The Bear—Matteo Rosso Orsini—watched his visitor eat. Orsini was a big man, prone to wearing big robes—even in this heat—and his smooth face was ruddy in the firelight. Ocyrhoe had seen him laugh once, and the sight had terrified her. He’d thrown his head back and opened his mouth wide, and she couldn’t help but think of a snake unhinging its jaws to swallow its prey. But what had really terrified her was all the teeth. His mouth seemed to be filled with more teeth than the human head should possibly hold. And his laugh. It came from deep in his belly—a roiling sound of thunder.
“All this way for a plate of meat.” Orsini shook his head, bemused by the way the other man attacked his plate. “Perhaps I should offer to provide more food for your friends.”
The man from the Septizodium paused, his tongue touching a blot of grease on his lower lip. “No,” he said. “I don’t want them to become comfortable.”
“What of you? Are you going to sneak out every night to feast at my table? That isn’t wise. Someone will see you eventually, someone we don’t control. They will talk to the wrong people, and—”
“The city isn’t yours?”
The Bear didn’t take the bait. “It’s not the city that concerns me. It’s the people in it.”
The man gestured at his companion with his knife for a second before returning to cutting his meat. “They’re simple. Like cattle. You spook a few of them, and the rest will follow. And the ones that wander away from the herd are lost, and they know it. They only want to return to the comfort of the herd.”
“Yes, dear Sinibaldo”—the Bear leaned on the table—“but what happens when someone else spooks the herd?”
The man called Sinibaldo shrugged and kept eating.
He looked familiar to Ocyrhoe, and she moved closer to the light, trying to get a better glimpse. This was the first chance she’d had to see his face. When she had first spotted him near the base of the Palatine Hill—near the old facade known as the Septizodium, the place where the rumors said the priest had been taken—he had been a hooded figure, ducking through the shadows.
She had been prowling cautiously, conscious of more than a usual number of guards guarding...nothing. This mysterious man had suddenly appeared in front of her, stepping out of a deep shadow in the wall that must have hidden some manner of secret doorway. His hood had been pulled close about his face, reducing his peripheral vision; otherwise, he would have spotted her. But she had held perfectly still, and he hadn’t noticed her.
In fact, the whole way here, he hadn’t seemed terribly concerned about someone following him. Ocyrhoe had found such inattention odd, but it made the job of shadowing him easier.
He was wearing a plain brown robe. Such a common vestment among the clergy told her nothing about his identity. She knew him, but she couldn’t place where. She bit her lip in frustration. She should be able to place him even without the trappings of his office. She’d been practicing recently, sitting at the edge of the Porta Appia market in the morning and picking out faces from the crowd. When she reached twenty, she would leave her spot and try to find them in the throng. She could find ten of them easily, and the other day she had made it to sixteen, but the rest of the faces faded too quickly, and she hadn’t been able to find all twenty yet. Varinia could do thirty, and the older girl impressed upon Ocyrhoe that a true kin-sister never forgot a face.
“So,” the Bear said, “if you aren’t here for the food, then why have you come?”
“We have a new visitor,” Sinibaldo said around a mouthful of food. That must be her priest; Ocyrhoe was pleased with herself for making a correct assessment of the mystery man’s involvement.
“Yes,” Orsini said. “So I have heard. There was quite a commotion near the Porta Tiburtina earlier today. One of my men was assaulted.”
Sinibaldo put aside his knife and poured himself more wine. “Tell me everything.”
The Bear poured wine into his own glass. “The priest and his companion came from the east, along the Via Tiburtina. On horses. Looking like they’ve been on the road for weeks. The priest was spouting nonsense—gibberish, most likely, though a few of them swore that it was biblical verse. The other one was speaking some tongue no one knew. They appeared to be lost—or rather, uncertain of how to get to their destination.”
“And that was?”
“The Papal Palace.”
Ocyrhoe sucked in a noisy breath as she finally recognized who “Sinibaldo” was; she ducked back into the shadows, hands flying up to cover her mouth. He was one of the Pope’s men, the ones who wore crimson. A cardinal.
