The Master Constable, unmoved by the sudden presence of divine intervention, hollered at the guards to rescue the bescorpioned priest. “The rest of them,” the Master Constable said, pointing at the chapel behind them, “will be sequestered in the Chapel of the Crucifixion until morning.”
“No.” Castiglione placed himself in front of the Master Constable. He swayed slightly, and his face was flushed. All of this excitement is taking its toll, Fieschi mused.
In the cart, several guards were trying to figure out if they could use the tips of their swords to pick the scorpions off without accidentally cutting the dazed priest. One guard leaned forward, flicking a scorpion off the priest’s robe, and the flung arachnid nearly struck one of the other guards, who yelped in fear and nearly stumbled off the back of the cart.
“The Senator has decreed that we will cast our vote by morning,” Castiglione continued, oblivious to what was happening in the cart. “And while I do not condone his authority or this egregious manner in which he forces the Church, I will acquiesce to the point that God has not chosen to show His displeasure at the Senator’s demands.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Eminence?” The Master Constable asked, his attention distracted by the guards in the cart.
“We have been treated like rough animals. If the Senator wishes our obedience—however temporary—he would do well to seek it from us as men.” Castiglione pointed to the tall building—the Castel Sant’Angelo—behind the Master Constable. “Food and shelter,” he said, “that is what we require now more than prayer and incarceration. If the Senator wants us to vote, then we will only do so after a meal that we do not have to eat out of a trough, and a night of slumber on a bed that is softer than the old bones of Rome herself.”
Colonna and Capocci applauded Castiglione’s mettle immediately, with an eagerness—Fieschi noted—that masked the delight with which they had been watching the cart. The other Cardinals joined in, and the Master Constable—swiftly assessing the shift in the Cardinals’ mood—acquiesced.
After the guards managed to extricate Father Rodrigo from the cart and the Cardinals were led toward Castel Sant’Angelo and a night of more humane conditions, Fieschi tarried by the now-empty cart. A pale shape squirmed along the boards and he inspected it carefully.
The scorpion lacked a stinger.
The priest had never been in any danger. However, Fieschi mused, as he strolled after the others, that did not make the incident any less a miracle.
It was a matter of convincing the right individuals.
In the morning—an hour or so before dawn—it took two dozen of Orsini’s men to roust the Cardinals from the rooms the Master Constable had found for them. Like herding sheep back to their pen, the guards drove the Cardinals into the Chapel of the Crucifixion. Colonna and Capocci cheerfully stepped into the round chamber and took their seats; Fieschi, stiff from a night of sleep on a real bed, strode in after them and sat on the opposite side of the chamber. Rinaldo and Stefano, the two de Segni Cardinals, stumbled in next, Rinaldo still whispering to his younger cousin; while Bonaventura and Castiglione, the two candidates for the Pontiff’s chair, both appeared unsettled and vaguely disturbed by what might come to pass in the vote. Torres and Annibaldi were unruffled, especially in comparison to the younger da Capua, who had all the appearance of a spooked child.
Fieschi had spoken to him briefly in the hallway outside their rooms. A few earnest words, a bit of quoted Scripture, and a conspiratorial air was all it took to lay the seed of an idea in the younger Cardinal’s mind. What had happened the day before in the cart was a demonstration of God’s Grace—an incident that could, given a proper poetic treatment, turn into the basis of...
Of a miracle, da Capua had breathed.
In the voting chamber, there were ten chairs set up, backs against the walls, equidistant and too far apart for any prelate to communicate with any other during the voting process.
A priest followed the Cardinals in while some of them were still deciding where to sit; he carried a tray on which sat a chalice, paten, several quills, a horn of ink, and strips of paper. He set these on the altar, bowed deeply to the Cardinals, then left the room.
There was a thudding sound as a bolt slid home outside the door.
“This is much more comfortable than the Septizodium,” said Colonna, into the sudden silence. “We really must thank the Bear for this... indulgence.” His friend Capocci smiled at the ecclesiastical pun, but the other Cardinals looked uncomfortable. Some glanced around the room, staring at one another, as if seeking some kind of omniscient paternal reassurance.
