Brother Albertus had taught him a prayer. Te quaeso Domine mî illumina conscientiam meam splendore luminis tui. To call upon God to illuminate him with his light so that he would remember what he had seen and heard. Adorna animam meum ut audiendo audiam et audita memoriter teneam.
Bless me, God, so that I may remember.
And he did. He remembered all of it, as clearly as if he was experiencing it for the first time. Was this God’s love? Or, by invoking those names that Brother Albertus had taught him, had he transgressed against the glory of God? Algaros, Theomiros.... The names of angels, according to Brother Albertus, aspects of God that would fill him with the celestial majesty.
He had tried to forget. After covering and burying the dead, he had knelt in prayer before the hearth where the woman had been killed. He had asked God to undo all that had been done to him. He did not want to remember anymore. He wanted to open his eyes and be innocent again.
But God never answered his prayer. His knees aching, the wound in his abdomen slowly weeping down his side, he had refused to quit praying. He would pray until God heard him, or until his soul went to God directly. He wouldn’t stop.
And then the angels had come. First, they were nothing more than beams of light, streaming through the holes in the rough walls of the house. They came swirling and combining into a winged figure that floated over the hearth.
Aperi mititissime animam meam. Mercifully open the dullness of my soul...
Rodrigo clenched Colonna’s earthenware jar tight to this chest. Our secrets, he thought, imagining a great door closing over the part of his memory that refused to fade.
A clatter of metal and the chatter of voices drew him away from that memory and cast him into another. Soldiers, wearing purple and white, were coming toward him and the smoking hole of the secret entrance of the Septizodium. Rodrigo saw them coming, but he also saw—with equal clarity—a sweltering afternoon in a marketplace. Ferenc was there, riding beside him, and there was a girl too. Behind them. Watching them. He had seen her again. Where? In the darkness of the dragon’s belly, before it had been woken from its slumber. Like a tiny bird that had been swallowed, she had fluttered down into their prison. She had brought him something... the ring! Archbishop Csák’s signet ring.
“Father Rodrigo.”
He started, blinking heavily. His vision blurred, swimming with too many distinct images, too many layers overlapping. Eventually, cleared away by a minute wash of tears, all that remained was the concerned faces of Cardinal Colonna and another man whom he recognized but did not know. “Yes?” he said.
Colonna indicated the other man. “This is Master Constable Alatrinus.” His voice was flat. “He and his men are here to ensure our safety...”
The Master Constable nodded. “Please, Father. Let my men escort you.”
“Where?” Rodrigo managed. He was still clenching the jar, and he lowered his arms, though he did not relinquish his burden. He caught sight of a ring on his right thumb, and he stared at the ornate band. The Archbishop had been a large man, much heavier and taller than Rodrigo, and his hands had been enormous.
But that wasn’t why he stared at the ring. He stared because he had no memory of putting it there.
“A safe distance,” the Master Constable said. He put a hand on Rodrigo’s shoulder and squeezed slightly, misinterpreting the priest’s confusion as being caused by inhaling too much smoke.
One of the guards called for the Master Constable’s attention, and the hand disappeared from Rodrigo’s shoulder. Someone else was coming out of the tunnel, a soot-blackened apparition with white hair.
“It’s Capocci,” Colonna breathed with a sigh of relief.
Confusion grew as more guards arrived, overfilling the narrow terminus of the alley. The Master Constable shoved his way through the crowd to Capocci’s side as the white-bearded Cardinal sank to the ground. Rodrigo could not hear the Cardinal’s response to the Master Constable’s question, but the answer was plain to read on the latter’s face as he stood.
“Find out how many they’re pulling out of the courtyard,” he said to one of his men. “Tell them I have three. Get an accurate count.” The man nodded, and brushing past Colonna and Rodrigo, he ran to deliver his message.
As several other soldiers knelt to help Capocci to his feet, the Master Constable gingerly approached the smoking mouth of the tunnel entrance. Was he going to go in? Rodrigo felt a shout rising in his throat; he wanted to warn the Master Constable. How could the man not see that no one could still be alive in there?
