The Mongoliad: Book Three

by Neal Stephenson

  From the guard towers above him, his archers began to loose arrows into the front rank. He could only spare a few men for archery duty, and the six men he had chosen were known for their speed and accuracy. He couldn’t match the Mongols for numbers, but he could make each arrow count. As the Mongols charged, each arrow dropped its target, befouling the charging men who came after. In this way the Mongol line, instead of being a heavy wave that crashed over them, became a ragged and chaotic crowd, with men jostling one another as they tried to close the holes in their ranks.

  The Shield-Brethren line stood firm, a waiting wall of sharp steel.

  Rutger was consciously aware of the first man, a Mongol with yellow beads strung in his hair. He thrust his spear at Rutger, and Rutger sidestepped the attack, moving inside and driving his sword into the man’s open mouth. The Mongol with the yellow beads died, and that was the last man Rutger remembered as the bulk of the Mongol charge slammed into the Shield-Brethren line. His world became a chaotic blur—filled with spear points and curved swords, men shouting and screaming, and the distant awareness of his own arm, rising and falling.

  He saw Knútr fall, run through by two spears, an arrow jutting from his right shoulder. Another brother went down, the front of his helmet cleaved by a Mongol sword. Rutger could not tell which of his men it was, and he felt a momentary spasm of regret as the press of bodies surged over the fallen knight. The Mongols kept coming, slowly forcing the Shield-Brethren back.

  Rutger’s maille saved him from a sword stroke to his left side that nonetheless sent ripples of pain through his body. He clamped his arm down, trapping the blade against his body, and wrenched it out of his attacker’s hand. He buried a hand’s worth of blade into the man’s befuddled face.

  That was when he heard the shouts, not from in front of him, but from behind. “Clear the way!”

  Rutger grasped the shoulder of the man next to him and shoved him violently against the inside wall of the gate. The desperate move saved both of them as a thunder of horses stormed past. He caught sight of a moving banner of white and silver, the riders all dressed in gleaming white surcoats. The host of horsemen struck the Mongols like a battering ram, splintering them into a disorganized mob. Those who weren’t trampled outright fled before the onslaught of the freshly arrived knights.

  As the tide of battle turned, one of the knights fought his way back to the gate. His sword was drenched with blood, and it matched the image stitched proudly across his blood-stained surcoat. The crimson sword. Above it was an equally red cross.

  The sigil of the Fratres Militiae Christi Livoniae. The Sword Brothers.

  The knight cleared his sword of blood, sheathed it, and pushed his helm up. Rutger stared in anger at the face revealed—the face of the man who brutally butchered one of their own in the Khan’s arena.

  These were not the reinforcements he had expected.

  When Heermeister Dietrich did not return from his fool’s errand, Kristaps had taken charge of the Livonian host in Hünern. He sent a quartet of men to investigate the Heermeister’s absence on the off chance that Dietrich had only been delayed, and the rest he set to dismantling their camp. Regardless of the success or failure of the Heermeister’s audience with the dissolute Khan, it was time to leave Hünern. The riots following his fight in the arena had upset the delicate balance in the tent city.

  It was all an illusion anyway. The Mongols were wolves, and they looked upon the West as an unguarded flock of wooly sheep. Kristaps had seen the handiwork of the Mongol Empire in Kiev; he knew of its rapacious appetite. The West ran around in circles, bleating in foolish ignorance. They had been seduced by the Khan’s facile lure of martial combat, thinking that a single victory in the arena would save them.

  He had shown them otherwise, hadn’t he? The death of one of the Shield-Brethren had brought their tenuous truce to a bloody end. And now they saw the true nature of the wolves from the East. Now they knew they had no choice but to fight.

  Yet, Dietrich wanted to run away. The coward.

  As his men loaded their horses, taking way too long to accomplish such a simple thing as striking camp, his scouts returned. They found Dietrich’s bodyguards, dead in the streets, and of the Heermeister there was no sign.

  It wasn’t hard to figure out what had happened.