“Where is our friend?” asked Capocci. “Did he survive his trial with the scorpions only to be lost to us in the night?”
“He is not a Cardinal,” said Fieschi dismissively. “He has no right to vote. I asked the Master Constable to take him to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. He is to wait for us there.”
“But is it safe for him to be wandering about the basilica on his own?” asked Annibaldi reasonably.
“It is the holiest spot outside of Jerusalem,” Fieschi said impatiently. “And there are priests, clerics, and guards everywhere. He made quite a spectacle of himself yesterday; people will keep an eye on him.” He paused, casting a glance toward da Capua. “I thought it best to keep one of God’s chosen ones close to Him.”
“Amen,” da Capua said eagerly.
Colonna glanced at Capocci, who was staring at Fieschi quietly, chewing on a strand of his long beard. “Amen,” the bearded Cardinal echoed, his voice muffled by the thick strand of beard in his mouth.
Was that not your plan? Fieschi wondered, staring back at the Cardinal. Why else would you have kept those maimed scorpions?
“Let us take a moment to pray,” said Torres, rising and walking to the altar. He held up the papers, and then with ceremonial dourness, he began to walk around the circle, and offered a wide slip of the paper to each of his fellow Cardinals. “And once we have reached our fill of prayer, let us begin.”
The church was calm and cool and everything was made of marble. The marble was beautiful, and echoed the sounds of things happening nearby, and this was comforting, for it kept the other sounds, the sounds inside his head, at bay. Rodrigo had slept poorly the previous night, the memory of the men screaming in the wagon with him haunting his nocturnal thoughts. The screaming reminded him of the horrible battle, the horrible war, the horrible soldiers, both foreign and familiar, and he did not want to be reminded of any of that. He was a poor simple priest and he wanted to be left alone to worship. He could not keep track of where he was, or in what company. But they were all gone now, locked in the smaller chapel, leaving him alone. At last.
He still had not delivered the message and he found it sulking in the back of his head, waiting for attention. He did not want to give it attention. But he could feel the message he was to deliver to the Pope, he could feel it dancing in his skull, around his brain, stamping its feet and now demanding, no longer waiting for, his attention. Distracted and almost distressed, he dragged his eyes from the vein of marble and looked around him. He was in the transept of a church, a huge and magnificent cathedral that seemed familiar but distant, as if from another lifetime.
A young priest, even younger than he himself, and so innocent looking, was walking down the center aisle.
“Where am I?” Rodrigo asked plaintively.
The priest approached him, hand held up in smiling assurance. “You are in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,” the priest said. “Saint Peter’s Basilica. I have been asked to assist you... if you need anything.”
“Saint Peter?” Rodrigo cried out. “May I see him?”
The young man hesitated, then smiled again. “Certainly, Father. His tomb is directly below the altar. Follow me, please.”
“I want to go alone,” said Rodrigo. The young man looked innocent enough, but there were spies everywhere, and he needed to speak to the Pontiff in absolutely secrecy.
“I
will show you where to descend,” the young man said and held out his hand toward the altar.
Ferenc was relieved and grateful that they had found somebody to speak Magyar with him. The soldier—Helmuth—was not a native speaker, and his accent was very thick, but to have any kind of conversation at all nourished Ferenc’s heart—even Father Rodrigo had been nearly silent through most of their harrowing journey from Mohi to Rome.
They were breaking their fast together, the soldier speaking and Ferenc listening. Perhaps it was an accident of birth, but Helmuth had a permanent sneer on his face; he radiated disdain toward the young hunter. It was clear to Ferenc that the man was judging him critically, and finding him unworthy—but of what he had no idea. He was so grateful to hear his native language spoken that he would have smiled to have abuses hurled at him.
