The Mongoliad: Book Three

by Neal Stephenson

  “We want you to know,” said Colonna earnestly, “that they are all full of crap. Your Holiness.”

  Rodrigo revealed surprise, then polite amusement. “I see,” he said. “So I should not listen to them? I should listen only to the two of you, is that right?”

  “No, no,” they both replied quickly, and Capocci went on: “We have promised ourselves not to try to guide. If you ever want to ask either of us for advice, we are here, but we will never impose our will on you, overtly or covertly. We merely beg you to hold others at a similar distance.”

  Rodrigo considered this. “Is there anyone in particular whose influence I should suspect?” he asked.

  A pause. “Is Your Holiness asking for our advice?” Colonna said carefully.

  “Yes,” Rodrigo said plainly.

  “I seek only to offer guidance,” Colonna said.

  “Of course,” Rodrigo said.

  Capocci looked down at his hands, as if to extricate himself from this conversation.

  “You must be very wary of Cardinal Sinibaldo Fieschi,” Colonna said.

  After sunset, Orsini’s carriage finally managed to cross the bridge. Orsini had had second thoughts, which then twisted into third, fourth, and fifth thoughts; the two men had argued the entire way, and the less-than-cordial debate continued even as they were led through the receiving chamber.

  Orsini was still questioning Fieschi’s plan as they strode into the shadowy central hall, lined on both sides by heavy oaken doors leading to adjoining rooms, as well as entrances to other corridors.

  In one of those rooms, Fieschi knew, Father Rodrigo was being held.

  “The man has lost his senses,” Orsini said. “Most societies bar syphilitics or other diseased heirs from taking the reins of power—so too should the Church. It is a disservice to Christendom to let a simpleton be Bishop of Rome.”

  “You mean it’s a disservice to you, because you cannot control him,” Fieschi retorted. “But I can. You must trust me.”

  “Well, that’s easy to do, as you’ve proven to be such a man of your word so far,” Orsini muttered. “You will go down in the balladeers’ books as consistent, reliable Fieschi.”

  “I will go down in the chronicles of the ages as effective, efficient Fieschi,” the Cardinal corrected. “Or rather, I will not go down in the chronicles at all. I am so effective as to be invisible. Where is the priest? Po—Father Rodrigo?” he demanded of a waiting servant, a willowy ostiarius who hovered near the interior door.

  The slender man bowed. “He is in the room the Cardinals put aside for him when he was carried... when he returned from the Colosseum. He is holding an audience with two of the Cardinals.”

  “Take me there,” Fieschi ordered.

  “Both of us,” Orsini amended.

  Fieschi looked askance at him. “This is my realm, Senator Orsini, not yours. Civil authority has no place here. I thank you for the use of your carriage, but you may return it to your palace now.”

  Orsini’s face darkened to sunset purple. “Do not ever talk to me that way.”

  Fieschi smiled coldly. “Do you see how upset you have just become? So very easily? You have just displayed the very reason I will not have you come with me to see him. I require absolute and total calm to get and keep his attention. Anger and suspicion? He will sense them with the fine-tuned perception of a madman. Stay away from him until I tell you that he’s fit for you. And that you are fit for him.”

  “If you were capable of swordplay I’d throw a gauntlet at your feet this moment,” Orsini said between clenched teeth. “But you, oh, elevated prelate, you would never condescend to something as barbaric as fencing. You just strangle and burn your victims.”

  If he said it to cause trouble for Fieschi in front of the help, he was not successful. Fieschi’s face stayed absolutely calm; in fact, he glanced at the ostiarius with an expression of conspiratorial condescension as if to say, Such a shame these laymen are so misguided. The ostiarius—knowing well who his true master was—then shot Orsini a subtly disapproving look.

  “Come, then,” Fieschi said to the Vatican doorkeeper, who gestured toward a small door nearby. As they began to cross the hall, Orsini followed, deliberately close to the Cardinal. “Senator, you are not invited,” Fieschi said without looking back at him.

  “Inform the Cardinal I will enter,” Orsini directed the ostiarius.