  Regardless of his disappointment in Dietrich’s leadership, the Heermeister’s disappearance provided a useful incentive to the remaining Livonians. It was better if Dietrich was dead and not captured, as the murder of the Heermeister was an insult that could not be ignored. Kristaps was the First Sword of Fellin, a legend within the Livonian Order. He had survived the battle of Schaulen, and he had slain one of the famed Shield-Brethren in single combat. When he addressed the Livonians in a voice that quaked with rage, they listened.

  Kristaps was tired of running, tired of hiding in the marshes and the forests. He wore the white, not the black, and the sword on his surcoat was red. Why was the sword in his hand not that same color? Why was it always sheathed when there were so many enemies of God close at hand? Why were the Sword Brothers not fighting for the glory of God?

  The men had raised their voices in response to his questions. They too wanted glory. They wanted to scatter their enemies. They wanted to save the West. It was not difficult to whip them into a frenzy. The Sword Brothers would not sit idly by as their Heermeister was tortured and killed by unclean heathens. They would not flee; they would fight.

  Kristaps’s plan was neither complicated nor subtle. They knew the location of the enemy camp. They would ride into the heart of it and claim reprisal for the crimes inflicted both upon their order and upon Christendom. They would show the West that the Shield-Brethren were not the only order capable of demolishing the enemies of God.

  The ride through the city had been exhilarating, and when they found the gate of the Mongol compound wide open, Kristaps had not hesitated to give the order to charge. Galloping through the gate and scattering the Mongol host clustered there had been nearly as cathartic as cleaving the Shield-Brethren knight’s corpse in the arena. The motion of his sword about him as Kristaps rode was a rhythmic expulsion of his frustration. He laid about him with powerful strokes, cleaving helms and severing arms, venting all of his anger. His horse, goaded into a frenzy by his fury, ferociously trampled the wounded and dying. This was his true purpose, that for which God had given him his strength. That the Shield-Brethren had failed long ago to harness it was a sign of their foolishness, of their weakness.

  He broke them, these strange-faced killers from a far-off land, who fancied themselves conquerors and subjugators. He shattered them, rode them down, and trampled them into a bloody paste in the dirt where they fell. It was only when the Mongols were fleeing the field that he pulled himself free of the blood fury and took stock of the circumstances he and his Livonian brothers had altered.

  The gate had been open when his host had arrived, and the Mongols had been engaged with a small force guarding it. Men wearing Western armor.

  He pulled his horse away from the fighting and returned to the gate. Pushing up his visor, he examined the puny force that had been holding the gate. They wore the Red Rose.

  One of the Shield-Brethren detached himself from the group and Kristaps marked his face. Kristaps recognized him from the stands at the arena. He had been the one holding the young one back. The other Shield-Brethren stared at him with faces clotted with anger and suspicion, like dogs staring at a master from whom they received only kicks and curses.

  He chuckled as he shook his blade, freeing it of cloying blood. He was going to enjoy what came next.

  Rutger became acutely aware that he was holding Andreas’s sword, and part of his mind clamored for him to raise it against the man who had killed Andreas. He held his ground, though, knowing such an assault was exactly what the mounted Livonian wanted.

  Andreas’s killer sat astride his horse with the demeanor of a king—untouchable and in absolute control of his surround
ings—a tiny smile on his face. His blue eyes were so cold their gaze seemed to knife right through Rutger’s maille, more readily than any Mongol sword. He wore maille with solid steel upon his shoulders, his surcoat soaked with Mongol blood. He carried a shield upon his left arm; his single-handed sword, having been cleared of blood, was back in its scabbard, and strapped to his saddle was the great two-handed sword he had used to kill Andreas. He sat utterly still, like a cat watching his terrified prey.

  He won’t give me the satisfaction, Rutger realized. The Livonian’s rage was clear in his bright blue eyes, but there was also an unmistakable intelligence. Whatever hatred he bore for the Shield-Brethren, he kept it in tight control. Now is not the right time. Rutger lowered his sword and carefully walked toward the waiting knight.

