“Must we go through another round of voting?” Gil Torres nearly wailed.
“I am here,” Monferrato offered, eyes wide as always. “I was sent to break the tie.”
“We cannot vote for another Pope while we currently have a living one,” Fieschi argued, with less vehemence than he was feeling. While he had doubts about his ability to control Father Rodrigo—even if they could find the fellow—Fieschi was also doubtful he could control the outcome of a new vote. At best, Father Rodrigo was still his best chance of keeping the Church on the right path. The confusion of the election, the fire in the Septizodium, what he had done for God in those subterranean halls: all of these things were feeding a growing insecurity, a bleakness born of all these doubts. A bleakness he could not afford to let control him.
“We don’t know that he is living,” Colonna said. “There is no way to prove that.”
“We also don’t know that he is dead,” Fieschi retorted. “Nor is there any way to prove that.”
Capocci’s eyes shifted back and forth a moment, and Fieschi found himself dreading what crazy idea was about to sprout from that man’s head. “Yes there is!” Capocci suddenly shouted. The various muttered arguments and conversations in the room hushed, and his ten fellows turned to him.
“Listen to me,” he said. “We can engineer a solution. That there is a new Pope is known by all of Rome—we have burned the straw, they have seen the white smoke, and news travels fast. Every baron in Christendom has some spy or messenger in the city, waiting to hear the news so that they may return home. We cannot pretend we do not have a Pope. However, nobody has any idea what he looks like. Nobody outside the Vatican compound even knows his name. Now, couple that with the following observation: if we disregard Father Rodrigo’s existence, and take another vote right now, we’ll have a stalemate, even with our eminent new brother joining us”—and here he gestured toward Monferrato–“we would have a stalemate now, and a week from now, and probably a month from now. And during that day or week or month, the whole world thinks we have a Pope, and wants to hear from him. So we must give them a Pope—immediately.” He looked around the room with anticipation, as if he were seeking somebody who could guess what his next words would be and shout them out like an eager student. Nobody did. Not even Colonna. “Therefore,” he prompted. “We present them with a Pope, so that we do not look like a group of incompetent idiots, we anoint this Pope as if he were the one we voted in, we enthrone him—and then, right away, we kill him.”
With a flourishing gesture, he leaned back on his heels and smiled at them all.
“What?” Bonaventura demanded, horrified, into the stunned silence that followed.
Capocci stared at them as if he could not imagine why they were all so shocked. Then his face lit up. “Ah!” he said, still buoyant. “My mind was working faster than my mouth. What I mean is: we pretend that somebody in this room has been elected Pope. We go through all the motions of crowning that man, with the understanding—shared by all of us, but not to be told to another living soul, not even our most faithful servants—that within a fortnight, the pseudo-Pope disappears forever, and we claim that he has died.”
The shocked silence remained, but now the Cardinals were all exchanging glances rather than staring slack-jawed at Capocci. Even Fieschi held his tongue, waiting to see how his peers would react. The idea was ludicrous, but in its insanity was a very narrow path out of the current disaster.
“We’d need to have a body,” Colonna said at length, an implicit acknowledgment that he was willing to entertain the plan.
“There are bodies enough in Roman morgues,” Capocci said.
“What happens to the man who volunteers to do this thing?” da Capua asked. He too seemed cautiously interested now.
“I think that’s up to him,” Capocci said. “It is an enormous service he will be performing, saving the appearance of our integrity. We have no actual integrity—I think we have demonstrated that quite thoroughly by now—but the appearance of it will be deeply comforting to our flocks. It is almost a kind of martyrdom. If I were such a man, I would ask for a bucket of gold and a nice quiet hermitage in which to spend my days in happy anonymity.”
“Nobody in this room would consider such an absurdity,” de Segni snorted. “Every man here is brimful of ambition or he would not have become a Cardinal.”
“That’s true enough,” said Gil Torres. “But as the senior-most Cardinal alive, I can tell you that ambition wanes as surely as it waxes. I would not put myself forward for the sacrifice, but I can imagine it might be attractive—to the right man.”
