They had only gotten as far as each other’s name in being able to communicate with each other. When she began to jabber, gesticulating with quick, exaggerated movements, he had to shake his head to remind her that he had no idea what she was talking about.
“Father Rodrigo?” he interrupted, trying to slow down the torrent of words coming out of her mouth. “Rodrigo?”
She cocked her head like a dog hearing a strange sound, and frowned.
He repeated the priest’s name once more and then pointed to himself. “Ferenc.” Then to her, “Ocyrhoe.” Then, feeling apologetic for the caricature, he imitated Rodrigo bent over his horse, eyes rolling. “Father Rodrigo,” he said definitively.
“Ah,” said the girl. She crossed herself several times and hummed something like a Gregorian-style chant, her hands in a praying position. “Father Rodrigo?”
“Father Rodrigo,” Ferenc confirmed. Her emphasis was different than his, but clear enough. “Where? Where is he?”
She shook her head and shrugged. Ferenc grunted with frustration. Did that shrug mean I don’t know where he is? Or I don’t understand what you’re asking me? He couldn’t tell, and when she asked him a question, he could only shake his head and shrug in return.
A chill ran up his spine as he considered their inability to communicate. This was not an inconvenience; it was a catastrophe. He knew his own language, and what piecemeal Latin he had gleaned from Father Rodrigo during their long journey, but that was it. Nothing could have prepared him for the trek he’d just completed; never in his life, before the battle at Mohi, could he have imagined himself beyond the boundaries of his native tongue.
She sensed his anxiety, and rather than joining him in it, she very deliberately calmed herself with a gentle, long breath. She put a hand on his arm and repeated the breath, gesturing for him to do the same. He made a face but breathed with her. And he did feel calmer, although perhaps that was just her hand on his arm, a human touch.
Ocyrhoe released him and grabbed a few strands of hay. She twisted them, carefully tying the dry straw into a loose knot. “Father Rodrigo,” she said, presenting the twisted strand to him. Glancing around the loft, she spotted a short-handled pitchfork leaning against the wall and scooted across the loft to grab it. Indicating that he should put down the Rodrigo straw man, she put the pitchfork between Ferenc and the knotted strand, and then gazed at him solemnly.
It made no sense to him: if this was meant to graphically display the problem, why didn’t Father Rodrigo just slip through the openings of whatever was keeping him, like stray straw between the tines of a pitchfork? She saw the expression on his face, rolled her eyes, and grabbed the piece of straw, which broke under her angry touch.
She moved the pitchfork aside and squatted opposite Ferenc. “Father Rodrigo,” she tried again, now pointing to herself, and this time did a very good imitation of a person with hands bound, trying to break free. She pretended she was being dragged away across the loft, her leather sandals dragging a path through the strewn hay. Ferenc gasped, and when Ocyrhoe patted his arm, he let her drag him over to the loft window. She pointed to the right, and when Ferenc looked, he was shocked to realize they were still in the middle of the city, surrounded by far more urbanity than he was used to. There was little to be seen but a spreading sea of other rooftops, russet and brown and gray in the wan morning light.
“What do we do?” he demanded in frustration. If she knew he had been captured—which was obvious to him now, in retrospect—did she know where he had been taken? And if she did, then how was she going to communicate that location to him? “Can you take me there?” he asked.
She gave him an impatient frown, her meaning clear: Why do you talk to me with words you know I can’t understand? She pointed to herself and to him, clasped her hands together, and said their names rapidly: “FerencOcyrhoe.” Us.
Which was the best news he had heard yet. She wasn’t planning on abandoning him, which, of course, meant his course of action was clear as well. He nodded and echoed her compound word. FerencOcyrhoe. Together. A tiny laugh slipped out of him, spurred by an image in his mind. A cool winter’s night a dozen years from now, him telling the story of his incredible adventures around the fire pit to his awestruck children and neighbors.
She pointed out the window again, straight in the direction she’d said Father Rodrigo was. Then she indicated both of them—FerencOcyrhoe—and then pointed again, looking expectantly at him the entire time.
