The Mongoliad: Book Two tfs-2

by Mark Teppo

  Capocci held up the tiny dagger, squinting at it for a moment in the dim light of the lanterns, and then he smiled at Colonna. “Sing Hosanna,” he told the scorpion and dropped this one too into the clay pot.

  “Are they well away?” he asked Colonna, referring not to the scorpions but to the others most recently in their care.

  Colonna nodded. “They are.”

  Capocci sighed. “What do you think of Robert’s plan, then?”

  “As good as any. Naught will come of it, I fear. Or at the worst, we will emerge from this purgatory to find a city filled with corpses-Orsini and Frederick having killed themselves and everyone else in their frenzy to keep us safe. What sort of world will we thrust the next Bishop of Rome into?”

  “God only knows, my dear Giovanni,” Capocci sighed. “God only knows.”

  “Speaking of God, He will forgive me-I hope-when I say this, but I like your idea of dropping them on Fieschi in his sleep.” Colonna leaned forward to peer into the clay jar. “Though, I am not sure the fellow ever actually does sleep. He’s out most nights-all night-at Orsini’s, and he has never, to my watchful eye, dozed off once during the daylight hours.”

  “De Segni, then,” Capocci said offhandedly. “Or Bonaventura!”

  Colonna grinned. “A marvelous choice. The good man will shit himself, probably in front of us. Ho, he will surely lose some votes that way.” He laughed until a thought struck him. “Or when they appear to sting him, and then he doesn’t die, Fieschi will use that to imply Bonaventura is some sort of holy man.”

  “Ah, excellent point. That sort of foolishness would clinch the election. Some of the others are rather prone to such superstitious nonsense.” Capocci deftly retrieved another scorpion. “In that case, perhaps we suggest to Somercotes that he use them on Castiglione, to the same end.”

  Colonna shook his head ruefully. “Fieschi is well practiced in law and rhetoric, remember? He will use this as the basis for an argument that Castiglione is an agent of the Devil, as is clearly demonstrated by his unnatural affinity to the demonic sort of creatures that scorpions are.”

  “That’s true,” Capocci sighed. He plucked the stinger from the scorpion, then dropped the angered arachnid into the clay jar and flicked the now useless stinger into the room’s far shadows. “Let’s just throw them on Fieschi anyway. For the fun of it. God will forgive us this infantile transgression, don’t you think?”

  Colonna leaned his head back against the cool stone wall. “I would think so, my friend. He has had little enough to say these past years about an endless parade of monstrous cruelties.”

  * * *

  The chaos in the marketplace at the Porta Tiburtina confirmed Ocyrhoe’s fears. Wagons were lined up for the gate, but none of them would be moving anytime soon. A dense mob swirled and surged around the wagons like surf raging upon broken rocks. Ocyrhoe spotted a lanky thief boldly lifting a crate of fruit off the back of a sagging wagon, then darting away with his prize-no one the wiser. Most of the merchants had already packed up their stalls, even the farmers who wouldn’t be able to get out of the city until the guards decided to start letting people through. It was better to have their wares and goods safely stowed than stolen or ruined in the crush.

  A line of guards, pole-axes lowered and wavering in the general direction of the mob, like the rippling ridge of hairs on the back of a nervous caterpillar, stood fast before the gate. More than a few looked distinctly unhappy-nervous, fearful. They didn’t know how long they were supposed to stand there or under what circumstances they could begin allowing people to pass through the gate.

  Once Ocyrhoe realized she and Ferenc couldn’t simply walk out of the city, she examined the mob and the guards more carefully, listening and looking for some opening, a gap, a weakness through which they might pass. Not out. Not through…ah, yes…

  “We can use this,” she signed to Ferenc, dragging him away from the edge of the mob. They slipped into the back alleys, winding ever closer to the wall of Rome itself. Gradually, the district became more and more residential, more quiet and deserted, but the guards who might otherwise have been patrolling were absent-no doubt called to the gate as reinforcements against the riot that would eventually erupt. Whatever had stricken the marketplace near the Coliseum would sweep through the crowd at the gate, sooner rather than later. Judging by the number of guards and their somewhat fearful presentation, they were well aware of the oncoming storm.