“What about the priest?” Torres asked. “The one who is already Pope?”
“Ah,” Capocci said, “this is the clever bit. If we do this quickly enough and we all swear that it be true, then Father Rodrigo’s claim simply becomes the spurious ravings of a country fool. He’s just a pretender to the position, and if he’s insane enough to insist that a conspiracy has been perpetrated...”
Fieschi had to admit there was a certain elegance to the solution. Perhaps it wasn’t a matter of controlling the next Pope, but simply leaving the position vacant. He had been able to accomplish quite a bit during the sede vacante—including turning the bullheaded Senator to his side. The Cardinals would scatter soon after a successful vote, leaving Rome to him. During the time it took to recall all the Cardinals—including the ones that Frederick had managed to intercept—he would have ample time to fully dominate Rome.
And after Rome, what next? Sicily?
Fieschi smiled. The doubts would fall away, readily enough.
“Would my fellow Cardinals be willing to consider this?” Capocci asked. “Shall we at least entertain it for discussion?”
“How about a show of hands?” Colonna suggested.
“Wait a moment,” Castiglione said. “Seven of us voted for Father Rodrigo. We caused this strange catastrophe, and so it should fall to one of the seven to make this sacrifice.” The dei Conti cousins and Bonaventura—the only three who did not vote for Father Rodrigo—all visibly relaxed, while the half dozen others eyed each other nervously. “But of all those seven,” Castiglione continued, “The one who bears the greatest shame for writing down Father Rodrigo’s name is me. I wrote his name because I did not want to be elected. The stress of these past few months, and most of all these past few days, forced me to look honestly at my own ambition, to use Cardinal de Segni’s term. The rest who voted for Father Rodrigo did so for reasons of their own, but I am sure they were sound ones. I, however, voted for him to shirk my own duty, and so the burden of guilt for all of this falls upon my shoulders more than on any other’s. I volunteer to be the Pope who dies.”
There were gasps of amazement from around the room. “This is a feint!” Bonaventura shouted above the din. “You will take power and threaten us all with blackmail if we try to remove you!”
“Of course I won’t,” said Castiglione. “If I had that kind of ambition, Cardinal Bonaventura, I would not have voted for Father Rodrigo, and then we would not be in this ridiculous position. Furthermore, if I volunteer to do this and then seize the office for real, I am sure Orsini will dispatch me very quickly.”
The Senator could certainly be called upon to do what was necessary, Fieschi thought, and a tiny smile tugged at his lips. “Well,” he said dryly. “That sounds very convincing. How about the rest of you?”
The narrow path lay open before him. Yes, let them choose this man, he thought, that will work out just fine.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Mongol-a-Mongol
Shortly after the hunting party left the confines of the valley, it ascended a narrow ridge, and Ögedei reined in his horse to admire the view. The valley was a long indentation that ran east to west, as if Tengri himself had reached down and dug a trough through the verdant forests that blanketed the lower slopes of Burqan-qaldun. The air was clear and crisp, and Ögedei could see the tiny shapes of his subjects moving among the colorful m
ushroom shapes of the ger.
I will build a palace, he decided, caught up in the crystalline clarity of the moment. I will have all the materials brought here. No trees will be cut down. No rocks moved. It will stay pristine—just the way it is today. He stared at his ger and fixed its position in his mind. The palace would be built in the exact same spot.
“My Khan?” Namkhai’s broad face was impassive, but there was the barest hint of a question in his voice.
“I am admiring the view, Namkhai,” Ögedei said. “Is it not a magnificent day?”
“It is, my Khan.”
“A man could accomplish anything he desired on a day like today, could he not?”
“He could, my Khan.” Namkhai’s stony mien cracked slightly, allowing a brief smile to escape.
“And there would be no reason to rush, would there? A man’s destiny will wait for him, yes?”
“It never arrives before he does, my Khan.”
Ögedei laughed. “A wrestler and a philosopher. You are filled with surprises, Namkhai. Once I have slain the bear, will you compose a song in my honor?”
“I regret not, my Khan.”