She crouched in the dark, straining for any sign that the men were aware of her presence. Somewhere, out among the apple trees, an owl hooted, and a few moments later, there was a rustling in the branches as the bird took flight. Ocyrhoe turned her head and nearly leaped out of her skin.
The Bear was standing right there, just inside the room. Not more than two paces from her. He was looking out across the terraces, his wine goblet held loosely in his hand.
Ocyrhoe tried to quiet her heart, which was racing in her chest like a wild animal. It sounded so loud to her that she couldn’t believe he didn’t hear it. He was toying with her, pretending not to notice she was there, and in another instant, he was going to whirl on her, reaching out with his big hand. His left hand dropped to the hilt of the dagger stuck in his belt, and she nearly screamed. For a moment, she thought she had, but then the sound cut off abruptly, and she realized it was the death cry of a small animal caught by the owl.
The Bear grunted, belched, and then took a long pull from his goblet. His hand fell away from his dagger, and he turned away from the open door. “The companion tried to communicate with some of the city militia who were there. He offered them a ring. Like the kind—”
“The kind that a cardinal of the Church would wear?” Sinibaldo interrupted.
The Bear didn’t say anything, and Ocyrhoe, her courage returning, leaned forward slightly, peering up at the Bear’s large bulk. He was staring at the man at the table, a frown on his face. “I suppose it could have been,” he said.
“Why don’t you know?” Sinibaldo asked, his voice tightening.
The Bear shrugged and took a long pull from his cup. “I haven’t seen it,” he said.
Sinibaldo slammed his hand against the table, and the sound sent Ocyrhoe huddling against the wall. She wanted to turn into a mouse and scurry away into a crack in the walls.
“I don’t have time to play games,” Sinibaldo said, and when the Bear didn’t say anything, he continued. “Where is it?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” the Bear said. “It was taken from my man as he tried to bring it to the captain of the watch. The priest’s companion went wild and chased the soldier down. He had help, too. When the confusion all started, someone leaped out of the crowd and came to the foreigner’s aid. One of our own citizens. A young boy.”
He turned back toward the window. “Or a girl,” the Bear mused.
Ocyrhoe pressed herself closer to the wall, remembering the events Orsini was retelling. The boy had driven his horse into the man, knocking him down. She had slipped down, grabbed the man’s helm from where it had fallen in the dirt, and hit him hard on the head. He had been dazed, his hands slack and open. She had scooped up the ring, ran to the boy and his horse, and they had made their escape.
The room was quiet, a silence that stretched on for a long time. Ocyrhoe’s legs were starting to itch from the sweat running down them, and her heart wouldn’t stop fluttering in her chest. Finally, Cardinal Sinibaldo Fieschi—the most powerful man alive in the Catholic Church—cleared his throat. Ocyrhoe heard the distinct sound of wine pouring into a cup. “A girl?” Fieschi asked. “One of those—I thought we agreed that you would clear the city of them?”
“I have,” the Bear countered, his jaw tight and locked.
Ocyrhoe screwed up her courage and raised herself closer to the open window. She had to hear this. She had to know what had h
appened to her kin-sisters.
“My men have scoured the city,” the Bear said, his tone becoming more like the growl of his namesake with each syllable. “They’ve been driven out of their hiding places. A couple were killed, I have others in chains, and the rest ran like rabbits, abandoning the city. They are gone. Their network is broken.”
Fieschi’s tone was quiet and dangerous. “Who is the girl, then?”
The cup creaked in the Bear’s hand, whining with distress from the man’s heavy grip. “Who is the priest?” he countered.
There was a whisper of cloth, and the thump of items striking the table. The Bear vanished from the window, and Ocyrhoe risked a quick peek to see what had drawn him away. Fieschi had produced a satchel from beneath his robe—after a moment, she recognized it as the one the priest had been carrying—and had strewn its contents across the table. “I don’t know who he is,” Fieschi said. “But I know what he is. He is another vote.”
Ocyrhoe shifted to her left to get a better look at Fieschi. He was slouched in his chair, his attention on the contents of the priest’s satchel. His fingers idly drummed on the table.
