Elisha Mancer

by E. C. Ambrose

  Elisha nodded, allowing his senses to unfurl, his hands raised as if he could feel the blessing. The dead pulsed above him, a jostling host of saints and martyrs. “Glorious,” Elisha echoed. He hoped his own interventions would not serve to destroy it.

  They followed the priest from the main church to a side hall containing a set of broad stone steps. “The Scala Pilata,” Father Pierre intoned, “which brought our Lord Jesu Cristo to the hall of Pilate.” He crossed himself, and the others followed. “They may be mounted only upon your knees, as befits our humility before the sacrifice of the Lord.”

  Elisha suppressed a groan as the priest bent his knee, and Rinaldo joined him. “The pilgrim who so climbs the stairs is granted an indulgence, a freedom from his present state of sin,” Father Pierre informed them, glancing up at Elisha. His dark, earnest stare brought Elisha, too, to his knees, and together they climbed until Elisha’s knees and back ached, his mind humming with the sound of the priest’s Pater Nosters. All Rome determined to sway him from sin—or to tear him apart when sin could not be avoided. Every moment he spent in the city was a penance.

  Rain fell steadily when they emerged, exhausted, into the night. “Thank you, Father,” Elisha said.

  Father Pierre reached out, taking Elisha’s hand between his. “Thank you, Dottore, for your service to Father Uccello. No man, even an enemy, should go to his grave without such an attendant.”

  The intensity of the young priest’s words and the fervor in his touch left Elisha speechless. The truth dragged his shoulders down, and rain seeped along the back of his neck, over the scars of his own hanging. Elisha nodded and turned away to mount his horse, his breath catching in his chest. Grateful for the rain to match his misery, he signaled to Rinaldo his readiness.

  Rinaldo and Elisha rode back through the rain, finding the gates thrown wide and thronged with the shouting, jostling soldiers of the tribune’s army, finally come back to Rome.

  After sliding down from his mount, Rinaldo hurried off into the crowd to find his master—but not before ordering their companions to escort Elisha someplace to warm up. And not to let him out of their sight. As it happened, his keepers’ goal and the captain’s coincided; the tribune celebrated his own return in the capitol’s main hall, a huge fire lighting frescoes of grapes being harvested and maidens dancing. They reminded Elisha of his one dance with Rosalynn, before she became—so briefly—queen, and died. Elisha shivered as they led him toward the hearth where every prop and table already bore a dripping load of cloaks and hoods.

  He stripped his wet over-garments, draping his cape where he could keep an eye on it, but the shivering did not cease, even as he stood too near the fire.

  “My good doctor,” boomed the tribune, his voice, as ever, so much stronger than the man. He spread his hands to Elisha. “I hear so many tales—it seems I’ve missed quite an exciting time in Rome.” For a moment, his face bore no expression, then split into a grin. “Of course, it is always exciting in Rome! We suffer the birth pangs of a new nation.”

  At the tribune’s shoulder, Rinaldo lurked, dodging Elisha’s glance.

  “My captain tells me you are a liar, he thinks you understand our language very well indeed,” the tribune went on. “But I have heard what you did for Father Uccello, and I cannot believe you are not also a good man.”

  After a moment, Elisha said, “Thank you.”

  Cola raised an eyebrow that nudged the soggy laurel wreath atop his damp curls. “You don’t deny it?”

  “Being a good man?” Elisha said. “Oh, yes, I do.”

  At that, Cola tipped back his head and laughed aloud. “Should I trust you for your service to Father Uccello? Or should I rack you for your secrets? How can I know these things?”

  Over his shoulder, Rinaldo’s face paled, as if they shared in that moment the vision of Father Uccello’s body, stretched beyond healing.

  “We share a goal, Tribune, that of making Rome safe again, for her people and for her pilgrims,” Elisha said.

  Cola laughed again. “Rinaldo! You claimed he spoke our language, but it is a poor version at best.” He folded his arms. “Dottore. You say we share this goal. So far, you have stood with me, with the people of Rome. Would you swear an oath to this?”

  “To defend the people of Rome? I would.”

  “And me?”

  Elisha took a deep breath and composed his words carefully. “The cause of Rome is larger than any one man.”