  The slender porter seemed to shrink a little at this contretemps. “My sincere apologies, Senator Orsini, but the Cardinal is correct that ecclesiastical law holds here. His word outweighs yours. If he does not wish you in the chamber, you may not enter.”

  “It’s for your own good, friend Bear,” Fieschi said, still not looking at him.

  “Very well then,” Orsini said, the words almost strangling him. “I shall wait just outside.”

  They were nearly at the door, which opened suddenly. Colonna and Capocci exited, closing the oak door quietly behind them. Not noticing the newcomers in the dim light, the two men paused to confer.

  “That did not go at all as I expected,” Capocci said heartily. “But I must say I am not displeased.”

  “Agreed,” Colonna said. “He’ll change the course of history, but I think he’ll do it quietly.”

  Fieschi released a groan of annoyance. Capocci started and stared at him, then at Orsini, several paces off.

  “The two of you have already gotten your claws into him?” Fieschi demanded, in the tone of a chastising parent.

  Colonna and Capocci recovered quickly. “Claws?” said Colonna, the venerable uncle. “Are you suggesting that we have just come from unduly influencing the man who is to be our next Pope?”

  “Tried,” Capocci corrected. “That we have tried to unduly influence the man.”

  “Yes, of course,” Colonna corrected himself. “Tried. How could we possibly corrupt a man as pure and uncorruptable as that one?”

  “I don’t think such a thing is possible,” Capocci agreed.

  “Enough!” Orsini snapped. “You two make a mockery of your offices.”

  Capocci regarded the Senator with an unruffled expression. “I have suffered recently for my office, Senator Orsini,” he said quietly, all traces of humor gone from his voice. “While I do not tempt God as readily as you—”

  “Why are you not with the other Cardinals?” Fieschi interrupted coldly.

  “They are over in the Castel Sant’Angelo,” Colonna answered. “Poring over codices and scrolls that various clerks and acolytes have found for them. They are not convinced we should go forward installing Father Rodrigo as Saint Peter’s heir. Of course they are mistaken, for he has been duly elected, and we were all witness to it.”

  “This is all most irregular,” Orsini said uncomfortably, his voice hollow in the long, dark hall.

  Colonna gave him a murderous look. “Not half as irregular as what we were subjected to in the Septizodium,” he said. “Senator, you are out of place here, and I strongly recommend you escape back to your side of the Tiber.”

  “He’s leaving now,” Fieschi said firmly, as Orsini prepared to add his own imprecations. “Aren’t you, Senator?”

  “I have come to pay my respects to the new Pope,” Orsini said brusquely, but he turned this way and that, indecisive, uncomfortable—very like an embarrassed youth.

  Colonna sneered. “You have no respects to pay,” he growled, his tone withering, his voice like a lion’s. The doors seemed to hum and flex along the hall. He advanced toward Orsini, hands balled into fists. “You, Senator, are a man without respect. You have no power here. Leave immediately or I shall ask several of our larger priests to haul you out bodily, like the sack of manure you are, and dump you into the river.”

  Orsini glared at Colonna, but did not move.

  The tall Cardinal inclined his head a fraction. “Good evening, Senator,” he said, his brusque tone making it clear the conversation was over.

  Orsini blinked, and with a snarl creasing his lips, he spun on h
is heel and stalked out of the hall.

  Fieschi watched the Senator go, briefly admiring Colonna’s brash dismissal of him. “If you two are finished attempting to coerce the priest—” he started.

  “His Holiness,” Capocci corrected.

  Fieschi waved a hand to indicate how little he cared about such niceties. “May I have a word with him?” he asked. “Or are you going to threaten me like you did the Senator?”

  Colonna glanced at Capocci. “Did I threaten the Senator?” he asked.

  Capocci shrugged. “That felt more like a warning than a threat.”

  “That is what I thought too,” Colonna said.

  Fieschi was unmoved by their banter. “A word,” he said, “or two. With the Pope.”

  “By all means,” Colonna said with a welcoming wave, as if he had not just made Fieschi repeat himself. “Have at him. We’ve left some food, and we can send in wine if you are going to have more than two words with him.”

  “I can have someone else bring wine,” Fieschi said, refusing to be ruffled by Colonna, “should that be necessary.”