“In which case you can quit that hellhole so much sooner,” Orsini said, interrupting the cardinal’s reverie.
“Can we?” Fieschi snapped. “He evaded the Emperor’s blockade into the city, which means that the Emperor wanted him to get into the city. Why? Because he is one of the Emperor’s men—the very sort of man we do not want voting in this election.”
“We do not know that he is Frederick’s man,” Orsini insisted defensively. “He might be just the opposite, in fact.” He rifled roughly through the contents of the satchel as if somehow seeking proof of this. His jaw tightened and lines creased his forehead. Ocyrhoe leaned forward, nearly putting herself in plain sight. Her eyesight was sharp, but she couldn’t see much. On the table, in addition to the Holy Bible, there was a large piece of parchment with writing on it, a short knife in a plain sheath, several tiny purses (one that made the musical sound of coins as the Bear dropped it on the table), and a few other items the Bear dismissed.
“He’s sick,” Fieschi said. “Weak from infection and delirious. There are wounds on him that have not healed well. Combat wounds. Not recent ones.” That got Orsini’s attention, and Ocyrhoe’s as well. “Yes, he has seen battle in the last six months.” Fieschi leaned forward. “Now where would a man such as this see battle?”
The Bear picked up the knife again and pulled it out of its sheath. “There are many places,” he said carefully. “The roads aren’t safe.”
Sinibaldo laughed, and the sound made Ocyrhoe flinch. Realizing how exposed she was, she drew back. “Very few places are safe anymore,” the cardinal said. “Which is why few travel alone. The only ones who do are those who have the protection of the Holy Roman Emperor.” He emphasized this last phrase impatiently, clearly wanting some kind of reaction from Orsini.
Orsini resheathed the knife and put it down, refusing to give Fieschi the satisfaction of an emotional response.
Sinibaldo slammed his hand against the table. “Orsini! Your men threw him in the Septizodium without bothering to learn who he is, where his loyalties lie. They picked him off the street and tossed him inside like he was a common criminal. And now we’re stuck with him. Now he has a voice in the election—the decisive voice, given our stalemate.” His voice was hard, and the words flew out of his mouth in a rush, as if they had been held in him too long. “For all we know, those halfwits of yours have just effectively offered up St. Peter’s throne to Frederick. We don’t know who this man is, and if he is Frederick’s man, then he will guard himself well. We won’t know anything about his allegiances until we take another vote—”
“You are a guest in my house, Sinibaldo,” Orsini snapped, cutting the other man off. “I would suggest some care with your tone. I agree the circumstances are unfortunate, but based on your inflated sense of your own powers, I advise you to use his confused state to your advantage. If he is indeed delirious, find a way to make him yours.” It was a challenge.
They stared at each other for a moment, and then Fieschi looked away. He picked up his knife and returned to eating. “Very well, let us allow the possibility that he might be something other than Frederick’s tool,” he said around a mouthful of food.
Orsini picked up the piece of parchment and held it up to the light. “What’s this?”
The Bear was too intent on squinting at the page to notice the other man’s reaction, but Ocyrhoe watched Fieschi. She saw his hands stop moving; she saw him slowly put the utensils down. “That? It’s nothing,” the priest said. “A scrap from an illustrated manuscript. A book not unlike—”
“And this?” The Bear pointed to something on the page. “Here, in the margin.”
Fieschi picked up his cup and drank slowly. “The scribbling of a madman,” he said. “Translate it if you wish, but I can tell you what it says. It is heretical nonsense, a prophecy filled with astrological prattle—references to the influences offered by Saturn and Jupiter. Naturally, it talks of the downfall of the Church, and it intimates that everything will come to an end in less than twelve years. This is the very sort of apocalyptic rabble-rousing that will inflame the citizens should it find its way into the hands of the wrong sort of miscreant.”
The Bear put the page down. “Who is he?” Orsini asked.
Fieschi waited for a long moment, and when the larger man started to fidget with the items on the table, he smiled. Orsini noticed the cardinal’s expression and his face tightened. He picked up the wine flagon in an effort to draw attention away from his grimace, but he poured the wine sloppily, splashing some on his hand and the table.