  Eventually, she found what she was looking for-the wall itself. Maybe three stories high, the wall around Rome had been built to keep people out, not in. In some places, it was possible to clamber to the top by way of dirt that had been piled against the inner side. They weren’t so lucky here, and they didn’t have the time to find such an easy method of escape. The wall was made of rough volcanic rock, knotted and twisted with all manner of hand and toeholds. It shouldn’t be too hard to climb-as long as they weren’t seen.

  Ferenc said something to her in his tongue, but she shook her head and pantomimed climbing the wall. When he still hesitated, she shoved him at the wall, and he finally relented. He grabbed at several knobs, lifting himself up easily, and proceeded to climb the wall, as if he had spent many hours in his youth climbing such barriers. He probably had, Ocyrhoe thought, or trees, even. She hesitated, hand on the nearest knob of rock. Trees. She was about to leave Rome, the only home she had ever known. Outside the city was…outside. There were no walls, no houses, and no streets. Just forest and swamp and plain and…what else? She held her breath. Was she doing the right thing? Was she ready for this?

  “Halt!”

  Behind them, a man ran toward them, fumbling to pull his sword out of its scabbard. Ocyrhoe recognized the colors of his garb. One of the Bear’s men.

  She glanced up at Ferenc. He was halfway up, far enough that the guard couldn’t reach him, but not far enough to quickly reach the top. There would be no time to finish the ascent before the guard reached them, and if they were on the wall, they’d both be easy pickings.

  Ferenc looked down, and there was an agonized moment when they stared at each other. If she ran, would the guard chase her? Or would he go after Ferenc? What would they do if they split up?

  She shook her head. She didn’t know. She hadn’t thought through their plan that far.

  “Get down from there!”

  The guard was nearly upon them.

  Fieschi pushed the door closed and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. With a hand lightly brushing the wall, he walked carefully into the tunnels. He knew where he had to go and what he had to do; it would not take him long to reach the common areas where the cardinals resided. As his feet retraced the steps he had taken earlier, back toward the room where he had eavesdropped on Somercotes and the others, he banked the remainder of his long-burning frustration with Orsini. He had reacted too slowly. It would be hours-possibly days, even-before they could be sure the city had been sealed in time.

  He had to force the vote. He couldn’t wait to find out if Orsini had been successful or not. Besides, even if they were caught, there would be no way to know to whom in the city they might have spoken. He had to assume the secrets of the Septizodium would not remain secret much longer.

  When he reached Somercotes’s chamber, it was empty, and it took him several minutes of wandering through the narrow, dimly lit halls before he found his quarry. Somercotes was in one of the rooms that had natural light, and when he entered the chamber without announcing himself, the room was too bright for his dark-accustomed eyes, and he stood in the doorway, blinking.

  When his eyes had adjusted, he saw Somercotes watching him with a bland expression. His Bible lay open, in his lap, as if he were sharing a passage with his companion. On the bench beside him sat the new arrival-the madman-still filthy and disheveled.

  “Cardinal Somercotes,” said Fieschi without preamble, “a word in private, if you please.”

  “Certainly, Cardinal Fieschi,” said Somercotes pleasantly,
completely unruffled by Fieschi’s tone. He closed his Bible and turned to the priest. “Father, if you have need, do not hesitate to seek me in my chamber.” The priest looked up vacantly, his sweaty face shining with reflected sunlight.

  Fieschi was surprised to find himself contemplating a desire to smash that beatific expression with a rock. Like one of the many shards of stone, lying within easy reach-

  Somercotes now laid his hand on Fieschi’s arm, fingers digging into flesh, drawing his attention from the smiling priest. “Let us go to my chamber, Cardinal,” Somercotes said. His gaze was steady and his grip strong, but Fieschi tore himself loose, refusing to let the other man lead him, and stalked from the room.

  Fieschi’s own hands shook slightly, and he clenched his fingers before him as he walked so that Somercotes would not see how close to the surface his rage was.

  When they reached his chamber, Somercotes closed the door behind them, a polite smile stuck on his face. As he braced the door with a loose timber-affording them some privacy-the smile vanished.

