He paused, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword as he caught sight of movement ahead of him. He relaxed as he recognized Cnán’s shape, but his curiosity was immediately piqued as he wondered what she was doing. Her posture suggested she was looking for something.
His foot dislodged a rock, which clattered noisily as it rolled, and the Binder whirled in his direction. So as to not spook her further, he raised an arm and called out a greeting. He slid down from the rocky sill and strode toward her, making no pretense at having been spying on her. “Ho, Cnán. I see you have been curious about the spire as well.”
Her face was guarded, and she was clearly wrestling with deciding how to reply, if at all.
Raphael beamed, opting to appear as nonthreatening as possible. “Do you know who Herodotus was? He was a Greek scholar, and he wrote this wonderful book called The Histories. He attempted to collate the stories of the known world into a comprehensive narrative—it is very impressive.” He knew he was babbling, but he wanted her to be at ease. “He wrote of a people known as the Arimaspoi. They had one eye in the center of their foreheads. Very warlike.”
“I am not familiar with them,” Cnán said slowly, peering at Raphael with thinly veiled unease.
“Their mortal enemies were gryphons. Do you know what a gryphon is?”
Cnán shook her head.
“It is an enormous bird that has the body of a lion and the head and wings of an eagle. Many cultures regarded it as a sacred creature, a symbol of the divine power of their gods. To adapt the gryphon as your symbol was to harness the magic of the gods, and I imagine the Arimaspoi hunted them, for their feathers among other things.”
“I have seen no feathers,” Cnán said, shifting from one leg to the other.
“Nor have I,” said Raphael sadly “Can I ask what it is you are looking for?”
His question caught Cnán off guard, and she blinked owlishly. She sighed heavily when he said nothing more, waiting for her to offer some explanation. Beckoning him to follow her, she started walking east.
Raphael followed, wisely keeping his mouth shut.
After a few minutes of walking, Cnán spotted something that was indiscernible to Raphael. She led him up to a crack in the rock face that stretched far above their heads, and Raphael was surprised to realize the crack was both wider and deeper than he had first thought. One slab of the rock overlapped the other, hiding the true depth of the crevice from casual examination. Cnán squeezed through the narrow gap, and Raphael stopped, eyeing the tight space with some trepidation. He might fit, but he wasn’t so sure he wanted to find out. Especially if he managed to force himself through and then couldn’t get back.
“I’ll be right back,” Cnán said, and before he could argue otherwise—and what would be the point of telling her to stop, really?—she slid farther into the crack and turned a corner he hadn’t realized was there. He stood beside the crack, somewhat at a loss as to what he should be doing while he waited, and just as he was starting to think he could squeeze through the gap, Cnán returned.
She slipped back out of the crack and showed him a strip of braided horsehair. It had been tied in an intricate series of double and triple knots, and he knew there was some purpose to the order of them, but he couldn’t discern it. “You found something from your kin-sisters,” he said.
“Aye,” Cnán said. “A weather report.” She tucked the horsehair braid into her a pocket of her jacket.
“Is that all?” Raphael asked.
“No,” she said tersely, but after staring at him for a moment, chewing her lower lip, she relented. “Some of us are firmly rooted in the soil of our birth. Others, like myself, travel endlessly. The ones who put down roots know everything there is to know about where they live. The wanderers know less about their destination, but they know how to get from one place to another. Spots like this one are where we leave messages for each other. Some of them”—she patted her pocket—“are as simple as notes about the weather, about local warlords and who is fighting whom in the region, or about the location of caches of food and money. Others are...”
Raphael looked at the crack once more, suddenly desirous to try to squeeze past the lip of stone. Maybe without my armor...
“Come,” Cnán said, grabbing his arm, not altogether gently. “Let us return to the camp.” She tugged him. “Even if you could squeeze through,” she said softly, “you would not be able to read any of the messages.” She pulled the horsehair braid from her pocket and waggled it in front of his face. “‘There is no snow in the gap,’” she quoted. “Can you decipher these knots?”