Ocyrhoe and the other Binder woman were huddled together near them, talking quickly in words Ferenc could not follow. This bothered Ferenc, who felt protective toward Ocyrhoe, but unable to protect her. Several times during her long conversation with the woman the afternoon before, Ocyrhoe had been reduced nearly to tears, and he blamed Léna for this.
“When do we go back to the city?” Ferenc asked the man.
“We are waiting for the Cardinals,” Helmuth responded sullenly.
This made no sense. “But the Cardinals are in the city! We are going back to the Cardinals,” he protested.
Helmuth shook his head. “Not all the Cardinals. Some of them are being held as guests by His Majesty, the Emperor. They are his guests in Tivoli.”
Ferenc found this even more confusing. “He is here; why are his guests not with him?”
Helmuth grinned in a superior way. “They are in Tivoli. They are guests of the empire, not of the Emperor personally.”
Ferenc shook his head. “What does that mean, guests of the empire?”
Helmuth’s grin faded. “It means they are prisoners,” he said.
The young hunter would have given anything at that moment to turn back time, and to prevent Father Rodrigo from coming to Rome. This was a land of madness. “So all of the church’s Cardinals are being held prisoner somewhere,” he said. “Either in the Septizodium or in Tivoli. Then doesn’t your Emperor sin as much as whoever holds the Cardinals hostage in Rome?”
“It’s not that simple,” said Helmuth impatiently. “Anyhow, the Emperor is now releasing a Cardinal, who will go into Rome with you.”
“There are already plenty of Cardinals in Rome,” protested Ferenc. “What good will another Cardinal do us?”
“The Cardinals in Rome are being held hostage until they vote for a new Pope. They cannot make a choice. His Majesty hopes that if a Cardinal is allowed to join them now, that Cardinal might swing the vote one way or another.”
“And then they will be released?”
“And then they will be released.”
Ferenc mused on this. As a hunter he appreciated the use of strategy over brute force, but he had been very pleased with the notion of leading an army into the city to liberate Father Rodrigo.
“Where is Tivoli?” he asked at last.
“It is half a day’s march away,” said the soldier. “It is a well-traveled road and a carriage was sent for the Cardinal overnight, so I imagine he will arrive here soon. In the meantime, you may bathe and have fresh clothes.”
What a strange offer. “Is there something wrong with my clothes?” Ferenc asked.
Helmuth smiled condescendingly. “You are filthy, and so are your clothes. We make the offer to be hospitable and considerate. I have no time to educate you about basic human decency, so either take the offer or leave it—it is all one to me.”
Ferenc wanted to speak to Ocyrhoe, but then realized she would be even less educated on these issues than himself. It was exhausting, being the eternally ignorant outsider. “I appreciate your hospitality,” he said, restraining his true emotions, “and humbly accept your offer.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Picking Flowers
It was customary for Tegusgal—as captain of Onghwe Khan’s guards—to attend the fights in the Circus. Many of the guards went as well, both to attend to the safety of the Khan but also to participate in the furious betting. Without Tegusgal around, the guards who remained at the Mongol compound had a tendency to let their displeasure at being left behind turn to laziness, which presented an opportunity for Kim and Zug to plan somewhat openly. The Mongols were typically loath to allow any group of fighters to enjoy true seclusion in numbers greater than two, but this afternoon they—and some of the men who they had approached previously—were allowed to gather in the training yard, where the relative absence of supervision permitted them to stand about and speak. So long as they periodically made a show of moving through patterns or drills, the bored guards would not be overly suspicious.
They made for a strange assortment of mismatched and dangerous individuals, a patchwork of potential violence that would alarm Tegusgal if he were ever to see them assembled. Will it be enough? That was the worry that gnawed at Kim as he surveyed his motley band.
Madhukar’s shoulders rippled as he uttered a sound of dissatisfaction. The wrestler’s grasp of the Mongol tongue was not exceptional, but Siyavash, a Persian with a face that looked like it had been carved from marble, understood some of the big man’s native tongue. Enough to offer better translations.
