A small noise caught their attention. The edge of the heavy curtain was raised, and Hans was staring at them with bright eyes. His mouth moved, trying to summon words, and after a few feeble attempts, he gave up and launched himself out of the doorway. He impacted Andreas in a tight hug that caught the big man off guard, but he smiled awkwardly and returned the youth’s affectionate embrace. He ruffled Hans’s hair and gently disengaged the boy’s arms. “You’ve done us a great service,” he said, somewhat gruffly. “What I offer is a hard life, and is in no way proper compensation for the risks you have undertaken on our behalf, but it is all that I have to offer you.”
“You... you offer me much,” Hans said shyly, wiping his tear-stained face. “I just tell the other boys where to go, and listen to their messages when they return. They’re the ones taking all the risks...” He looked at his uncle. “I worry about what they face when I send them out, and I am ashamed that I have not gone myself.”
Andreas looked at the boy, seeing him not for the first time with fresh eyes. “Hans, when I asked you to find a way for us to communicate, I knew the dangerous task to which I was assigning you. What you feel is what I have felt—what any commander of men has felt when he has given an order that has sent one of his companions into danger. You must always remember this feeling, and use it to temper your judgment and your compassion, lest you become careless with the lives you hold in your charge. That you can do what you have done—and that you feel what you do—tells me that my order would be honored to have a boy—nay, a man like you in our ranks.” He smiled. “That is, if you would join us...”
Hans raised his eyes, and the fear seemed to ease, at least a little. The guilt remained, but Andreas knew that that would never flee. A part of him felt the same, knowing what the boy would inevitably face, if he took this path. “I won’t let you down,” Hans said after a long moment. “Now, or in the future.” His eyes grew hard and resolute. “I promise.”
Ernust pressed a palm of one hand against an eye and squinted up at the sun. “I wish you’d not begged off on a single drink today, sir,” he said in a proud voice. “I’d like to give you an entire cask. ’Tis truly a moment to celebrate.”
Laying down his mug, Andreas put a hand on the brewer’s shoulder. “I wish I could,” he chuckled. “But we’ve less pleasant business to attend to.”
Andreas was not unfamiliar with the reputation garnered by champions—he had won more than a few competitions in his time—and he had been party to the affection showered upon a victorious host as it enters a newly liberated city. But none of those experiences truly prepared him for the celebrity bestowed by the dissolute Khan’s tournament. He and his three companions had managed to slip into the outskirts of Hünern without much notice, enabling him to detour to the unmarked alley where Hans’s uncle operated his brewery. However, as they left the alley and made their way toward the arena, they were beset by a sea of wide-eyed citizens. They were shouting his name, and their hands clutched at his legs, at the hem of his cloak, at his saddle and gear. It did not seem to matter to them that he had lost to the Flower Knight at First Field; all they seemed to remember were his other bouts, the ones he could barely recall the details of. Andreas shifted uneasily in his saddle; his horse, sensing his discomfort at the press of bodies, stamped and tossed its head nervously.
The immense blossom of the Circus rose like a fungus flower from the carcass of the rotting city. Unable to do much else in the madding crowd, he examined the tumbledown structure. Its timbers had all been sourced from nearby ruins—even as far away as Legnica proper—and it was a testament to the Mongol engineers that they were able to erect such an impressive structure from such a hodgepodge of materials. It was not a particularly attractive building, yet the row of banners snapping in the wind that blew across the top of the bulbous shape and the persistent roar of voices from within stirred him in a manner not unlike the way in which a suitor is transfixed by the woman he desires.
“I never know,” Styg said quietly, “whether I should stare in awe at that thing, or be scared out of my wits.”
“Aye,” Andreas murmured in response. Death was close, infecting his body and brain with a rich reminder of life. Making him overly aware of the inherent beauty of God’s touch in the world that surrounded them.
He dug his heels into his horse’s side, urging the nervous animal through the surging crowd. If they dawdled too long, they would be late.