Raphael shook his head.
“Let it remain a mystery then,” she said. “Like your gryphons.”
After dinner, by the light of a roaring fire, Benjamin laid down a large piece of cowhide and unrolled his map of the trade routes. The company clustered around the worn palimpsest, trying to make sense of the marks and letters that had been written and rewritten over many years.
“This is the Yaik,” Benjamin explained, tracing a thin line that ran along one edge of the map. “This is Saray-Jük, not far from where we had planned to meet, but wisely, you bypassed that caravanserai and came here”—his finger traced to a small triangle—“instead.”
“The middle of nowhere,” Yasper quipped.
Benjamin smiled, and dropped his finger to the closest line on the map. “We are north of the Silk Roads, and as you can see, they tend to run much farther south. There are two, primarily. One runs north along the Tien Shan Mountains, through Urumqui and Turfan, and the other runs much farther south, beyond the Taklamakan Desert. Both take you to the heart of China, which is not where you want to go.” His finger had been moving across the map as he spoke, highlighting each of the places as he mentioned them, and when he finished, he moved his finger up into a large blank spot where, seemingly at random, he spotted and tapped the map. “Karakorum, the imperial palace of Ögedei Khan, Khagan of the Mongol Empire, is here.”
The members of the company examined the map for a few minutes, silently considering the information that Benjamin had given them.
Percival cleared his throat and leaned forward, his finger gliding across the map to a point that almost seemed to summon his finger, an X that was the result of two mountain ranges coming together. “What of this place?” he asked.
Benjamin glanced at Feronantus and Cnán briefly before he answered. “It is a pass called the Zuungar Gap,” he said.
“What do you know of this gap?” Feronantus asked.
“It’s a high pass,” Benjamin said. “A long and narrow course through the mountains. If there is, indeed, not much snow, it will be an easy route.” He traced a finger along the map. “You stay on the western side of the Tien Shan until here, cut over through the gap, and you will find yourself on the edge of a place known as the Gurbantünggüt. As deserts go, it is not as bad as some, and travel across it will be fairly easy until you reach the Altai Mountains, which are not as imposing as the Tien Shan—the Celestial Mountains—but they have other dangers.” He paused to draw breath, and he glanced at Cnán, a flicker of a smile touching his lips. “Once you have crossed those mountains, you will be on the Mongolian Plateau. From there, it is only a week or so hard ride to Karakorum.”
“Is that all?” Yasper asked.
“It is a dangerous route,” Benjamin continued, “and one I would not attempt if I was not certain about the weather.”
Feronantus looked carefully at Raphael, Percival, and then Cnán, and then spoke for all of them. “I think we are,” he said.
Percival beamed, and Raphael wanted to run away from the firelight, out in the darkness around the rock, where he could berate God and no one would hear his blasphemy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Tenebras in Lucem
Ferenc was intrigued by this Cardinal Oddone de Monferrato. His eyes seemed to be in a permanent state of gaping. Helmuth had explained to him how much this man had been through, what he had
seen and survived, especially far away from here in the little island nation of England. But to Ferenc, he looked like a deer startled by everything happening to him and around him.
They were a motley little group, returning to the city: Léna, the Cardinal, and the soldier named Helmuth; Ocyrhoe and Ferenc, in clothes much too big for them—like children dragged along on a family outing. Helmuth was there as the eyes of the Emperor, to keep Monferrato in line and in view. Léna had requested permission to go with the party, and her reasons had not been made clear to the others, but Ocyrhoe suspected she wanted to ascertain for herself what had happened to the other Binders in Rome.
Ocyrhoe looked so happy to have her company that Ferenc was actually a little jealous. His primary sense of purpose since arriving in the city was to be of use to her; now he had to share that purpose with somebody else. He noticed Ocyrhoe going out of her way to pay attention to him, to let him know that she was still glad of his company, but that struck him as condescending. He had drained his face of expression as they began their journey back toward the city walls; he stopped signing to her or even speaking to Helmuth.