“Ho!” the Master Constable shouted. “Is anyone there?”
Rodrigo choked on his words as something moved in the darkness of the door. The Master Constable jumped back, startled by the sudden appearance of a figure. What had he summoned with his words?
A man staggered out of the tunnel, his face and clothes streaked with soot. He fell to the ground at the Master Constable’s feet, gasping for air. With a shaky hand, he grabbed at the soldier’s boot, clutching the leather like a drowning man grabbing a piece of driftwood.
Rodrigo stared, and as the man raised his face, he remembered something else: the last time he had seen Somercotes alive, they had been interrupted by a visitor, who had taken Somercotes away. The hawk-faced man. This man on the ground before him.
Cardinal Fieschi.
CHAPTER THREE
Chinese Fire
To Haakon, the only difference between the previous few weeks and this last week was the pace at which the caravan traveled. Since they had arrived at the capital city of the Mongol Empire—Karakorum, he could pronounce it better now—little had changed for him and the other men who had survived the rough journey across the steppes, and within a day or so it had become apparent that Karakorum was not to be their final destination. He had watched, with great fascination, the preparations that had gone on for the departure of the Khagan. He had even caught a fleeting glimpse of the man himself shortly before the caravan had departed once again. This time, however, the pace of the wagons was indolent in comparison, and there was little reason to wedge himself between the bars of the cage in order to minimize the buffeting and shaking he received from the hard track. The rocking motion of the cart reminded him of the gentle motion of the longboats at sea—a motion that was as familiar to every Northern boy as the warm embrace of his own mother. Throughout the day, he had dozed numerous times.
As a result, Haakon had been awake when the attack had started.
Raphael, one of the well-traveled Shield-Brethren he had met at the chapter house outside of Legnica, would—when properly coaxed by the others—tell stories to the trainees. Like Feronantus, he was prone to being short and gruff with the young men, but when he spoke of other places and other times, he became bewitchingly eloquent. Raphael had spoken of the siege of Córdoba, and he had likened the bombardment of fiery arrows and flaming balls of pitch to the sun being shattered by the angry fist of God. You could not flee from such a disaster, he told them, you could only stand witness as the sky was blotted out by fiery rain. If one of those shards of the sun was meant for you, then that was your fate.
When Haakon saw the tiny lights rise from the horizon, he thought of them more as a flight of startled birds than as falling pieces of the sun, but he watched them nonetheless, no less fascinated. As the arrows fell on the camp, the stillness of the night was disturbed by the rushing thrum they made through the air. The burning arrows scattered throughout the sea of tents and wagons, and each one, as it landed, became a flickering beacon that called out to its companions. Within the camp, Haakon could hear the rising commotion of the Mongolian response: voices shouting orders to protect the Khagan, screams of pain, and cries of bewilderment. The entire camp was not unlike an anthill that had been poked with a stick. At first, it would be a writhing, chaotic mass; but then, an organization would emerge. Some of the ants would start attacking the stick; others would fall to rebuilding the nest, or carrying the food and the young to safety.
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Haakon watched as another wave of fire arrows took flight. They rose and fell, spreading themselves throughout an area closer to the cages. One thwacked into the ground not far from him, and Haakon stared at the burning strip of cloth wrapped around the shaft of the arrow.
Krasniy, the red-haired giant who was squeezed into his own cage nearby, hissed at Haakon. When he saw that he had the young man’s attention, the giant hunched his back, finding a better position within the confinement of his prison, and jerked a thumb at the roof of his cage. He strained, muscles standing out in his thick neck, as he tried to snap the heavy cords that bound the roof to the bars. Haakon watched Krasniy for a moment, and then returned his attention to the fires and chaos around them. No one seemed to be paying much attention; for the moment, the giant could try to escape.
Krasniy let out a huge rush of air, a noisy exhalation that bordered on a cry of frustration and despair. Haakon didn’t have to look to know what the sound meant. The cage was stronger than it looked. Or the giant was weaker than he had thought. The cords held.