  “Very well,” Colonna said with a nod. “Come, Rainiero,” he said to Capocci. “Let us leave this dreary place and take a stroll in the evening air.”

  “Yes,” Capocci agreed. “We should take advantage of our newly restored liberty.”

  The two Cardinals took their leave and Fieschi did not stay in the hall to watch them depart. They had wasted enough of his time already. He ran a hand down the front of his robe, using the motion to calm his annoyance, and then he opened the door and stepped into the room.

  The priest was sitting quietly at a small table, nibbling at several plates of food the two Cardinals had left behind. He looked up as Fieschi entered the room. His gaze was unfocused, and he stared at Fieschi for a long moment as he did not recognize the Cardinal.

  No, Fieschi realized, he looks at me as if he does not wish to recognize me.

  “Good evening,” Fieschi said, his voice caring and sympathetic. “It has been a rather exciting day. You must be quite overwhelmed by all that is happening around you.

  Father Rodrigo shrugged. “I was overwhelmed by some guards when I was speaking to my people,” he said. “Other than that, I find most things here are manageable. And I find it quite agreeable to be Pope.”

  Fieschi paused, caught off guard by the priest’s candor. “Are you aware that some of my fellow Cardinals are opposed to your becoming Pope?” he asked cautiously.

  “I do feel compassion for their concern, but their strife is of their own making, is it not?” Father Rodrigo said evenly. “They elected me, did they not?”

  “They are trying very hard to un-elect you,” Fieschi said. “It would behoove you to have a champion in this matter.”

  “Why?” Father Rodrigo asked, showing little concern. “Do I not already have a champion?”

  “Oh, dear God, please don’t listen to Colonna or Capocci,” Fieschi said. “Surely you have seen for yourself what mischief they can get up to.”

  “I have also seen for myself what mischief you get up to, Cardinal,” Father Rodrigo said, his voice finally taking on a bit of bite. “Anyway, I was not referring to them. I was referring to our Lord. Does He not extend His grace to me upon my election?”

  Fieschi gaped. “You are still quite mad, aren’t you?”

  Father Rodrigo thought for a moment before answering, “If I say no, you’ll say that is proof of my delusions, and what does that gain you? But if I say yes—acknowledging my own madness—does that not imply that you knowingly elected a madman to be your supreme Pontiff? I fear neither answer is very useful to you, my son.”

  Fieschi swallowed several times, trying to clear a sudden obstruction in his throat. Where had this rhetorical skill come from? Previously, the man had appeared to be little more than an addled parish priest. “I have come to you this evening to offer my assistance,” he said, forcing aside his rage. “I had the honor of being a valued servant and confidant of your predecessor, Gregory IX. I humbly offer my services likewise to you.”

  “Thank you,” Father Rodrigo said. “If I am ever in need of a jurist or an orator, I will keep you in mind. Otherwise, I cannot imagine you and I will have much to discuss.” He returned his attention to the plates.

  Fieschi bristled. How dare he be so dismissive? “This is—”

  Father Rodrigo raised a single finger, and Fieschi was struck dumb by the subtle command of the motion as well as an utter disregard for the differences between their respective stations. “Until the College of Cardinals reconvenes to unelect me, I believe the correct way to address me is ‘Your Holiness.’”

  Fieschi felt the blood drain from his face. “Your—, Your—” he spluttered, unable to use the honorific.

  “Yes?” Father Rodrigo said after a pause. “Would you like to take confession, my son? I don’t know if, as Pope, I am supposed to hear confession. Perhaps you could ask one of your fellow Cardinals. Do you suppose Cardinal Somercotes is busy?”

  Fieschi stiffened, his previous awkwardness vanishing. “What are you up to?” he snapped. This is all a joke arranged by those two fools, he thought. “Whose tool are you?” he sneered.

  “The Lord’s,” Father Rodrigo replied calmly. “Whose tool, my son, are you?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The Horse and the Cart

  Dietrich had to run. If he paused to consider his flight from the abandoned Shield-Brethren chapter house, Tegusgal’s Mongol archers would end his life. Was that not justification enough for his actions? To flee meant to live. His brothers-in-arms had not fled at Schaulen, and they had died. Was that not the ultimate lesson the Fratres Militiae Christi Livoniae should have taken from that morning at the river crossing? Outnumbered, overwhelmed, and caught in the open: the enemy had surprised them. Retreating so as to find better ground, to face the Samogitian rabble another day, was an expedient solution. A practical one.