The most direct path was filled with spectators and adoring fans, and so Andreas directed his horse off the main road and onto the alleys and paths between the ruins and the shanties in an attempt to shake some of the crowd. Some of the lanes were so narrow that he could touch walls and tents on either side of his horse as they passed. Circuitously, the Shield-Brethren made their way toward the arena.
As they approached, the grandiose impression of the arena faded, revealing the true fragility of the structure. Wood slats and tall beams were haphazardly slapped one atop another in an intricate creation that was no more or less than barely organized chaos. It is a death trap, Andreas thought grimly. Few exits—easily sealed. It’s nothing more than kindling, waiting for a torch.
A sudden chill made him shudder, and he turned away from the looming edifice and raised his face toward the warm sun overhead. Pushing aside a vision of fire, he set his focus on the task at hand: watching the fights, learning about his opponents, and preparing for when it would be his turn to walk on the sand of the arena. Fear was only of use insofar as it taught a man what was dangerous and what was not, and Andreas had lived through worse things than one-on-one duels for the entertainment of bloodthirsty crowds. As he rode, the taste of the brewer’s beer was a balm on his tongue, still fresh on the palate of memory.
Nearby, a horn called on the morning air and an ocean of voices rose from inside the arena. Sunlight danced across ramshackle rooftops, glinting off the tiny spires of adornments and fragmented curios the locals had mounted over their heads. The city’s rooftops had a gleaming newness strangely at odds with the muck and ash that layered the ground. Hünern was a ruin where the survivors of the horrors of war made do with what they could, scrounging for hope amid the ashes, and yet there was beauty here as well. Andreas guided his horse absently while he took the time to examine the tiny efforts the people had made to make the city livable again.
When the bone-heavy weariness of his oath and his duties threatened to overwhelm him, he only had to look to these unfortunates to be reminded of why he had taken up both oath and arms. Their plight fortified his spirit, regardless of the deep-seated knowledge that there would be no end of injustice and despair in the known world from which to draw strength.
The shadow of the stands and their waving banners fell over Andreas and his companions as they reached the open ground surrounding the arena proper. He shook off the last of his apprehension, squaring his shoulders and sitting tall in his saddle. Several young men, eager to earn some pittance, approached the riders. Andreas waved them off. The horses of the Shield-Brethren would not be tended to by local boys, even ones as eager as these.
Arvid and Sakse were clearly disappointed when told they were going to stay with the horses, and Andreas tried to explain why without going into too many details. There was some history with the Livonians concerning the disposition of some horses, he told the pair. It was important to be wary of Livonians who might take it upon themselves to thieve their horses, given the opportunity that insufficiently guarded horses might present.
Styg nodded sagely during this explanation, though Andreas could tell the younger man was fighting to hold back his laughter.
Leaving the horses with the two younger men, Andreas and Styg entered the arena through one of the narrow gates. They walked through a short tunnel that terminated in a short series of steps that brought them up to the first level of the audience. As they emerged from the unpleasant dimness of the tunnel, they were afforded their first glimpse of the sandy pit that was the arena proper,
surrounded by the tall walls at whose crest began the stands in which the crowds sat.
Styg drew in a sharp breath at the sight of the filled stands, and Andreas felt a similar awe clutch his chest as he gazed upon so many different peoples clustered together for the singular purpose of watching men fight. The Colosseum in Rome had served a similar purpose once, and Andreas had heard his share of stories about the gladiators of old, but the sheer diversity of the audience here was much more worldly than the bloodthirsty crowd that gathered in Old Rome. His heart skipped a beat as he looked upon Saracens, Slavs, Germans, Franks, Mongols, Persians, Turks, and those of a number of other races he couldn’t readily identify; he saw the same rapt expression on all their faces. They were here to watch someone bleed. It would help them forget their own woes, Andreas knew; it was one of the ugly truths of the world. Steeling himself, he took a few more steps forward so that he could look down upon the killing field.