He is fearless, Ögedei thought. He does not shirk from telling me the truth, even though it might displease me. He glanced over his shoulder, taking in the rest of the hunting party, and his gaze lingered on Alchiq and Gansukh. Would that I had a tumen of men like him, there would be no stopping the Mongol Empire. He casually laid his hand on the shaft of the Spirit Banner, the tall pole stuck into a leather boot attached to his saddle. In his mind, he saw a sea of horses spanning from horizon to horizon, their manes flowing like waves. His hand tightened on the banner as the horsehair tassels whispered gently in the slight breeze.
By midafternoon, the hunting party had ascended into the forest that lay heavily about the shoulders of the mountain. Sunlight trickled in solid streams through the branches of the trees, and swarms of golden motes danced in the radiance. The hunting master and his dogs ranged in front of the main party, keeping company with the trio of Darkhat scouts. Chucai and Namkhai flanked Ögedei, and the remainder of the Torguud followed them in a clump. The other scouts were arranged in wide arcs on either side. There had been no sign of the bear yet, but Ögedei wasn’t terribly concerned.
His mount’s steady gait echoed throughout his body, knocking loose memories that had lain covered for many years. He had forgotten the pleasure of the hunt—his senses awake and marveling at the proliferation of details that his mind, taut like a bowstring, was readily processing. He was ready, quivering like one of the hunting master’s hounds, waiting for some sign of his quarry.
“It has been too long,” Ögedei remarked to Chucai. “I should hunt like this more often. Too much time has passed, and this,” he poked his stout belly, “has grown too large.”
“You are still a better hunter than most,” said Chucai, perfectly composed upon his black steed. “I, for one, have not hunted since before your father elevated me to my position at court.”
“Father!” Ögedei laughed jovially. “No one could match my father. I remember a time when he provided for the entire army. A buck, each and every night. He hunted alone and always brought one back.”
“Bashkiria, my Khan,” Chucai said. “Yes, I recall that campaign. There was more food than we could possibly eat. I gorged myself on venison on more than one occasion.”
“Life was simpler then, wasn’t it?” Ögedei said. “When we got hungry, we would hunt; when we were tired, we slept; when we wanted something...” He sighed and his hand idly patted his belly again.
“The empire has grown mighty, my Khan,” Chucai said silkily. “It has done so under your guidance, and many are thankful every day. The spirits are pleased with your efforts.”
Ögedei stretched in the saddle, working out the tension that had settled in the middle of his back from the ride. “The spirits stir slowly in this disused body,” he said.
Chucai hesitated, and then swallowed his words with a quiet “mmm.” He turned his attention to the forest around them, taking particular note of the lichens that mottled the bark of many trees.
Ögedei considered insisting that Master Chucai reveal what was on his mind, but the Khagan could guess what words had been repressed. He knew he was rotund and out of shape, just as he knew where he had hidden a pair of wineskins in his saddlebags. Chucai would speak in the obsequious language of the court for only so long before his tongue would get the better of him, and in this case, he would be speaking the truth. All he had to do was stretch out his right hand, dig around in the saddlebag on that side of his horse, and he could lay his hand on that disappointment. He hadn’t been able to abandon his thirst entirely. His strength of will had improved immeasurably, but it was still nothing more than a newborn babe. Easily smothered.
There was too much silence in the air for the Khagan’s comfort, and he turned to Namkhai and said, by way of changing the subject, “Have you ever brought down a beast as mighty as this?”
Namkhai shook his head. “The great bear is going to be a mighty challenge, my Khan,” he said. “Arrows alone might not be enough to penetrate its hide.”
“The dogs will weary it.” Ögedei waved a hand in the direction of the snapping pack who yearned to be freed of their yokes. “When they are done, when they have blooded it, then it will be my turn.”
“It may take down one of our hunters before then,” said Namkhai. “A wounded beast is dangerous. Perhaps we could set a trap for it with spears. Harass it until we can drive it into impaling itself.”
Ögedei shook his head. “Where is the honor in that?”
Namkhai looked at him with heavily lidded eyes and only shrugged.