  “I have little to say to you, Sinibaldo,” he said tightly, “and even less tolerance for your company. So speak concisely, and then remove yourself from my presence.”

  “You have been entertaining unauthorized guests,” Fieschi said. “You have been engaging in covert activities with the aim of destabilizing our work here.”

  Somercotes stared at him for a second and then let loose a snort of laughter. “Who are you to lodge such a complaint, Sinibaldo? I know where you go at night, and why, and I am not the only one who smells meat on your breath when you return. Your dining habits alone destabilize our work, if you can even call the hellish farce we are subjected to here work.”

  “You have engaged a messenger to seek aid from the Holy Roman Emperor,” Fieschi said. “A man whom you know to be no friend of the Church.”

  “Your Church,” Somercotes said. “I count Frederick to be one of the most learned and enlightened men of our age. I would celebrate any effort on his part to aid us in our trying time. But that should be no mystery to you. I have never hidden my admiration and respect for the man. Why would I not seek his assistance?”

  “So you do not deny sending a messenger?”

  Somercotes shrugged. “I have sent many messages to the Holy Roman Emperor and would have continued to do so had we not been sequestered in this hellish dungeon.”

  Fieschi gaped, his words caught in his throat. “No,” he started, suddenly flustered, “earlier today. You sent a message earlier today.”

  Somercotes said nothing, and there was nothing in his expression that gave Fieschi any clue as to what the man was thinking. Eventually, the Englishman shrugged. “Today?” he drawled, seeming to give the matter great thought. He shifted the book in his hands as if he were about to open it and start reflecting on a passage from the Bible. “I’m not sure what you are talking about, Sinibaldo. You are the only one who wanders in and out of this place. How could I have sent a message?”

  Fieschi snapped his mouth shut with an audible click. Mentally staggered, he held himself as rigid as possible, trying to ascertain how to extricate himself from the error he had just made. He knows that I know. I have just given myself away, and he pretends otherwise. He needed to shift his attention away from the messenger, as well as the implication of what Fieschi might have done in response to such knowledge.

  “This new man is not who he appears to be,” he said.

  “No?” Somercotes raised an eyebrow. “Who is he?” Daring him to open his mouth, to reveal some secret knowledge that he could not-should not-know.

  Fieschi ground his teeth. Somercotes was toying with him, this upstart from that damp and tiny island so far from Rome. Somercotes had been the confessor to the English king. His name didn’t matter; he was nothing more than a barbarian who had converted to Christianity to save his own head. Did Somercotes actually think hearing the confessions of an uneducated savage and offering absolution made him a peer? He had studied canonical law at Bologna, under Accursio, and been awarded maestro for his studies. He was Vice Chancellor of the Holy Roman Church; he had been the Pope’s voice during the last few months of His Eminence’s life.

  “He’s a charlatan,” he heard himself say. “A spy for the Emperor.”

  “And you aren’t a lapdog for Orsini?” Somercotes snorted.

  “Orsini is the Senator of Rome and, as such, has a vested interest in the next Bishop of Rome,” Fieschi retorted, still struggling to find his tongue.

  “And Frederick doesn’t?” Somercotes inquired. “I think your logic is overly convoluted, dear Sinibaldo. The man who rules over most of Christendom has more of a stake in who is elevated to become the next Pope than a self-appointed upstart who acts like he has read too much Tacitus.”

  Somercotes stepped away from Fieschi, slowing the rise in tension between them. “It is too late for your ill-conceived and unfounded accusations, Sinibaldo. This new man cannot be swayed or bullied by you, nor even by the Bear himself. He has a genuine religious zeal to him that I find refreshing, if a trifle alarming. The only thing that can move him will be the spirit of the candidate, and you know as well as I do that Bonaventura is as charming as cold porridge. Rodrigo’s vote will go to Castiglione. He will be the only man here who casts a vote based on whom he thinks the better man, not for any political factions. Well, perhaps he and Annibaldi…but Rodrigo comes from a place of genuine innocence.”

  “Ignorance, you mean,” Fieschi spat back, regaining some of his composure. His blood pounded in his temples, and the edges of his vision wavered and shook. He had to be careful. Somercotes had a way of getting under his skin, making him irrational and prone to responding too quickly, too emotionally. Gregory warned you… He shoved the thought aside. “He will fall for whoever has the most charisma.”