  The tribune pursed his lips, then nodded slowly. “Indeed. Well said.” He waved a hand and a servant poured them sweet wine, warmed over the fire. “To Rome.”

  “To Rome!” Rinaldo cried, raising his goblet, and others around them took up the call, shouting or drinking.

  Elisha, too, drained his mug, the sweet heat soothing his throat and sending tendrils up through his aching skull. He absently rubbed at the scars beneath his white-streaked hair and considered getting roaring drunk for the first time in years. “Forgive me, Tribune, Captain, but it’s been a long day and I need some rest.”

  “Of course! But you deserve more than to share a room with the guard. We shall make up another chamber for you. We have now a little room we had not before.” The tribune grinned in a way that made Elisha nervous.

  When he was shown the room, he found his concern justified. It was not the dungeon as it might have been if he had truly lost their trust. Instead they gave him the austere, windowless chamber that once belonged to the tribune’s councilor, Father Uccello. A crucifix graced the wall over the bed, the weary, wounded Christ hanging over him. No, they did not send him to the dungeon—not yet—but this room was a weighty reminder of what could be.

  Chapter 39

  The next morning as Elisha ate alone in the dining hall, Rinaldo thundered down the stairs, still gripping the rail as he called, “Dottore!” though Elisha sat only a few feet away. “Do you still wish to attend Santa Maria?” His thin face suffused with anger, knuckles whitening.

  “Yes, but—”

  “I hope that now is a good time.”

  “Yes.” Elisha followed eagerly in Rinaldo’s wake. One more church, and then Elisha must determine how to strip the mancers’ power here and break their plan forever.

  Rinaldo walked with a vengeance, boots pounding the stones, and it took no magic to sense his mood. Overhead, blue threaded the clouds as the rainy weather broke at last, but it had grown so cold that a few white flakes drifted down around them and lingered on the damp stones.

  Rinaldo snorted at the sky. “Santa Maria Maggiore was founded on such a day, when a miraculous snow fell, showing where the Virgin’s church should be built. She is also called the Lady of the Snows.” He snapped out each word.

  “If you’d rather not escort me, Captain—”

  “I am assigned this duty, and I am fulfilling it. This, at least, is a task that still makes sense.” He darted a glance at Elisha as if daring him to deny it.

  For a moment, they pounded along without speaking, Elisha puffing to keep pace with Rinaldo’s long strides as the church came in view, its broad plaza pitted from missing stones. “It’s good to have a task like that,” Elisha ventured carefully, “especially if other things seem nonsensical.”

  “Have you heard what he has done?” Rinaldo stopped and swung about before the doors of the church.

  “Only that he led a great victory.”

  Rinaldo’s lips compressed, and he pointed up again, this time, at the campanile that towered over the graceful church. “Santa Maria has the highest tower in all of Rome. Perhaps in all of Italy. It is not to be missed. The tower is just complete—well, nearly so—before il Papa has gone to France.” He hammered on the door until a bleary-eyed old priest emerged. “Come.” Rinaldo grabbed the old man’s lantern and clumped off into the gloom, Elisha hurrying to catch up. Pointing to each altar as they loomed up from the darkness, Rinaldo bark
ed, “A Colonna family chapel,” or “Dedicated to the Virgin of the Snows,” barely pausing long enough for Elisha to cross himself. Whichever mancer watched the palace must have missed their speedy exit, for they shared the church with no one. No matter: Anyplace in Rome where the dead lay, there, too, lay Vertuollo’s power.

  Elisha’s attunement needed to be a hurried process, but he had grown accustomed to tracking the fresh relics and now it seemed they cried out to him from the moment he let his senses unfurl. They whimpered with pain, fear and grief, animated by their captured tortures as he marked them. Elisha thought of Father Uccello and prayed that the Orsini would keep his body safe until it could be buried, rather than allow it to be hacked to bits by those eager to taste the betrayal of the priest’s wrongful death. Perhaps it was these thoughts, together with Rinaldo’s agitation, that lent an ominous weight to the day. Elisha felt that death mounted around him, lingering nearby, the Valley echoing close to his heart, his old injuries throbbing, from the piercings in his skull to the wrist he used to create affinity with Mordecai when he performed that miraculous healing. His breath misted the air and he caught himself rubbing his arms, grateful for his fur-lined cloak as Rinaldo hurried him from relic to relic with the dizzying pace of his swinging lantern.