“Too much waiting, Madhukar says,” Siyavash murmured. “And standing around talking like this is dangerous.”
“A little longer,” Zug murmured where he stood, leaning against a stave of white wood. The bushi was already sharper than Kim had ever seen him, his focus honed like the edge of his skull-maker and set inexorably upon the task at hand. And yet, he exuded such patience. “Unless the Rose Knight has been killed by Lakshaman.” The cheers from the arena had occasionally reached them, and judging by the ebb and flow of the noise, the fight was finished.
“We don’t know to which of the fighting orders Lakshaman’s opponent belonged,” Kim said. “’Tis better to concern ourselves with what we know, and what we can accomplish.”
“With or without him, what is your plan, Kim?” Siyavash intoned. The man’s eyes held him steadily, hungry for freedom, suspicious of hope. These men had all entertained dreams of escape once upon a time, but the relentless yoke of their imprisonment had destroyed most of those ambitions. They were prisoners, surely, but they were not broken men, not like some of the others who were so filled with bitterness and resentment that the very idea of rebellion was violently loathsome. But they were wary of being hopeful. It was a dangerous emotion, the kind that could get them killed.
And yet, here they were. Gathered in the training yard, holding wooden weapons. Listening to the impossible plan as if it were an idea with the slightest possibility of success.
“Kill the Khan,” Zug said with a jarring, blunt sobriety. “How, we are not certain. When? When the moment is right. How? That is part of why we are here.”
“We are closest to him when we fight in the arena.” Kim said, spinning a stave as though he were at his drills. “All we need to is put one of our own in the ring with one of theirs, and there will be an opportunity. If the Khan is killed, the Circus will crumble around him. Even Tegusgal cannot keep order at such a time.”
Silence hung palpably on the field between them, broken only by the rise and fall of the wind. The cheers from the arena had died down, as a wave recedes from the pounded sand. Madhukar’s face had been stoic as he listened, but now the wide mouth cracked into a broad grin that Kim suspected would have sent every child of Hünern running in terror.
“Good plan,” he said in his halting grasp of the Mongol tongue. He thumped his wooden cudgel against the ground. Kim could easily imagine a skull bursting apart beneath it.
“That is not a plan,” Siyavash said. “It is madness.” Nevertheless, Madhukar’s smile was contagious, and as much as the Persian wanted to keep himself free of the infectious gleam of hope, he
couldn’t help himself. “But I agree with Madhukar,” he said finally.
“We will have to get word to the Rose Knight,” Zug said. “Using the boys.”
“Agreed,” Kim said.
“A simple plan it is, then.” Zug said with an air of finality. “Often, those are the best. The less we must argue about information, and the more we can act with weapons in hand, the better. A word is all that will be needed, and the understanding that those who stand in the arena will not live long after they make the kill.”
There was the wild look in Zug’s eyes once more as he spoke, and Kim was reminded again that a part of his friend longed for death. Given what Zug had been through, it was difficult for Kim to begrudge him his wish. He simply hoped that the burning desire did not kill them all. One by one, the others nodded their agreement.
And like that, the planning was done. They stood in silence awhile, listening to the wind of voices that blew over their heads from the distant structure of the arena that controlled all their destinies.
“Are there many flowers today?” A nervous young voice asked. Kim turned sharply, lowering his eyes to find one of the very boys they had been speaking of looking up nervously at him. So many children came and went from the camp, conscripted to bring everything from wine to drugs, that the Mongols seldom paid attention. These children had a courage that any man worth his strength could admire.
“I would hear of the fighting first,” Kim said, kneeling down to bring himself eye level with the youth. Behind him, he could feel the attention of the others. “Who has won in the arena?”
“The red-cross knight is dead,” the boy said simply.
Kim breathed a tangible sigh of relief. It had not been Andreas in the ring, as he had feared. He looked behind him, catching Zug’s eye. “The one with the knives was wounded,” the boy continued. “But he will live.”
“The task falls to one of us then,” Zug laughed.
The Mongoliad: Book Three Page 12