He blinked, his head snapping backward on his neck like a turtle retreating into its shell. “What?” he said. “Are you crazy? How can we possibly get him? What kind of place is he in? Even if we find him, where will we take him? We can’t stay in this loft. We can’t—I can’t—stay in this city—”
He was cut off by a loud, piercing whistle, courtesy of Ocyrhoe’s tongue and teeth. A moment of unnatural thunder shook the building as the horses collectively spooked at the sound and thrashed against their ropes. She waited for them to settle, and then began talking again. He held up his hands to slow her down, but she ignored him, and after a few seconds, he realized it wasn’t all gibberish. Some of it sounded like Latin; he could understand certain words but had no context for them—bona, he recognized, and malus as well, and ecclesiam and sacerdos and Summus Pontifex.
The Bishop of Rome. Yes, Father Rodrigo’s message. The one he hoped to deliver to the Pope.
He watched her face as she spoke. She was a scrappy little thing, younger than he, but he could not guess by how much. She was too bony and petite to have noticeable breasts, even if she was mature. Her hair was a color common enough in these parts, but her skin was at least as pale as a Northerner. In the hazy morning light, she looked like a tündér, a fairy of his homeland. Not a szépasszony, of course—a fair woman, the most beautiful of supernatural beings—but even the woodland fairies, although prone to mischief, treated you right if you stuck with them.
And this one had certainly already proven her good intentions—as well as, arguably, magic powers. He was not frightened of fairies. If she was, indeed, a tündér, she would eventually reveal that she knew a language he understood—the proper language of fairies.
She stopped talking and looked at him with a far-too-patient sigh. He realized, sheepishly, that he had been staring at her with a stupidly vacant expression.
She glanced up toward the heavens and muttered something; it struck him as an apology to someone absent. Perhaps someone on high. Her own gods? Then she sighed once more and firmly pressed her small, bony right hand against his sternum. Her fingers were dirty and pale and her nails ragged—more ragged than his own, which was saying something.
He was distracted by her hair. He shook his head as she started to speak, and reached out for a gnarled knot of hair. He had thought it was simply dirty and matted, much like his after weeks of traveling, but that wasn’t the case. Her hair had been knotted very specifically, in a way that seemed familiar.
Gasping, he glanced around at the straw, looking vainly for the straw Rodrigo, until he remembered it had fallen apart. He bent and scooped up another long stick of straw and tried to remember the knot she had tied in the hay. It was familiar, of course, because he had seen his mother tie it. It was a basic hitch, used for horses and sacks—the sort of knot one tied unconsciously, when wanting to restrain something momentarily.
Ocyrhoe watched his clumsy fingers with a pitched expression, and as he finished, her eyes widened. She grabbed his hands, holding his wrists tight, and held the knotted straw between them. She squeezed his wrists, several times, her fingers moving in a complex pattern against his skin.
“Yes,” he cried when he realized he understood the rhythm of her pressure. It was tündér magic. “Yes,” he said. “Kin-knot.”
She smiled like sun breaking through a cloud, showing healthy ivory teeth. Just hearing his tone, she understood that he understood. She laughed and squeezed his wrists again.
I know you.
1
6
Exterge Lutum Oculorum Meorum, Ut Videam
THE CARDINALS WERE like the squirrels in the parks in Paris: they pretended indifference, but as soon as there was a hint they might be fed, they grew animated and friendly. The cardinals milled about in the odd, shadowy courtyard of the Septizodium, attempting to warm themselves in the morning air—and not succeeding. The sun, while risen, had not yet climbed to such a height that its face could look down on the trampled grass of the Septizodium’s interior.
It was, as Colonna had said, a four-walled chamber, open to the sky, but with no visible means of entrance or exit. Other than the rectangular door cut into one of the walls near the base. Rodrigo understood the nature of their confinement now. The Septizodium was their prison and yet was still nothing more than a facade. The cardinals were seemingly imprisoned in this box, but from their vantage point, the Septizodium was simply the way they communicated with the outside world. Their real prison was the confused mass of tunnels and fractured corridors that honeycombed the ruins surrounding the historic facade.
