The Mongoliad: Book Three

by Neal Stephenson

  “Look what has dragged itself out of bed,” Colonna muttered, a little too loudly in the near silence.

  “Good afternoon, your Eminences.” Orsini ignored the Cardinal’s comment, and his voice was naturally loud and commanding, rising from the barrel-like vault of his chest. “I deeply regret the occasion of our meeting. I have just come from the Septizodium, where Master Constable Alatrinus has informed me of the tragic death of Cardinal Somercotes.” He paused, his eyes on de Segni, who appeared to be on the verge of speaking. The Cardinal, who was nearly the tallest among the group (other than Cardinal Colonna, who was taller even than the Bear), squirmed under the Bear’s gaze and finally looked down at the ground.

  “There will be opportunity later for discussion as to how this tragedy came about, and I will hear all of your recriminations and accusations in time. However, this tragedy does not alter the critical task which is your duty—”

  “He would not be dead if you hadn’t imprisoned us!”

  They were all surprised at the source of the voice. Mild-tempered Castiglione, who was prone to disappear in any given gathering of the Cardinals, was flushed and animated. Spurred on by the echo of his voice in the chamber, the Cardinal strode toward Orsini, one hand raised to point dramatically at the Senator. “You will bear the mark of the Cardinal’s death, Senator,” Castiglione continued. “When your soul is released, God will reject it. You will not be afforded a place in Heaven; your soul, weighed down by your actions, will be cast into endless perdition.”

  “Is that so?” Orsini asked, raising one eyebrow. Rodrigo thought he was remarkably calm for a man who had just been condemned by a Cardinal of the Church. His own stomach was tied in a knot at the very idea of being subjugated to such an accusation, and the Bear seemed nonplussed by Castiglione’s accusatory finger. “I am wounded by your words, Your Eminence,” he said. “I fear your temper and exhaustion do you a disservice; your head is filled with words you do not mean to say. How, pray tell, do you find me responsible for Cardinal Somercotes’s untimely death? I was not in the Septizodium. I have been at my estate all afternoon. In fact, the Master Constable tells me that the halls beneath the Septizodium are still filled with fire and smoke. It would be a miracle if the Cardinal were still alive down there, but, alas, I must confess that I have no hope that such a thing is true.” He brought his hands together and bowed his head. “May God receive his soul with all alacrity.”

  The Bear’s reaction threw Castiglione, and the Cardinal’s outrage faltered for a moment. “Our imprisonment is unjust, as is your insistence that we immediately vote on a successor to the late Pope. This is a matter of the Church. We do not elect a new Bishop of Rome at your command. You serve at our—”

  “I serve Rome,” Orsini thundered. “Have you forgotten your late Pope’s concessions to the city when we allowed him to return from his inglorious exile? Have you forgotten the insults laid against the Church by that jackanape of an Emperor? Frederick wants—”

  “Neither you nor Frederick have any authority over us,” Castiglione interrupted. He stepped closer to the Senator. “God sees the willful blasphemy of your pride. He has marked how your words and actions have injured those of His flock who are close to Him. Deus iudex iustus, fortis, et patiens; numquid irascitur per singulos dies. Have care, Senator Orsini, your soul is in peril.”

  Something flickered across the Bear’s eyes—a shadow of fear, perhaps—but it fled so quickly, Rodrigo had nothing more than a fleeting impression of the Senator’s reaction. The Bear’s face was otherwise impassive as he considered the Cardinal’s heated words.

  “What would you have me do, Your Eminence?” the Bear finally asked.

  “Release us,” Castiglione snapped.

  “I cannot do that,” Orsini said, and Rodrigo heard a surprising weariness in his voice. “You have a sacred task to accomplish, and I cannot allow you to shirk that responsibility.”

  Castiglione drew himself, puffing out his chest. “We shall never cast a vote,” he replied. “One by one, we shall all die of exposure or accidents, and God will condemn you again for each of us.”