  “And we both know that is Castiglione,” Somercotes said calmly. “Really, Sinibaldo, I do not see what it is that you needed to talk so urgently about. It is time for me to pray now; please let me do so.”

  “Do not assume,” Fieschi said through clenched teeth, “that I cannot persuade him of the wonders of Bonaventura’s character.”

  “If he casts his vote for Bonaventura, I will reveal him as the spy you think he is, and you will lose the vote,” Somercotes said with a sigh, sounding indulgently sympathetic.

  “Well then, if he casts his vote for Castiglione, I shall do likewise,” Fieschi retorted.

  “Will you? And how will you prove it?” Somercotes asked, as if catechizing a young child.

  “How will you prove he isn’t?” Fieschi replied, his ears burning like he was a young child, and loathing Somercotes all the more for it.

  “Well,” Somercotes said, drawing the word out, “I do have his ring. His cardinal’s ring. And you do not.” He smiled at Fieschi then, the smile of a man who thought he had been granted a decisive victory.

  “Which I do not have yet,” Fieschi argued and made a lunge for Somercotes.

  Somercotes was caught off guard by the sudden escalation from argument to action but only needed to take a half step back to avoid Fieschi’s somewhat spastic lunge. As he did so, he dropped his heavy book. Likewise, Fieschi-unprepared to have missed-stumbled forward and had to brace himself against the chamber’s wall to avoid falling on his face entirely.

  But then Somercotes was behind him and, now alert, wasted no time in leaping on Fieschi’s back. Reaching forward with his left arm, Somercotes began to choke him.

  The weight of the other man on his back made Fieschi lurch to one side, but his hands found the wall again and he pushed back, then reached up to grab the arm around his neck, before finishing the fall. The motion pulled Somercotes forward, off balance, and tumbled him over Fieschi and onto his back on the chamber’s cold stone floor.

  Not a trained brawler, Somercotes hadn’t braced himself against the throw, and even before his head hit the ground, he was confused about what was happening. He had lost his chokehold on Fieschi, and
his arms hung limp. Fieschi cast about and, spotting Somercotes’s book, grabbed it up and struck the English cardinal in the head. The spine of the book gave under the impact, and Fieschi shifted his grip, using the stiff and stone-encrusted cover instead. He struck Somercotes several more times, until the boards shattered.

  “Frederick’s help will mean nothing to you now,” Fieschi said as he threw aside the ruined book. He was calm, for the first time since they’d entered the room, for the first time since he had been accosted by that churlish guard outside Orsini’s palazzo. He had no more doubt about what he had to do, about what must be done. There must be a vote; a Pope must be elected. The Church must prevail.

  Somercotes, his face bloodied from Fieschi’s blows, was still conscious. His eyes fluttered, and a sluggish moan slipped from his slack lips.

  Fieschi scrabbled at Somercotes’s robe, reaching for the braided rope the other man wore around his waist. A symbol of his austerity and piety, it was the sort of rope a sheepherder would use. Stout and strong. Fieschi gathered up the long strand that hung unencumbered and wrapped it once about Somercotes’s neck. Bracing his knee against the struggling cardinal’s shoulder, he leaned back, pulling the rope taut. The heavy weave burned in his hands as Somercotes thrashed.

  Somercotes got his hands on Fieschi’s robes and tried to pull himself closer, but Fieschi’s knee kept him at bay. The Englishman’s hands became more frantic-at first like talons and then like the wings of a frightened bird. He gurgled and spat, each breath shorter and more desperate than the last.

  Fieschi held on. He breathed evenly-in, out, again and again-and kept the rope tight.

  The Church must prevail. I must prevail.

  26

  R?dwulf’s Bow

  “It is a jaghun,” Cnan said, “which is to say a unit of one hundred, made up of ten arbans of ten men each. The man you call Graymane is named Alchiq. He is new to them. About a week ago, he rode in out of nowhere to a Mongol garrison west of the Volga, where this jaghun and two others were encamped, and simply commandeered it.”