  “At last, the tower,” Rinaldo announced, and Elisha wished he could beg off climbing to the top—he was no longer sure if Rinaldo even believed the excuse he had given for making these visits. In an especially shadowed corner, the captain pushed aside a grille and mounted the steps in the base of the tower.

  By the time they emerged into a stone portico near the top—Elisha a few paces behind—Elisha’s legs ached, and he gasped for breath.

  Rinaldo slumped, arms folded, against the low wall opposite. “Apologies, Dottore,” he muttered. “I realize our visit has been too quick. It is only that I am in a state, as you must have noticed.”

  Elisha waved this away, bracing his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

  “A great victory, you said.” The captain sighed. “Our first great victory in quite some time, and he taints it with his fervor. In his excitement after the victory he had two dogs brought to him at the river. He asks one of the priests to baptize the dogs, to name them after our enemies, yes? It is an insult and a jest—the army laughs. Until the tribune has those dogs hanged as if they are criminals.” Rinaldo’s head sank as he continued the story. “He makes himself appear the madman. The prisoners he has taken are afraid, of course. They think this will be the fate of all, even of the barons he has captured”—he pushed off from the wall, standing boldly, then—“and the barons, they should be punished for their crimes, it’s true! But there is so much fighting, even among the council, that he doesn’t keep the prisoners. Last night, he gives them pardon, and they all go home. To what? To make war upon us again, of course!” With a wild gesture he spun away, then both hands gripped one of the pillars as his head rested against it.

  Rinaldo’s tension spread through the air, seeming to add a chill to the wind that stung Elisha’s cheeks. But no, this was more—a sense of death approaching. Deflecting the other man’s emotions, Elisha breathed in the Roman autumn, drawing down the coming winter in spite of the clear blue sky, and he knew it was not only Rinaldo who disturbed the day: that sense of foreboding had not left him. Spreading his senses, Elisha turned a slow circle, taking in the city below him.

  The tower of Santa Maria showed Rome in all her tattered glory, the dark thundering river as it gathered the hundred churches in its broad arm, leaving the angel’s round castle to defend San Pietro on its distant hill. Ruined palaces and broken homes marred the tight alleys and cluttered the piazzas, including an expanse of rubble where a few columns still thrust up from the grass over some ancient place. Il Colosseo gaped to the sky not far away, with the city wall beyond it, dividing the city of the living from the vast catacombs of the dead. To the South, a sense of spreading darkness, the mantle of death creeping onwards, with no sign of the cause. And there to the east, where browning fields and overgrown vineyards capped the rolling hills, the ancient road filled with a shifting mass. An army.

  Elisha reached out and seized Rinaldo’s shoulder, turning him and pulling him close, in spite of his protest. Rinaldo reeled, Elisha’s hand supporting him until he could prop himself on the rail. A few distant banners flickered against the sky and both men leaned closer, peering into the distance.

  “Colonna?” Elisha murmured, as if they could hear him.

  “Sì,” Rinaldo breathed, then squared his shoulders and crossed himself. “Si, Colonna. They own estates in that direction. I’m afraid we must cut short our visit.”

  “Certes,” Elisha replied, but they were already running for the stairs, Rinaldo stumbling onward until Elisha caught up the lantern and came along behind to light the way.

  Halfway down, Elisha nearly fell as the sharp slice of the Valley cut his awareness. Rinaldo steadied him, frowning, barely waiting for Elisha’s nod before starting down again. This had not been the cold, howling external ache of a death, but a subtle, calculated intrusion like a surgical slice.

  “Ah, Captain. I was told you would be here.” The cultivated tone of Count Vertuollo rolled to meet them as Rinaldo clattered, breathless through the grille at the bottom of the stairs. “Careful now, the floor is uneven.”

  Forcing himself to slow, Elisha mastered his own breathing and strolled from the grille, offering a tip of his head in greeting. His heart still pounded, and Elisha turned his awareness inward, slowing his pulse, demanding that his body reflect a calm he could not feel. The mancer stood with his hand on Rinaldo’s shoulder, supportive or sinister, Elisha could not be sure.