  An ugly sneer twisted Orsini’s mouth. “No,” he replied, rejecting Castiglione’s defiance. “You will vote, and you will vote tonight.” He stepped close to the Cardinal, towering over him. “By sunrise, you will have elected a new Pope.” The sneer spread across his face. “You have all had enough time to bicker amongst yourselves and select a candidate you can all live with. Let God strike me down—right now—if He thinks I am asking too much of Your Eminences.”

  Rodrigo held his breath, as did everyone else in the room. Everyone except for the hawk-faced man, Cardinal Fieschi, who seemed to be watching all of this with barely concealed delight. Orsini did not waver; he stood his ground before Castiglione and met the Cardinal’s gaze without a shred of fear in his broad features.

  A burning sensation started in Rodrigo’s belly, a bloom of fire that spread to his ribs and chest. It was the fever, assaulting him again. He clutched the jar tightly to his chest, and fell back against the wall of the stables. His teeth began to chatter. Bright lights began to spark in the corners of his vision. Was this the presence of God coming over him? Was a thunderbolt about to split the brick roof of the stables? Rodrigo shivered, unwilling to watch what came next, but unable to close his eyes or look away.

  Castiglione took a step back, and he passed a hand in front of his face, making the sign of the Cross.

  “Master Constable,” Orsini barked, his gaze unwavering.

  “Sir!” The Master Constable stepped up behind the Senator.

  “Prepare some transportation for these eminent persons. This location is hardly suitable for the task before them. They need food and shelter that more reflects their station.” He raised his shoulders slightly. “Perhaps your previous lodgings were ill-considered. I see no reason to repeat those conditions...”

  Castiglione, realizing he was being addressed, shook his head. “No,” he said. “The Lateran Palace will be fine.”

  The Master Constable bobbed his head in acknowledgment and made to leave, but the Senator stopped him with a word.

  “They go to the Basilica of Saint Peter,” Orsini corrected. Castiglione thought to argue the point, but Orsini cut him off. “You will be under my guard until morning. Unless you prefer to allow my men complete access to the Papal residence...?”

  “Saint Peter’s is fine,” Fieschi spoke up from the edge of the room. The hawk-faced man glanced at the other Cardinals. “It is one more night, my friends, and it will be more comfortable than the Septizodium. Let us not forget what it is that we are supposed to accomplish. And how little time we have left.”

  Rodrigo did not recall the particulars of the wagon ride. The soldiers procured two rickety wagons and several equally aged and withered mules readily enough. It was hardly a suitable procession, but the events of the day had taken their toll, and the Cardinals submitted meekly enough to the ignominy of a bumpy wagon ride across Rome.

  He lay against the front of the cart, still holding on to the jar given to him by Colonna, who was in the other cart with Capocci. When he turned his head to the side and peered through the uneven spaces in the slats, he could see the other wagon, but he could not tell which of the slumped shapes were either of the two men. He still felt isolated, and while such a feeling was not unusual, he felt it with newfound clarity. Some of the men he had met in the Septizodium had given him hope. Soon, he hoped, the new Pope would be elected, and then he could finally divest himself of his message.

  The wagon jumped sharply, and several of the Cardinals voiced their annoyance at the bumpy ride. The jar popped out of Rodrigo’s grip and bounced on the wooden floor of the cart. He got his hands on it quickly enough, but as he checked it, he realized the stopper had come loose.

  He sat up hurriedly, his eyes frantically scanning the wagon bed for the narrow plug. He caught sight of it on his left, near the wall of the wagon. As he reached for it, the wagon hi
t another bump, and the stopper jumped out of reach. It slid across the wooden floor, bounced against the lowest slat on the side, and then slipped through the gap. Rodrigo stared, and then whipped his head around to fixate on the jar.

  It was open! What had Colonna said was inside? Rodrigo tilted the jar up to see its contents, and as he did so, he saw with utter clarity what was going to happen next. When it happened, he was not surprised; he simply accepted the Hand of God as it reached down and jostled the cart one last time.

  The jar spun out of his hand, scattering its contents all over him. He closed his eyes, accepting the squirming offerings that God was giving to him. Scorpions.