He decided he did not respect Helmuth. The Holy Roman soldier had an arrogance that Ferenc did not think was justified. Not that arrogance was ever justified, but he could abide it in people who were clearly in some way superior. Helmuth was ugly and large, and seemed preoccupied with appearing as subservient as possible to Emperor Frederick. This, perversely, seemed to be the root source of his arrogance, which made no sense to Ferenc.
Léna—to Ferenc’s mind—was similarly suspect. She was standoffish, and Ocyrhoe seemed so desperate to make a good impression on her, to demonstrate that she was not foolish or inadequate. He did not like to see his friend embarrass herself this way. Even before they had departed, he had tried to warn her about Léna.
She is going to Rome to replace you, Ferenc had signed to her. You will be useless in Rome if Léna is also there.
She had given him an impatient look and waved him off. But then, about an hour later, as they approached the gates of the city, Ocyrhoe slowed down to let Helmuth and Monferrato pass her, joining Ferenc as he brought up the rear.
Hello, she signed on his arm, smiling.
Hello, he signed back, fingers lax.
Soon we will save Father Rodrigo, she signed again, heavily tapping his forearm, as if to focus his attention.
He made a doubtful face.
This Cardinal will vote and break the tie, and then they will all be released, and Father Rodrigo will be with you, she signed.
He shrugged in grudging acknowledgment.
And then what will you do? Tell me please, she signed, with an intense look.
Ferenc withheld his answering fingers. He had never stopped to think about this, not once since Mohi. Everything had been an unwelcome quest for him, from the moment of his mother’s death at the hand of the Mongols. First with Father Rodrigo to get to Rome; then with Ocyrhoe to free Father Rodrigo. The priest had never wanted anything but to get close to the Pope; surely, after all this time sequestered with the high-up Church authorities, that would be easy for him now, whoever the Pope was.
So what would Father Rodrigo do next? That would determine Ferenc’s course. Months ago he had stopped thinking about wanting anything for himself. Everyone and everything he knew and loved had died or been destroyed. He had no reason to go back, and nothing to go toward. The more he thought about this, the more it felt as if the hard dirt road beneath his feet was giving way like quicksand.
He felt tapping on his forearm and realized Ocyrhoe was trying to communicate with him. Are you all right all right all right? she kept asking.
All I know is useless, he signed back.
Ocyrhoe nodded solemnly, and he was sure she understood exactly what he meant. They ran forward to catch up with the others, but at that moment, the others stopped.
“We approach the gates,” Léna announced from the front, turning to face them. “From here we need our tracker and our native to get us to the Septizodium.”
Our turn to be in charge, Ocyrhoe signed with a small smile, and then grabbed his sleeve and pulled him forward.
Rodrigo had had no difficulty convincing his new chaperone, Brother Lucio, that there had been some mistake—he was merely supposed to be treated well and made comfortable, but not actually guarded. And so, when he explained that he dearly missed his native city and wanted the liberty to explore his old haunts, especially around the basilica, he was allowed to go, with only a young page boy, Timoteo, shadowing him.
Rodrigo remembered the city so clearly, although he was not used to approaching it from this side of the Tiber. From where he stood, a broad bridge, hundreds of strides long, led to the northwest corner of the city proper. This was the only part of the city that relied on water rather than walls to protect it.
He crossed the bridge and strode along the broad avenues. There was a vague memory of passing through here while he was feverish and wounded—how disturbingly loud and confusing everything seemed then... just a few days ago, was it? He knew where he was now, and he did not mind the bustle. He followed one road that led him almost due southeast, as Timoteo silently followed at his heels, lugging a water skin and saying nothing.
Rodrigo recognized certain buildings—merchants’ shops, this intersection, that ruined shrine... a pleasing familiarity washed over him with the soft autumn warmth of the sun.