The sand had been raked, but there was still a shadow that resided in it, a ghostly smear of the blood shed in the last fight. The hint of blood in the sand had a tangible effect on the audience, and there was a pressing hunger in the air. The back of his throat constricted, and his tongue was numb in his mouth. It was not unlike battlefield nerves, but it felt so much more vile and wrong for the place and manner in which it crept into his blood.
“Remember why we have come today,” Andreas said to Styg. He swallowed heavily, pushing his revulsion back down into his stomach where it roiled angrily.
Styg pressed his lips together and gave Andreas a jerky nod. Andreas laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
CHAPTER NINE
Quoniam Fortiduo Mea
In the long, flat valley between the Palatine and the Aventine hills lay the overgrown ruins of the Circus Maximus. It had been hundreds of years since chariots had churned across the sand, and the ground had slowly been reclaimed by wild grass and narrow stands of trees. The only reminders that the ground had once been trampled by frenzied horses were a squat tower and a series of low stables at the southern end. The stables themselves were vacant of horses now, but the largest stall was filled with a confused collection of dirty and agitated Cardinals.
Fieschi remained on the periphery of the bare room. The chamber was not unlike many of the rooms they had so recently inhabited not far from here; the main difference was the large opening at the north end that looked out upon the empty expanse of the Circus Maximus.
And the guards. A line of a dozen of Orsini’s men stood between the Cardinals and the open field, just to remind them that they were still prisoners of the Senator of Rome.
The Bear was on his way, they had been told, though Fieschi surmised that the delay had more to do with Orsini playing to their fear and confusion than any real conflicting activity. What else could be more exciting in Rome this afternoon than a fire in an abandoned temple? he thought with a wry smile.
The other Cardinals milled about in the empty stable, still congratulating themselves on their narrow escapes. Bonaventura, especially, seemed particularly enlivened by the experience. His cheeks were ruddy with excitement, and he was deep in his fourth or fifth retelling of the experience of having been lifted out of the Septizodium by a brace of soldiers. Da Capua, who had heard the story at least twice already, hung on every word like an eager sycophant, and announced that he would write a ballad about the ordeal. Dei Conti, meanwhile, kept his annoyance off his face as he listened to Bonaventura’s rambling story—he had been, from what he had muttered to Fieschi earlier, standing next to Bonaventura during the rescue. Torres, inscrutable as ever, held council with Annibaldi and Castiglione, while de Segni tried—yet again—to open negotiation with the guards, who remained unmoved by the tall Cardinal’s exhortations. Colonna fussed over his friend, Capocci, who was seated as comfortably as possible in this Spartan environment.
Capocci’s hands had been badly burned, and the Master Constable had found some cloth that had been soaked in water and wrapped around them, to provide some relief from the pain while a healer was found. Colonna kept wanting to check the bandages but, realizing he was being a fussy nursemaid, would catch himself. Capocci ignored the other man’s fluttering presence, his gaze steady and unwavering.
Fieschi did not shy away from that gaze. Whenever he glanced over, Capocci’s expression was the same, and he found no reason to give the man any satisfaction. He met Capocci’s glare with a calm and untroubled expression of his own. He knows nothing, he thought. He might have seen Somercotes’s body, but he cannot know what happened. He wants to believe that I am responsible; it would fit his impression of me—a simple solution that would ease his mind.
Fieschi looked away from the wounded Cardinal, returning his attention to the line of guards and the open field beyond. His mind drifting, wondering about the races that had once been held in the valley. Thousands of citizens had once clustered around the raked sands while charioteers beat their horses bloody in an effort to gain glory for their leaders. The pagan rituals of the gods of Imperial Rome had been brutal, savage rites of a weaker age, but they had had their place in that world. It did not surprise Fieschi that a place like the Circus had fallen into disuse; Christianity was, after all, civilized. Love for Christ had brought them all out of darkness, and—with proper guidance—that love would bring them all to salvation. It was much as Augustine said: Rome loved Romulus and made him a god; the devout believed Christ to be God, and therefore loved Him.