The cardinal let out a low laugh. “As you suggested, as long as he’s delirious and confined with me, I can control him, so why should you fear anything?” He leaned forward. “But the girl and his friend. And the ring. Those are out of my control. Are you certain you shut down the witch network?”
Orsini’s face colored. “They’re gone,” he insisted. He gulped his wine. “I’ll find the ring,” he said. “You do your work.”
“Of course,” Fieschi said smoothly. “As you said, he is another vote, and perhaps he could be convinced to help us. Even if he did set out on his journey as the Emperor’s man, if he is deranged enough now, he might not understand what he is to do. Perhaps the fact that he isn’t in his right mind might be useful.”
An owl hooted close behind Ocyrhoe and she started forward, her hand accidentally tapping against the frame of the window. She threw herself flat on the balcony floor, and a second later was hustling over the railing and back down the stone lion. She had been too noisy this time. They must have heard her. She dropped down to the lion’s feet and hung on, her legs dangling over open space. She couldn’t see the window, but she could see the play of shadow and light change as Orsini came to the window again.
She held on, her fingers cramping, but the light didn’t change. He was still there. Her arms started to scream with exertion. How long was he going to stand there?
Her left hand slipped, and she bit down on her tongue to keep the fear in. The stone was warm and slippery. She wasn’t going to be able to hang on much longer. The fall wasn’t that far; she would be able to land easily. But she couldn’t do it quietly. He was bound to hear the sound of a body hitting the tiles of the roof below. He’d raise the alarm, and the palazzo grounds would fill with soldiers and torches. She’d be caught, killed on the spot most likely. They’re gone, he had said. She was the only one left. No one was going to save her.
The owl hooted again from the nearby tree. Orsini grunted, and something flew over Ocyrhoe’s head. His cup, trailing a rain of red wine, struck the trunk of the tree and clattered through the branches, startling the owl.
As it clattered, Ocyrhoe let go.
10
Into the Land of the Khazars
THE FIRST WEEK, they had covered ground quickly on European horses taken from th
e Livonians. They had carried some fodder with them. When this ran out, they slackened their pace and gave the horses leisure to forage in abandoned farm fields where wild grain was richly interspersed with the native feather grass. A fortnight into the journey, Vera had guided them to a market town on a great river where they had traded for steppe ponies, which were smaller but capable of traveling indefinitely on nothing but fresh grass—and in fact rejected provender as unpalatable. That was the last place they had seen that could answer to the name of city or town. Vera knew where it was that Raphael wanted to go, but rather than guiding them along a straight course to that destination—a range of low hills east of the Volga—she allowed the horses to trace the invisible boundary between the tall feather grass of the north, where they could enjoy level footing and richer forage, and the spiky bunchgrass that prevailed farther south.
A subtle shift in the ground, the patterns of birds in the distance, a fragrance on the breeze told them that they were descending into the watershed of the great river—the last river of any consequence that, Vera assured them, they would be seeing for a very long time. There were no bridges and no fords; they would have to be ferried across, a fact that obliged them to gather round the fire one night and hold a council of war. The fire was a feeble glimmer, reflecting the lack of trees hereabouts, and Raphael hoped that this was not an omen of what might emerge from the discussion.
It had been surprisingly long since they had all gathered in a circle and faced each other in this way. Proper campfires had been few and far between. The openness of the steppe invited the group to spread apart; at times, their caravan might be stretched out over a mile, while their camp might occupy an acre. Since they could all see each other at great distances, this did not occasion the same concerns about getting lost as would have applied in the forests of the north. A spread-out camp made it easier for the horses to forage. A strung-out caravan would make it more difficult for a Mongol raiding party to surprise and surround the entire group. The Shield-Brethren had had quite enough of one another’s company during the journey from Legnica and felt no need to bunch up. The twelve mounted skjalddis under Vera’s command provided a welcome change in company, and many long marches and evenings in camp could be whiled away in conversation—frequently somewhat halting, given the language barrier—between these two long-sundered branches of the lineage of Petraathen.
The Mongoliad: Book Two Page 14