After walking the distance of several bowshots—he was still thinking in terms of battle!—Rodrigo paused in the crowded avenue and turned to the boy. “Do you see that wall?” he asked, pointing to an entire city block hidden behind an unbroken stone barricade. Distinctive rooftops rose up beyond the wall, interspersed with thick tree tops, carefully trimmed. Timoteo nodded. “Do you know who lives there?” Rodrigo asked. The boy shook his head.
“That,” said Rodrigo, as if sharing the secret to a magic trick, “That is the home of the Orsini family. When I was a child, they were like powerful kings... in my imagination. But now I have actually met Orsini, in the flesh, and he is just a regular man like me.” Rodrigo smiled. “Perhaps even more regular. And should we move another thousand paces, along this street, on the left, we will come to an even larger and more magnificent palace. That is the home of the Colonna family. When I was your age, they too were great as kings in my estimation, and I feared them. But now I have met Cardinal Colonna, and he too is just a mortal man. In fact, he is friendlier than most men.”
Timoteo stared at Rodrigo without speaking, probably baffled as to a proper response.
“And when I was a child, everyone in Rome knew that those two families absolutely despised each other.”
“They still do, Father,” said the boy. “Everyone knows that.”
“Well then, my wise one, I will tell you something both enlightening and entertaining,” Rodrigo said, smiling beneficently. “Yesterday, I saw Cardinal Colonna and Senator Orsini in the same room, forced by circumstance to be civil. It was like watching actors in a play. I felt as if I was in the audience of a very subtle, special comedy. I thought, all those stories I heard when I was a child—and here are these two characters, acting them out, for our amusement!”
The boy smiled sheepishly. “What did they do?” he asked.
“Cardinal Colonna kept making jests at Orsini’s expense,” said Rodrigo. “It was not very Christian of him, but he was rather witty. And Orsini kept growling at him like this.” Here Rodrigo attempted to imitate the throaty rumble of a bear. The page boy grinned. “They were in front of lots of people they thought were important, and so they could do no more than that.”
Timoteo frowned. “You mean the Cardinals? Those are people who are important, aren’t they, Father?”
Rodrigo gave the boy a knowing smile. “My son, in the eyes of Heaven, we are all as little children. No one of us is more important than another. In fact, the more important we think we are, the less we stand out in the eyes of the Lord. Remember that,
if you yourself someday become a man of God.” He looked around the avenue. “We have a ways to go yet before we reach our destination.”
“What is our destination, Father?”
“I fondly remember the area around the Colosseum,” Rodrigo said. “I recall there is always a nice bustle of people. I would like to be surrounded by a bustle of people. That way, if I have something important I need to say, I have only to say it once.”
He gestured for the boy to walk along beside him. Timoteo happily followed. Rodrigo knew that the boy found him both gentle and amusing, and likely regarded him as no more eccentric than the other priests.
Rodrigo wandered on, humming old melodies, following pleasant memories, turning, turning, taking this lane, then that, looking up between the leaning, lowering buildings. An hour later he saw that the young boy was no longer with him—had somehow lagged behind and was now out of sight and earshot.
Rodrigo smiled some more. All would be well; nothing was amiss. The boy would find him again, if God willed it to be so. Father Rodrigo Bendrito was blessed in such things, for Providence was with him.
Providence, and what he carried concealed in his robes.
“What do you mean he isn’t here?” Colonna demanded of the sheepish young priest. “You were assigned to keep an eye on him. He was half dead. Where could he have gone?”
The young man lowered his eyes, looking as if he wouldn’t mind a nice straightforward crucifixion instead of a grilling from the entire College of Cardinals. “He went into the crypt, and I allowed him time alone down there. He seemed greatly recovered when he came out, and I turned him over to the care of Brother Lucio, as I was scheduled to take confessions in the chapel. I cannot account for Brother Lucio’s care of him, nor do I know where Brother Lucio himself is now.”
The Mongoliad: Book Three Page 25