Haakon wedged his shoulder against the bars of his cage, and stretched his arm as far as he could manage. The arrow was just out of reach, and the flames licked at the tips of his fingers. Another inch or so. That was all he needed. He pressed his feet against the floor of the cage, trying to gain a little more leverage, trying to squeeze a little more of his arm through the bars. The flames danced merrily, capering in delight at his efforts. He opened his hand wider, ignoring the searing pain that followed, and wrapped several fingers around the arrow. With a gasp, he shoved himself away from the bars, closing his hand into a fist.
He rolled over, twisting his wrist so that the arrow fit through the bars. He threw it to the floor of his cage and beat at it rapidly with both hands. Slapping hard to put out the flame, to not feel the pain as the fire fought back.
The orange flames flickered and vanished, leaving only a thin strand of white smoke and a stinging pain in his palms. Gingerly, he picked up the arrow. The fire had devoured the cloth that had been wrapped around the shaft, and the shaft itself was charred enough that he thought it would break if he flexed it at all. But that wasn’t what he was interested in.
It was a heavy war arrow, and the metal arrowhead was hot to the touch. Its edge was still sharp.
He snapped the head and a few inches of wood off the charred shaft, and shifted around in his cage until he was closer to Krasniy’s cage. The giant was watching him, and when Haakon tossed the arrowhead over to his cage, he grinned at the young Northerner.
Just as Krasniy was twisting himself in his cage to get at the ropes, a group of Mongol warriors sprinted out of the line of ger. Krasniy froze, but the men were not interested in what the prisoners were doing. As quickly as they appeared, they were gone, and both of the prisoners relaxed. Krasniy stared at the piece of arrow in his hands—it appeared almost like a child’s toy in his thick fingers—and then he shook his head.
Haakon nodded. When the attack had first started, the confusion had seemed like a perfect opportunity for them to try to escape, but the chaos also meant guards could wander by at any time. It would take time to saw through the ropes, and without knowing they would be undisturbed, it would be a risk. As frustrating as it was, it was better to wait.
Cradling his hand in his lap, Haakon arranged himself as comfortably as he could in his cage. In the weeks he had had to watch his captors, there had been almost no opportunities to see them in combat. He had learned a great deal by watching how they rode their horses, how they organized their patrols, and the type of armor and weapons they carried, but he hadn’t actually seen them fight.
The flights of flaming arrows had stopped, and Haakon suspected this meant the attackers were launching their ground offensive. The rain of fire was meant to disorient and confuse the Khagan’s men, a tactic that would reduce their effectiveness. Perhaps this meant the attackers did not have so many numbers that they were going to overwhelm the camp. While it was likely that most of the fighting would happen near the perimeter of the camp, Haakon sat near the bars of his cage and watched. He saw men and women running about in a chaotic effort to put out fires, and occasionally he would spot the glint of firelight off steel as armed warriors moved through the ger, intent on finding invaders.
Stories of Feronantus’s insight into battlefield tactics were told and retold among the initiates at Týrshammar, and here was an opportunity for Haakon to observe—to learn something of his enemy that might be useful knowledge. Yet he could see so very little.
As he strained to get a better glimpse of the fighting, he wondered if there was any leader in the West that could command such willing sacrifice—not just from his soldiers, but from all of his subjects. Soldiers would fight to protect their lord—that was their commission, after all—but civilians, for the most part, suffered whatever rule was impressed upon them. Some kings did manage to instill some devotion in their subjects, and the landed nobility might be inclined to take up arms for their ruler out of a similar devotion, but the wholesale fixation of a people on their leader on the scale that was the Mongol Empire dwarfed any kingdom Haakon had ever heard of in the West. Not even the Pope enjoyed this kind of fervor from his flock.
The Mongolian devotion to their Khagan was... daunting.
But he does have enemies, Haakon thought. He could hear men fighting. He flexed his singed fingers, wishing he had a real weapon.