Rinaldo Conti de Segni had sought to lead Rodrigo out to the center of the Septizodium, but Rodrigo had hung back, preferring to remain in the gloom still clinging to the walls. The others were gathered in the open space, and Rodrigo was not quite ready to meet all of them. For the moment, he wanted to assess them without undue influence, without the sort of manhandling that he had suffered at Capocci’s hands.
He was uncomfortably aware that the group was aware of his presence and they were also assessing him. Your vote may well decide the election.
He did not understand why God had sent him here—on a fool’s errand—and the only explanation that made any sense to him was that God was not yet done with him. Perhaps God was giving him direction, even now, through the words of these men. What better way to discover a worthy recipient of God’s message than to be instrumental in his elevation?
In the courtyard, the buffoons, as de Segni referred to them—Capocci and Colonna—had met Robert of Somercotes, the man whom Rodrigo had seen first after awakening last night. Somercotes nodded to Rodrigo; Rodrigo, uncomfortably aware of how much he did not know about everything going on around him, thought it must mean something that Somercotes and those two were friendly with each other—but what? He had no idea.
The three of them were sitting on a makeshift stone bench, a slab of granite that had been laid across the ragged caps of several columns, and Rodrigo wondered if Capocci had been responsible for the ad hoc furniture. Once Somercotes sat, it was easy to mistake him for a graying statue, if it weren’t for the subtle movement of his head as he tracked the others wandering through the dust-laden sunlight. Capocci, in comparison, was a frenzy of movement. He sat, even though he didn’t seem to want to, and even sitting, he couldn’t keep his hands still. Beside his end of the bench was a pile of debris. Anxious for activity, Capocci scooped up a handful of stones from the pile. Without looking at them, his fingers sorted and cataloged them. He arranged them, large to small, between the fingers of one hand, like a juggler.
Nearby, a curly haired man, not much older than Rodrigo himself, plucked random notes on a highly ornamented lute. The courtyard was too big—and the man too indifferent—for the sound to carry far, and his song was like scattered rain on a thatched roof. The man’s eyes were closed, and his lips curled around a private prayer. Or a ribald stanza. It was hard to tell, though Rodrigo might have guessed the latter from the way the minstrel’s lips curved up, as if to punctuate a line of verse.
De Segni followed Rodrigo’s eyes to the lutenist. “That is Tommaso da Capua,” he said in a disapproving voice.
Da Capua, like the musical term da capo, Rodrigo made the mental note. Another easy one to remember.
“As his expression may suggest,” de Segni continued, “he is not the holiest of men.” He lowered his gravelly voice almost to a whisper. “His vote reflects that, of course.” More vulpine than ever, he looked shrewdly at Rodrigo.
Rodrigo tried to make sense of these words. His vote reflects that, of course. Disapproval. De Segni and Tommaso were on opposing sides. But who was the candidate, and why was there dissension? How could men of the cloth, leaders of Christendom, adopt an air of near enmity toward others of their kind?
Rodrigo knew what an enemy was. He had learned on the death fields of Mohi. It was impossible for anyone in Rome to truly be an enemy to anyone else in Rome. If any good Christian behaved otherwise—especially men of the Church—there was only one reason for such behavior.
The end times, Rodrigo realized. The Day of Judgment. The inevitable approach of his vision—his persistent and perpetual nightmare.
His burden.
He kept staring around at the assembly, as they kept staring at him. On the other side of the courtyard sat a small cluster of cardinal, their heads bent together in quiet conference. Two were advanced in age, faces lined and worn like the stones of the Septizodium. De Segni, still watching Rodrigo without appearing to be doing so, noted where his attention had wandered. “You are interested in our more venerable brethren?” he asked approvingly. It was the first time, Rodrigo realized with a start, that de Segni had expressed approval—of anyone.
One of the pair of elders had a drooping face, as if his skeleton were shrinking inside his skin; the other had a mane of white hair and eyebrows to match. The combination lent his face an antique, leonine aspect. “Romano Bonaventura and Gil Torres,” de Segni said, still surreptitiously measuring Rodrigo’s response (and he had none, for he did not know these men). “The two with them, the younger ones, are Goffredo Castiglione and my kinsman Stefano de Normandis dei Conti.”