  When they were close enough that shouting was not needed, the blue-eyed knight spoke. “Your men owe me their lives,” he said in an offhand way.

  “We owe you nothing,” Rutger spat.

  The Livonian looked around the blood-spattered field. “My men broke their advance. They would have overwhelmed you otherwise.”

  “We did not call for your support,” Rutger said.

  “We came, nonetheless,” the Livonian smiled.

  “This does not assuage you of the blood debt between us,” Rutger said.

  The blue-eyed knight laughed. His posture was relaxed, unperturbed, as if this were a casual training-yard discussion taking place rather than words exchanged hastily in the midst of a battlefield. “Of course not, old man. I would be disappointed otherwise.” He gestured, drawing Rutger’s attention to his scattered riders. “You will not claim it today, Virgin-defender. There is much still not done here.”

  “Where is your master?” Rutger demanded.

  The knight leaned forward. “I would ask the same of you. Where has Feronantus gone? Why do I not see that old war hound here today?”

  In a flash, Rutger finally recognized the Livonian knight. It had been many years since he had seen the other man, and he had been so much younger. “You,” he gasped. “I know you.”

  The Livonian laughed again. “Do you remember me now?” He pulled his helm down, hiding his face from Rutger’s accusatory gaze. He drew his sword, causing Rutger to take a step back in alarm.

  “I kill only Mongols today, old man. My men will follow my lead. Pray to God that your fellow Brethren follow yours.”

  “Kristaps,” Rutger spat. “This isn’t finished.”

  “No,” Kristaps replied. “It is far from over.” He spurred his horse away from Rutger, returning to the assembling host of his bloodied men.

  Rutger shuddered, his hands aching fiercely. He shouted over his shoulder, summoning the surviving Shield-Brethren. As much as he yearned for it to be otherwise, he knew Kristaps was right.

  Old feuds would have to wait. There was other killing to be done first.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  The Second Vote

  After Ocyrhoe told the Senator and the Cardinal about sending Ferenc and Father Rodrigo to the Porta Flamina—and the subsequent flurry of activity as Orsini had ordered his guards to scout the roads and countryside around Porta Flamina—she and Léna were left alone again in the small room that had once been Father Rodrigo’s room. The Castel Sant’Angelo was being thoroughly searched as well, she knew, on the off chance that everything said so far was a lie.

  “I understand why they want me,” Ocyrhoe said after listening awhile to the distant sound of guards stomping around in the hallways. “I abetted fugitives. But you had nothing to do with it. You should be allowed to go back to Frederick.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until I learn what has happened to the Binders of Rome,” Léna said. “That requires me to spend some time with Senator Orsini.”

  “You aren’t safe with him,” Ocyrhoe pointed out with a note of alarm.

  Léna smiled at her. “Our sisters have gone missing. The Senator knows what has happened to them. How could I not try to learn the truth?”

  Ocyrhoe shuddered. “I do not want to be alone with him.”

  “You’re a child; you’re not even fully trained,” Léna said. “That you survived the Senator’s efforts to this point is almost miraculous. Fear is natural, Ocyrhoe; it is guilt which you must not succumb to.”

  “I could have done more,” Ocyrhoe mumbled, embarrassed that Léna had so clearly seen the source of her fear.

  “In any crisis, survivors will always berate themselves that they could have done more,” Léna said, almost to herself. She blinked and then her sharp focus returned to Ocyrhoe. “I should get you out of Rome,” she said, almost as if to herself.

  “Where would I go?” Ocyrhoe demanded, alarmed. “The farthest I’ve ever gone outside the city walls was the Emperor’s camp two days ago! I’d rather stay here with you and face Orsini.”

  “Do not take offense at this, child, but you would only be a hindrance to me,” Léna said. “If you want to be of assistance to me, put yourself as far away from here as possible,” she said with a firm but reassuring tone.

  “Why?” Ocyrhoe asked.