Yet he could not help but wonder about the power of that crowd’s love. The roar of their voices, chanting and screaming the names of their champions. The orgiastic surge of delight when their man won a race. Or the tumultuous rage when a favorite son fell, his body most likely crushed beneath the wheels of another’s chariot. To control that energy, to know that these men raced for your pleasure, to soak in the emotional exultation of the crowd that had come to worship at this barbaric temple of your creation. Such power was an aphrodisiac to the Roman Emperors, surely, as it would be to any ruler. It was an earthly love, a devotion to the materials of the flesh and the world; while it felt fierce and all-consuming, it was not the same love one could have for Christ, for God.
He had, in fact, had this argument with Frederick once. Years ago, before the Holy Roman Emperor drifted from his allegiance to the Pope. Frederick, reveling too much perhaps in his delight at playing the fool, had taken the side of Imperial Rome. It was better to have the love and respect of your subjects, he had argued, than to persist in frightening them with the threat of losing the love of a Supreme Being they will never know.
He had quoted Scripture in response. Fieschi caught himself smiling at the memory. The thirty-first Psalm. Diligite Dominum, omnes sancti eius, quoniam veritatem requiret Dominus, et retribuet abundantur facientibus superbiam.
God rewards the faithful, and His rewards were abundant to the proud believer.
The Rome of Romulus was gone, sacked and pillaged as it grew too decrepit to protect itself. Rome belonged to Christ now, and he was going to make it the heavenly city that Augustine had posited.
“Ego autem in te speravi, Domine,” he whispered, lighting touching his forehead with a trembling finger. “Deus meus es tu.”
Fieschi caught sight of the mad priest, standing in the far corner of the stable like a forgotten child. He clutched a plain jar in his hands, holding it tightly as if it contained a sacred relic. Much like he had clung to his satchel when he had been first lowered into the Septizodium.
Fieschi finished making the sign of the Cross before letting his hand drift toward his satchel. He still had the priest’s parchment, the page covered with the frenzied scribbling of a heretical prophecy. For an instant, Fieschi almost felt some empathy for the deluded priest. To be so bereft of God’s love that he could be snared by the heretical vision of those words, to be so lost that he could believe that he had been the recipient of a divine visitation. To feel the Serpent’s tongue and mistake it for t
he whispering voice of an angel.
He sent a silent prayer of gratitude to God. Quoniam fortiduo mea at refugium meum es tu. His purpose was clear; his path was like a ribbon of shining white stones, laid before him.
They called him the Bear, a nickname that Rodrigo assumed was nothing more than a childish play on the Senator’s name, but when he saw the man approaching the stables, he realized how true the appellation was.
Matteo Rosso Orsini wore his hair long, in a style reminiscent of the sculpted faces of Roman Emperors that peered down at the citizen of Rome from every building and temple. His hair had lost some of its youthful luster, but it was still a rich brown color that reminded Rodrigo of the dirt in freshly plowed fields. The Senator was tall and wide, though not so tall that he was a giant among his men, nor so wide that his detractors would call him fat. The wind toyed with his hair and flung his cape about his shoulders. The light of the sun inflamed a tracery of gold thread in his tunic, making his clothes appear to be made from a wealth of golden leaves, all stitched together in a seamless pattern. When he reached the stables, he stood silently at the doors, waiting for the Cardinals to acknowledge his arrival.
Eventually, their conversations trickled to an end, though Bonaventura seemed hesitant to let go of the audience he had been enjoying.
Rodrigo had been watching Cardinal Colonna. The feud between the Colonnas and the Orsinis had been so long-standing that it was a persistent part of his memories of growing up in Rome, like the Colosseum or the ruins of the Circus Maximus. Judging by the Cardinal’s expression, nothing had been settled between their families.
The Mongoliad: Book Three Page 8