These two stood literally in the shadows of their elders, subservient in manner and attention. Rodrigo shook his head, chastising himself for failing to think of mnemonics for this cluster. Collectively, he supposed he could think of them as the group fox-faced Rinaldo approved of, but that did not, in itself, tell him anything about them—or about the undercurrent of tension that permeated the gloomy cloister.
A fifth man was listening intently to the elders’ debate, a pleasant smile on his face. Of all the cardinals in the room, with the exception of the so-called buffoons, this fellow was the most at ease. His smile was neither beatific nor idiotic, but just the natural expression of a relaxed and comfortable man. “The smiling one is Riccardo Annibaldi,” de Segni said, not sharing the relaxed cardinal’s expression. “He is a...free thinker.”
Unreliable, Rodrigo translated, trying to wed the cardinal’s name to the word in a way that made sense. Anni-B, Unreli-B... It almost worked.
He realized, with a start, there was one more cardinal, haunting the courtyard’s doorway. He was watching them all—especially de Segni and Rodrigo—like a predatory beast who, having recently fed, was in no rush to take another victim but was nonetheless examining the herd for signs of weakness. He met Father Rodrigo’s gaze and smiled slightly, but the expression made the priest shiver and look away.
Without meaning to, he locked eyes with de Segni and held them, like a drowning man holds on to a piece of driftwood. De Segni allowed himself a small, private smile. “Someone you recognize?” he asked.
Rodrigo shook his head, returning his attention to the trio of Capocci, Colonna, and Somercotes. “No,” he said and stopped himself from saying any more. Just the face of evil, he thought, chiding himself for such a foolish reaction. He was just a singular presence, that was all—the sort of man who commanded a room simply by the very indifference he projected upon deigning to enter.
“Sinibaldo Fieschi,” de Segni said after looking over his shoulder. “Our late Pontiff’s right-hand man. The man who best embodies the spirit of Gregory IX’s wishes and desires. Would you like me to introduce you?” Rinaldo’s gaze—focused on Rodrigo—was so piercing, so searching, that it made the young priest dizzy.
There was a commotion from above: shouting and the creak of ropes. Praise God, Rodrigo thought and used the moment to break aw
ay from Rinaldo, pretending he wanted to better see what was happening. At the top of the walls were soldiers, bearing buckets attached to thick ropes. Hidden machinery began to let out the rope, and the soldiers guided the buckets down into the courtyard of the Septizodium. The soldiers worked swiftly, having done this same ritual time and again, their movements efficient and well rehearsed.
A man wearing a helmet with a crest of black feathers waved to the cardinals below. “Good morning, Your Eminences,” he shouted down. “You will be pleased to note that there are lemons and oranges today.”
“Very good, Master Constable Alatrinus.” De Segni made the sign of the cross for the commanding officer. “May God bless you and your men on this day.”
“Thank you, Your Eminence,” the master constable shouted. He spotted Rodrigo and threw the young priest a salute. “Your Eminence,” he said, “I trust you have been provided with a chamber and a bed.”
“Yes,” Rodrigo answered, after assuring himself that the soldier was not speaking to anyone else. “I have been made”—he glanced at de Segni—“most welcome.”
The soldier laughed and then caught himself. “It will be another hot day,” he called to de Segni, “until this afternoon, we fear. Not that you can tell yet, but the weather is about to change.” He pointed. “Clouds are building in the east. The soothsayers tell us it will rain heavily.” He put up his hands. “I suppose they can look east as well as anybody. I’ve had the men provide extra portions this morning in case we are prevented from returning this afternoon. Has there been progress?” He let the word hang in the air, with tentative hopefulness.
De Segni shook his head. “We are no closer to a decision than yesterday, my son.” The cardinal chuckled. “Believe me, you will know when we have decided.”
“I hope it happens soon, Your Eminence,” the soldier said. “For all of our sakes.”
The Mongoliad: Book Two Page 20