  He remembered waking from a horrible dream while trapped underground. There had been a scorpion on him—one much smaller than the specimens that crawled all over him now—and he had wondered if it had stung him. If the return of his fever could be attributed to the poisonous sting of the tiny creature.

  There were so many more of them now. They were in his hair. One crawled across his forehead, and several more had already found their way into his robe.

  This is God’s Will, he thought, spreading his arms and accepting his destiny. He had not delivered his message; God would not let him die. Not until he had completed the task He had set for him.

  One of the Cardinals noticed the pale shapes crawling all over him and started screaming.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Khagan’s Banner

  On catching sight of the Spirit Banner, the Khagan’s warriors instinctively flocked toward it, and as he strode through the camp, Master Chucai found himself acquiring an entourage of blood-stained soldiers. At first he had waved them off, shouting at them to continue hunting for Chinese rebels who might still be skulking among the tents, but as his survey of the caravan continued, the soldiers began to show up in greater numbers.

  They knew he was going to end up at the Khagan’s ger eventually, and they wanted to be there when he arrived. They followed the banner, and Chucai’s practical examination of the damage and status of the caravan took on an air of a celebratory parade.

  Chucai ignored the soldiers. They had been ambushed by an unknown force, and had reacted well. It was still too early to make an accurate assessment of how many had been killed or the extent of the destruction to the wagons and livestock, but as far as his eye could see, it looked like the damage was minimal. A few isolated fires still burned, but most of them were tiny patches of flame that were trying to creep off into the night and were slowly being starved of readily accessible fuel.

  The Khagan’s wheeled ger had been spared, and while some of the men following him were beginning to spin tales about the Khagan’s invincibility, Chucai knew there was a more practical reason. The Khagan had not been the target of the Chinese raid. What they had wanted was the Spirit Banner.

  His thumb unconsciously strayed to the rough scab on the pole.

  He had fruitlessly searched the bodies of the three Chinese men who had tried to steal the banner. They hadn’t been wearing any insignia or common markings on their armor, and other than a short string of glass beads in the pocket of one man, they had been carrying nothing. Which in itself was interesting, and had he been less distracted by the mystery of the banner, Chucai might have wondered more where these men had come from. But they were dead and their corpses offered him no useful clue. As he roamed through the camp, he was also keeping an eye out for any prisoners—living men who could answer the question burning in his mind.

  A cheer rose from the men surrounding the Khagan’s ger, and it was answered by the host trailing behind him. Chucai grimaced, and beat the butt of the staff against the ground a few times as he slowed his relentless pace through the maze of tents. The soldiers of the Imperial Guard who had been left to watch over the Khagan had seen the Spirit Banner. Their shout was a roar of recognition, but it held an inquisitive note: Those who return, tell us of your victory!

  Chucai sighed, and using both hands, raised the banner overhead. The string of soldiers behind him cheered as he waved it back and forth. When the Imperial Guard responded with another cheer, he angled toward the Khagan’s ger, leading his ragtag column of combatants to the celebration of their victory.

  The Khagan, summoned from within his tent by the shouting, appeared at the flaps of his ger. The crowd, spotting him, began cheering even louder, and the noise became a tumult as men—wanting to be more boisterous than their voices would allow—began to beat their swords against the shields and to stomp their feet. By the time Chucai reached the base of the steps that led up to Ögedei’s ger, the noise was so loud he wondered if it could be heard in Karakorum.

  Ögedei waved at him to come up the stairs, indicating that he wanted to hold the Spirit Banner. Chucai nodded, and with some gravity, ascended a few of the steps so that he could hand over Genghis’s legacy. Ögedei, his eyes startlingly clear, reached down and gripped the banner firmly. His brow furrowed slightly when Chucai did not immediately release the staff, and with some reluctance Chucai removed his hand from the banner.

  The Khagan stood up straight and tall, raising the banner over his head. The crowd of warriors shouted in unison, their voices rising and falling in concert with the motion of Ögedei’s arm as he shook the staff with exaggerated slowness. The horsehair braids undulated, and staring up at them, Chucai saw—for a split second—the manes and tails of an endless procession of wild horses, so many of them that he could not see the ground over which they ran.

