielding truth that some acts of defiance were greater than fear.&nbsp;&nbsp;Amphibalus&nbsp;returned to his pallet, sinking into the small comfort of the&nbsp;lamp’s&nbsp;circle. Alban lingered a moment longer, glancing once more through the peristyle at the awakening countryside. He felt the weight of history pressing down, the silent scrutiny of generations, yet he felt no hesitation. The choice was his and his alone, and it was a choice that had already defined him.&nbsp;&nbsp;As the sun rose higher, gilding the columns and turning the river to molten light, Alban allowed himself a single thought: no empire, no matter how vast, could extinguish the courage of a man determined to protect truth.&nbsp;&nbsp;Within its walls, the fugitive priest and the Roman noble who had chosen him both understood the price, and both accepted it. They had crossed the threshold from fear into action,&nbsp;and though the empire might not forgive, it could not yet undo the resolve that had taken root in that still, sunlit morning.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;

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Alban of Verulamium - Britannia's First Saint

Tedhill

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Ted Hill

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