  “As long as you stay here, you can be used against me,” Léna said. “In much the same way that I can be used to bind you. Do you not see how Orsini has kept you here? You fear you cannot leave because of your missing sisters, but what have you done to rescue them? Can you do anything? How does this inaction serve them, or you, or me?”

  “But I’m their prisoner here, I can’t just leave,” Ocyrhoe said. “And I have nowhere to go outside the city, I have no experience in the wilderness, I don’t know how to get food, I’ll have nowhere to sleep...” A terrifying vulnerability brought her to the brink of panic and made it hard for her to think straight enough even to form words. “What do I do? How can I survive, let alone as a Binder? Is there someone you can send me to? Is there someplace I should go to? Will Frederick take me back with him to some other city where they still have Binders who can teach me? What about—”

  “Calm yourself!” Léna said, raising her voice.

  Ocyrhoe pressed her lips shut and looked up at her with frightened eyes.

  “Thank you.” The elder Binder crossed the room with the energy of a captive tiger running out of patience with its captors. “I cannot answer any of those questions. You may certainly go back to Frederick’s camp, since it is easy to find, but I would not suggest you stay there long.”

  “Can’t you come back with me?” Ocyrhoe nearly begged. “Isn’t he expecting you? Aren’t you bound to serve him?”

  “Not constantly,” Léna retorted. “I am not his Binder, I am a Binder who works with him. I have, in fact, worked with the Church too. The previous Pope, Gregory IX, found me useful from time to time. If I do not return to Frederick’s camp by the time they return to Germany, he will simply leave without me. He knows I will wend my way back toward his court as opportunity arises.”

  “Well then...” Ocyrhoe was trying very hard not to sound like a frightened child, but that was difficult as she felt, at that moment, exactly like a frightened child. “Could you not go back to the camp with me, just long enough to ask him to take me with him, and then you could come back here to face off with the Bear?”

  Léna looked at her. Just looked. Said nothing. Did not send her any mental images or feelings. Ocyrhoe met the gaze, hoping at first that something promising would come of it. Nothing did. Ocyrhoe was left with her own fear and longing, and she understood what Léna was telling her: “It is up to me alone to find my place in the world now,” she said, very much hating this truth.

  Léna’s expression softened. “You have been learning how to do that for awhile now, and you have done very well.”

  “I have had my city to protect me. Outside those walls I will be as exposed as a black fly on a white wall.”

  Léna gave her a sympathetic smile. “Have greater faith in your ability.”

  “It is a moot point anyhow, since I have no means of leaving,” Ocyrhoe pointed out. Sud
denly, captivity seemed comforting.

  “You will find, in your life as a Binder,” Léna assured her, “that what you need will be offered to you, in unexpected ways and times. I do not know how you will come to leave the city, but I am confident you will. And soon.”

  Orsini had gone back to his palace in disgust. He had made it very clear what he thought of Fieschi’s comportment during the recent events. It had taken every atom of restraint Fieschi had to remain composed throughout the diatribe.

  The entire Vatican compound was in hysterics over the absence of the unanointed Pope. Liberated from the Bear’s oppressive blustering, Fieschi now found himself saddled with the equally irritating presence of his fellow Cardinals. They had collected together in the round chapel where the vote had first been cast. After agreeing upon this as a meeting place, they seemed unable to agree on anything else at all.

  “I’m relieved for the fellow Bendrito,” Annibaldi said.

  “I would do the same thing in his position,” Capocci said in agreement. “We gave him a dreadful job, and he did not want it. He has abandoned the throne of Saint Peter.”

  Fieschi regarded Capocci warily, trying to ascertain the bearded Cardinal’s mind-set. His allegiances can be as tangled as his beard, he thought.

  “Perhaps, the word you mean to use is abdicated,” Colonna provided.

  Capocci shrugged, idly chewing on a strand of his beard, as if he couldn’t be bothered with the minutia of language.

  “Regardless,” Bonaventura added, sensing an opportunity, “we should thank him for having made such a difficult decision so quickly and with such firmness of purpose.”

  “We are without a Pope once again?” de Segni asked, sounding weary.