“Harass it, bleed it even, if that allows us to trap it, but I must kill it. That is what the spirits want. I must deliver the killing blow so that I can take in its spirit. How else will the spirit of the Great Bear know who it must fill?
Namkhai shook his head. “You have a great challenge before you, O Great Khagan,” he said. “May the Blue Wolf favor you.”
Ögedei felt his blood surge in his ears, a sudden pounding as his heart beat more heavily in his chest. Just like Chucai, he thought wildly, he doubts that I can do it. His hands tightened on his reins, and he felt his neck muscles tense in preparation of the shout that was beginning to swell from his belly. With a great deal of difficulty, he swallowed his ire. He has no faith, he realized, and instead of letting his anger out, he shoved it back down, deep into his belly. I will show him. I will show them all.
In his mind, he could see himself wrestling with the bear, armed only with a curved sword. Towering on its hind legs, foam flecking its enormous jaws, it raged and snarled at him. He stabbed it, over and over, ignoring its ineffective swipes at his armor with its giant paws. It tried to pin him, tried to bite his throat with its sharp teeth, but he plunged his sword deep within that open mouth, ramming the blade back and up and into the bear’s brain.
Let them doubt me, Ögedei thought. I can—I will—do this.
On the last stroke, his hand had been steady. He did not waver. He did not hesitate.
Gansukh rode on the right rear flank of the hunting party, his eyes scanning the forest. A beast as old and venerated as the Darkhat spoke of would have terrorized this area for so long that it would make little effort to hide itself. He watched the groupings of smaller saplings for signs that some of them had been rudely forced aside. He read the patterns on the bark, looking for the white scars left by claws being sharpened. Would it hide its kills? Gansukh doubted so, and he kept an eye out for the carrion birds that would circle around the rotting carcasses of the bear’s prey, picking at the dead until there was nothing left.
He also kept watch for Munokhoi. The ex–Torguud captain was not part of the hunting party. He had carefully examined every face of the forty-plus men the Khagan had brought with him. Nor had he expected that Munokhoi would have joined the group. Too many of the men would have noticed the ostra
cized ex-captain’s presence and said something. No, Munokhoi was in the woods, though he did not know how close.
As the hunting party made its way through the woods, Gansukh drifted farther and farther away from the main host. If Munokhoi was trailing them, waiting for an opportunity, then it would be best if he was out of sight of the Khagan’s host. Offering himself as bait.
Sometimes the easiest way to catch a predator was to pretend to be prey.
As the morning wore on, he found his vigilance flagging. There were too many shadows under the trees. Hunting in the woods was much more tiring than hunting on the steppes.
His horse shifted its gait, dancing around the moss-covered hump of an old log, and Gansukh squirmed in his saddle. He was no stranger to riding long distances with a full bladder, but that didn’t make the experience any less uncomfortable. He had pissed from saddleback often enough, but it was easiest when he could look ahead and see that his horse wouldn’t need to change its gait. Here, in the forest, the ground was uneven and the occasional branch tried to grab his horse. Performing the necessary contortions and managing his horse was a little more complicated. Stopping to relieve himself would be simpler.
He pulled his horse to a halt, dismounted, and looped his reins around a low branch of a nearby sapling. He opened one of his saddlebags and retrieved a handful of dried berries. His horse snorted as he offered the treat, its breath warm on his palm. “I’ll be right back,” he said with an affectionate pat between its ears.
He walked a few paces away, adjusting the bow slung over his shoulder. He undid his sash to make water over the gnarled roots of an immense oak. The tree leaned crookedly, an aged malingerer that refused to point in the same direction as its surrounding brethren. Gansukh let out a sigh of satisfaction as the pressure of his bladder lessened.
He was, not unlike other wild animals in the forest, marking his territory. If the hunting party was anywhere near the bear’s cave—and the lack of bear sign suggested they weren’t very close—he would have been more circumspect in his pissing. It wasn’t so much that such behavior was rude—one animal to another; it was that four-legged predators had a much better sense of smell than the two-legged kind. Urine carried a very distinct odor, and leaving such a stain would only alert them of his presence.
The Mongoliad: Book Three Page 51