Munokhoi paid little attention to the wild faces that rushed at him from the gloom. The night was filled with twisting strands of smoke, which disgorged screaming Chinese men at random intervals. Some of them had weapons—swords and spears he brushed aside like seed pods floating on a breeze—and others were wide-mouthed phantoms that he silenced with a quick thrust of his blood-drenched sword. They came and went, and their deaths were but tiny sparks that vanished instantly in the raging fire of his bloodlust.
He wanted the Chinese fire thrower.
He had seen its fiery exhalation a moment ago, a spurt of purple flame that had appeared like a tear in the night. The men fighting near him had been knocked down, and when he raised his right arm, he felt jagged jolts of pain run down his side. Tiny bits of metal hissed and steamed in his armor, and his elbow gleamed with fresh blood. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. Not now.
He was so close.
There were two of them—Chinese alchemists—hunched together like two whores tittering to one another. One held a tiny covered lantern that let slip tiny shards of firelight; the other was frantically trying to wipe down a long misshapen tube. There were a number of pots and satchels scattered around them, the cumbersome tools of the nefarious device.
With a shout, Munokhoi dashed toward them. The one carrying the lantern looked up, and light from his lantern glinted off Munokhoi’s upraised sword. He brought his arm down, felt the blade bite into flesh, and then he yanked the sword toward him, pulling the Chinese man off balance.
The first alchemist dropped the lantern, and its cover was knocked askew. The other alchemist froze, the whites of his eyes glowing in the dim light.
Munokhoi twisted his blade and pulled it free. The first alchemist made a wet coughing sound, and fell to his knees, vainly trying to stem the steady stream of blood coming from a mortal wound in his neck. Munokhoi kicked him out of the way, and pointed his dripping blade at the second alchemist.
“Show me how it works,” Munokhoi snapped, speaking Chinese.
The alchemist shook his head, trying to pretend he didn’t understand Munokhoi’s words. The tube in his hands looked like a piece of swollen bamboo, though it was made from iron; one end was dark with soot. The alchemist’s hands were stained black as well, and he was missing two fingers from his left hand.
Munokhoi flicked the point of his sword, letting it ring off the tube, and then he flicked it up. The man jerked his head back, but not quickly enough, and the sword point opened up a line on his cheek from which blood immediately started to well.
“Show me,” Munokhoi said again, all trace of humor gone from his voice.
His body shaking, the Chinese alchemist lowered himself to his knees and started to comply. Munokhoi watched closely as the man loaded the ingredients from the pouches and pots into the mouth of the tube, trying to keep them straight in his mind. A thick plug with a thin tail went first, the tail emerging from the back side of the tube. Then, two handfuls of black powder. Shards of metal went next, and Munokhoi felt the muscles in his side and lower back twitch as he heard them rattle into the dark mouth of the weapon. He knew that when he had his wounds examined later, similar pieces of ragged metal would be found embedded in his armor and skin. Last was another piece of flat metal, almost like a cap, that the Chinese man lowered carefully so that it filled the mouth of the barrel before sliding in.
Munokhoi nodded, his tongue flicking over his dry lips. Yes, he could remember that sequence. Eagerly, he gestured with his empty hand for the Chinese alchemist to give him the loaded weapon, and to his surprise, the man flung the tube directly at his face.
Caught off guard, Munokhoi reared back instead of intercepting the clumsily hurled missile. He found his pulse racing at the thought that the weapon was going to explode in his face, but the tube struck him in the chest—nothing more than an inert, heavy object—and then fell to the ground.
The Chinese alchemist was gone, having taken that split-second opportunity to flee.
Munokhoi stared into the night for a moment, idly rubbing his chest where the weapon had hit him, and then he retrieved the tube from the ground. Peering at it carefully, he decided it was unharmed. The man had distracted him with it long enough to make his own escape, and Munokhoi couldn’t help but chuckle at the man’s well-timed cowardice.
The Mongoliad: Book Three Page 3