  “I was not expecting you, Don Vertuollo.” Rinaldo swept a bow, but his glance darted toward Elisha, who instantly regretted his earlier warning against the count. Hopefully, the mancer would not take Rinaldo’s agitation personally.

  Vertuollo smiled. “I went to pay a call upon the tribune, but I heard that Santa Maria might be open and wished to pay my respects to Our Lady as well.”

  “As you say, Don Vertuollo. I fear we cannot stay to accompany you.” In the lamplight, Rinaldo looked pale, glance darting toward the door where the old priest scowled.

  “No? A pity—especially when I have just given my support to bring the Holy Father home. Myself, I have said we should simply go to where he is . . . but I have lately been convinced otherwise.” His hair gleamed like honed steel.

  Rinaldo squared his shoulders, tearing his eyes from the door. “È vero? Then you have my gratitude and that of all true Romans, Don Vertuollo.”

  “Alas, I don’t believe that my fellow barons are united with the tribune in his bold cause.” The count opened his palms. “But I did appreciate his recent magnanimity toward his noble prisoners.”

  “A victor can afford to be generous,” Rinaldo replied stiffly.

  “You don’t agree with his . . . generosity? It takes a great lord indeed to be lenient with his enemies.”

  “Generosity should come after the victory is complete, Don Vertuollo.” The captain’s hands tremored at his sides, betraying his eagerness to go.

  “Perhaps if he had made an example or two, then the people would once more come together.” Folding his hands at his back, Vertuollo nodded slowly, with a murmur of consideration. “I shall pray upon it.”

  Elisha’s throat went dry. Pray. Only in English, so far as he knew, could the word be “prey” as well, a meaning Vertuollo, in Italian, could not intend. Could he?

  “But I shall keep you no longer—I see you are on an urgent mission.” With a beatific smile, Count Vertuollo dismissed them, giving Elisha no more than a glance, but his presence radiated excitement, and, as Elisha passed, Vertuollo sighed, “Farewell, Brother.”

  As they hurried through the streets, Rinaldo tossed over his shoulder, “You’ve said he is our enemy, but you never said wh
y you think this, Dottore. If he has given his support, then surely—”

  “No, Captain,” Elisha snapped back, jogging to keep up. “A man may fight beside you, may support your cause, for reasons that have nothing to do with honor or justice.” And a mancer that sensitive did not come out of his way for a church, but to deliver a message. On the surface, his support seemed genuine, a commitment to the peace of Rome, in the hopes of bringing home the Pope. He spoke as if Elisha had convinced him of this course, the glory of a Holy Jubilee, returning wealth and vitality to a decrepit city.

  Sometimes, Elisha caught glimpses of what Rome had been, what it once more could be, but the mancers would use the Holy Year to torture and terrify thousands and bring the Church under their control. Vertuollo spoke of examples and enemies. Thank God he did not know Elisha was among them.

  • • •

  Within an hour of the warning they delivered, bells across the city rang, calling her citizen-soldiers to arms. Word spread of the Colonna army, and the citizens came, more worried about the barons than about the tribune’s erratic behavior. The mob gathered near the gate of San Lorenzo, named for Cola’s patron saint by happy coincidence that the tribune was pleased to acknowledge in a rousing speech before the open gates. Any reasonable tyrant would close them, barring out the enemy, but Cola stood so convinced of his own righteousness that he merely shouted louder as the army approached. The Colonna paraded along the wall in all the trappings of nobility, horses decked with mail and silver-fitted bridles, knights in armor, ranks of men-at-arms in the matching Colonna livery. Elisha watched from the shadow of a damaged palace, his back to the stone, the presence of death almost overwhelming now, the shades of the dead flickering among the crowds of the living as if they should soon all be one. Rinaldo stood with the rest of the tribune’s army, clad in blue, decked with stars, swords gripped in their shivering hands.

  “They think still to oppress us, my good citizens! Do you see how they seek to intimidate? But we are not afraid! We have conquered them before, and so we shall conquer them again!” Cola raised his fist to the sky, drawing a ragged cheer from the crowd.