  Chucai thought of himself as an educated man, one well versed in the esoteric reaches of Chinese philosophy and mysticism, as well as the shamanistic legacy that underlay the Mongolian reverence for the Great Blue Sky. Intellectually, he knew the spirit trances that the Mongolian shamans sought for their enlightenment were—in all likelihood—a combination of wakeful dreaming and overactive imaginations, but that had never prevented a part of him from wondering about the experience of ecstatic vision. It would require more than a modicum of faith to accept. It was not a lack of spirituality; it was simply that he preferred to believe what he could see and touch.

  He fell to one knee, his hands clutching at the wooden step of the Khagan’s wheeled ger. The thundering noise of the crowd overwhelmed him, echoing in his head like the roaring sound of a flash flood as it rushed through a narrow defile. He gasped, struggling to breathe, feeling like he was a small tree that had been uprooted by this flood. He was being hurled at the foaming crest of this wave.

  Horses. Thousands and thousands and thousands of them. Running from one end of the world to the other.

  “I am the Khan of Khans,” Ögedei shouted, his voice cutting through the storm of noise. “My empire will cover the world.”

  With a great deal of difficulty, Chucai raised his head and stared up at Ögedei. The Khagan’s face was glowing with sweat, and his teeth were bared in a feral grin. A wind tugged at his hair and the horsehair braids. Wisps of smoke swirled overhead, shapes like late summer thunderheads that were pulled into long streaks stretching out across the star-dappled sky.

  The manes of horses, streaming behind them as they ran.

  Following the Khagan’s appearance, and with the rout of the Chinese raiders, most of the dignitaries and courtiers milled around for a little while before returning to their interrupted feast. A pall of smoke hung over the tents and wagons, and the air stank of scorched leather, fabric, flesh, and wood. And yet, they fall to gorging themselves again, as if nothing has happened. Master Chucai shook his head in disgust as he passed the banquet area. Having completed a tour of the sprawled camp, he was returning to the Khagan’s ger.

  An accurate assessment of the damage done by the raid and the fire would have to wait until daylight. Making an inspection of the camp had been his excuse for leaving the Khagan’s ger so soon after returning the Spirit Banner, and he had performed this duty during his perambulation. Balancing the Khagan’s desire to move swiftly with the need to provide properly for both the Khagan, his retinue, and th
e soldiers had been a tricky business, and Chucai was already making calculations in his head as to how he was going to manage the loss of supplies.

  Mostly, he had wanted to clear his head after the confusing experience of the vision.

  Where had it come from? He was exhausted, his mind dulled by the endless preparation for the Khagan’s trip, and he was more susceptible to the mental confusion produced by a powerful oratory. But the Khagan’s speech had not been very elaborate, nor terribly arousing in its content. Not the sort of rhetoric that should have been able to move him, even in his sleep-deprived state.

  He had heard the Khagan make similar speeches in the past, in fact, and while he had seen how they impacted the warriors, he had never been impressed in the same way as he had been earlier. He had been able to watch the Khagan stir up his troops with a bemused detachment, much like the way he had observed Lian manipulating Gansukh. It was a simple skill every leader—and most women, for that matter—learned instinctively, and as an educated man he was somewhat inured to such manipulation.

  And yet, he had been caught up in the fervor, like some fresh recruit eager to spill blood for the empire. An addled fool, hanging on each word.

  He paused at the foot of the wooden stairs that led up to the immense platform of the Khagan’s mobile ger. Had it been the Spirit Banner? The thought had been nagging at him during his examination of the camp. He had tried to shake it loose, but it remained, a barbed porcupine quill caught in the spongy depth of his brain.

  The Chinese had launched a foolhardy raid on the caravan in an effort to steal the banner. Given the Khan’s dramatic appearance before his men, he couldn’t dismiss the power that such a symbol as the banner had had on the warriors, but if all the Chinese had wanted to accomplish was a symbolic assault then why hadn’t they simply destroyed the banner? It would have been easy enough to throw it in any one of a number of fires that their archers had started. Why steal it?