  But his predecessor, Volquin, had stood his ground. Lithuanian light cavalry, much more nimble in the swampy lowlands around the river, had shattered the main body of the order’s cavalry, and as the Livonian Heermeister had tried to rally his men into an effective wedge against the approaching infantry, he had been struck by an errant spear. Before he could regain his footing in the muck, the pagan foot soldiers clashed with his men. Volquin was struck again and again, beaten by sword and club until his armor split. Until the river turned red with his blood and the blood of his faithful.

  Dietrich von Grüningen was not Volquin. Nor did he aspire to be. He simply wanted to live.

  His horse wanted to dally as it approached the verge of the forest, and Dietrich beat his heels against its barrel, drumming his desire mercilessly into the reluctant animal beneath him. An arrow whistled past his right ear, burying itself into the knobby trunk of an oak instead of the back of his head. He mentally cursed his hubris for not wearing a helm, and his shoulders tightened instinctively as if they could collapse in on themselves and make his body a smaller target. He ducked lower across his horse’s neck as the first branches of the forest whipped by, and he heard the desultory thunk thunk of arrows striking the trees around him.

  He missed the first curve of the path, his horse plunging into the undergrowth. He cursed as the unruly branches of the oak trees clawed at him. Holding the reins tight in one hand, he struggled with the clasp of his cloak before a branch snagged it. Such an ignoble death: to be pulled off his horse by a tree branch. His horse, grunting and snorting, blundered through a tangle of ferns and spindly shrubs—leaves and branches alike slashing and whipping at the animal’s flanks.

  A heavy bough loomed, and Dietrich threw himself flat against his horse’s back. His cloak went tight against his throat, and he clenched his neck muscles. Digging his fingers between the tight fabric and his neck, he felt it tear and the pressure against his neck vanished. Gasping, he sat up and looked back. His abandoned cloak hung from the thick branch, a ghostly shadow of the man he on
ce was.

  His horse stumbled across the path, and he jerked its head to keep it from blundering into the undergrowth again. His horse was bigger than the Mongol steeds, and while keeping to the forest made him a harder target, he couldn’t move as fast.

  Was he only delaying the inevitable? Once he broke free of the woods, there was nothing but open land between him and Hünern. Could he outrun the Mongols? And then what? Run back to the Livonian compound like a wounded animal and cower in the shadows of the wrecked barn? He couldn’t imagine his men—especially Kristaps!—cowering with him.

  As he weighed his choices, his mount reached the narrow gap he and the Mongol party had recently used to enter the forest. His horse leaped through the slot between the trees, leaving the forest behind, and he blinked heavily in the sudden light. The sun had passed its zenith and was starting its long tumble toward the horizon. It hung in the western sky, God’s dazzling eye, and he felt himself being pulled toward it. There were a few hours of daylight left. The ruins of Legnica lay to the west. Could he find somewhere else to hide until nightfall?

  He turned in his saddle, blinking away the radiance of yellow and white spots that suffused his vision. The forest shook behind him, the trees seeming to caper and dance in his wake. A rank of many-armed monsters, gesticulating wildly so as to frighten him away. He swiped at the tears clouding his sight, and noticed the arrow caught in the links of his chausson.

  The practice of war often relied upon both patience and deception, and the exercise of the latter invariably relied upon a concerted use of the former. Every year the encroachment of winter froze his hands a little more—the numbness in his fingers, the tingling in his joints, the constant ache in his wrists. The only real practice Rutger got anymore was in exercising his patience.

  For many years he had trained in the yard with the younger men, and occasionally he had been called to be their oplo. But more often than not, he was simply one of the experienced swordsmen whom the trainer called upon when he needed to make an example of a student’s failure to properly follow the lesson. For Rutger, since the teeth of winter had started gnawing away at his joints, holding his sword poorly was something he had gotten very good at.