Styg drew in a sharp breath at the sight of the filled stands, and Andreas felt a similar awe clutch his chest as he gazed upon so many different peoples clustered together for the singular purpose of watching men fight. The Colosseum in Rome had served a similar purpose once, and Andreas had heard his share of stories about the gladiators of old, but the sheer diversity of the audience here was much more worldly than the bloodthirsty crowd that gathered in Old Rome. His heart skipped a beat as he looked upon Saracens, Slavs, Germans, Franks, Mongols, Persians, Turks, and those of a number of other races he couldn’t readily identify; he saw the same rapt expression on all their faces. They were here to watch someone bleed. It would help them forget their own woes, Andreas knew; it was one of the ugly truths of the world. Steeling himself, he took a few more steps forward so that he could look down upon the killing field.
The sand had been raked, but there was still a shadow that resided in it, a ghostly smear of the blood shed in the last fight. The hint of blood in the sand had a tangible effect on the audience, and there was a pressing hunger in the air. The back of his throat constricted, and his tongue was numb in his mouth. It was not unlike battlefield nerves, but it felt so much more vile and wrong for the place and manner in which it crept into his blood.
“Remember why we have come today,” Andreas said to Styg. He swallowed heavily, pushing his revulsion back down into his stomach where it roiled angrily.
Styg pressed his lips together and gave Andreas a jerky nod. Andreas laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
CHAPTER NINE
Quoniam Fortiduo Mea
In the long, flat valley between the Palatine and the Aventine hills lay the overgrown ruins of the Circus Maximus. It had been hundreds of years since chariots had churned across the sand, and the ground had slowly been reclaimed by wild grass and narrow stands of trees. The only reminders that the ground had once been trampled by frenzied horses were a squat tower and a series of low stables at the southern end. The stables themselves were vacant of horses now, but the largest stall was filled with a confused collection of dirty and agitated Cardinals.
Fieschi remained on the periphery of the bare room. The chamber was not unlike many of the rooms they had so recently inhabited not far from here; the main difference was the large opening at the north end that looked out upon the empty expanse of the Circus Maximus.
And the guards. A line of a dozen of Orsini’s men stood between the Cardinals and the open field, just to remind them that they were still prisoners of the Senator of Rome.
The Bear was on his way, they had been told, though Fieschi surmised that the delay had more to do with Orsini playing to their fear and confusion than any real conflicting activity. What else could be more exciting in Rome this afternoon than a fire in an abandoned temple? he thought with a wry smile.
The other Cardinals milled about in the empty stable, still congratulating themselves on their narrow escapes. Bonaventura, especially, seemed particularly enlivened by the experience. His cheeks were ruddy with excitement, and he was deep in his fourth or fifth retelling of the experience of having been lifted out of the Septizodium by a brace of soldiers. Da Capua, who had heard the story at least twice already, hung on every word like an eager sycophant, and announced that he would write a ballad about the ordeal. Dei Conti, meanwhile, kept his annoyance off his face as he listened to Bonaventura’s rambling story-he had been, from what he had muttered to Fieschi earlier, standing next to Bonaventura during the rescue. Torres, inscrutable as ever, held council with Annibaldi and Castiglione, while de Segni tried-yet again-to open negotiation with the guards, who remained unmoved by the tall Cardinal’s exhortations. Colonna fussed over his friend, Capocci, who was seated as comfortably as possible in this Spartan environment.
Capocci’s hands had been badly burned, and the Master Constable had found some cloth that had been soaked in water and wrapped around them, to provide some relief from the pain while a healer was found. Colonna kept wanting to check the bandages but, realizing he was being a fussy nursemaid, would catch himself. Capocci ignored the other man’s fluttering presence, his gaze steady and unwavering.
Fieschi did not shy away from that gaze. Whenever he glanced over, Capocci’s expression was the same, and he found no reason to give the man any satisfaction. He met Capocci’s glare with a calm and untroubled expression of his own. He knows nothing, he thought. He might have seen Somercotes’s body, but he cannot know what happened. He wants to believe that I am responsible; it would fit his impression of me-a simple solution that would ease his mind.
Fieschi looked away from the wounded Cardinal, returning his attention to the line of guards and the open field beyond. His mind drifting, wondering about the races that had once been held in the valley. Thousands of citizens had once clustered around the raked sands while charioteers beat their horses bloody in an effort to gain glory for their leaders. The pagan rituals of the gods of Imperial Rome had been brutal, savage rites of a weaker age, but they had had their place in that world. It did not surprise Fieschi that a place like the Circus had fallen into disuse; Christianity was, after all, civilized. Love for Christ had brought them all out of darkness, and-with proper guidance-that love would bring them all to salvation. It was much as Augustine said: Rome loved Romulus and made him a god; the devout believed Christ to be God, and therefore loved Him.
Yet he could not help but wonder about the power of that crowd’s love. The roar of their voices, chanting and screaming the names of their champions. The orgiastic surge of delight when their man won a race. Or the tumultuous rage when a favorite son fell, his body most likely crushed beneath the wheels of another’s chariot. To control that energy, to know that these men raced for your pleasure, to soak in the emotional exultation of the crowd that had come to worship at this barbaric temple of your creation. Such power was an aphrodisiac to the Roman Emperors, surely, as it would be to any ruler. It was an earthly love, a devotion to the materials of the flesh and the world; while it felt fierce and all-consuming, it was not the same love one could have for Christ, for God.
He had, in fact, had this argument with Frederick once. Years ago, before the Holy Roman Emperor drifted from his allegiance to the Pope. Frederick, reveling too much perhaps in his delight at playing the fool, had taken the side of Imperial Rome. It was better to have the love and respect of your subjects, he had argued, than to persist in frightening them with the threat of losing the love of a Supreme Being they will never know.
He had quoted Scripture in response. Fieschi caught himself smiling at the memory. The thirty-first Psalm. Diligite Dominum, omnes sancti eius, quoniam veritatem requiret Dominus, et retribuet abundantur facientibus superbiam.
God rewards the faithful, and His rewards were abundant to the proud believer.
The Rome of Romulus was gone, sacked and pillaged as it grew too decrepit to protect itself. Rome belonged to Christ now, and he was going to make it the heavenly city that Augustine had posited.
“Ego autem in te speravi, Domine,” he whispered, lighting touching his forehead with a trembling finger. “Deus meus es tu.”
Fieschi caught sight of the mad priest, standing in the far corner of the stable like a forgotten child. He clutched a plain jar in his hands, holding it tightly as if it contained a sacred relic. Much like he had clung to his satchel when he had been first lowered into the Septizodium.
Fieschi finished making the sign of the Cross before letting his hand drift toward his satchel. He still had the priest’s parchment, the page covered with the frenzied scribbling of a heretical prophecy. For an instant, Fieschi almost felt some empathy for the deluded priest. To be so bereft of God’s love that he could be snared by the heretical vision of those words, to be so lost that he could believe that he had been the recipient of a divine visitation. To feel the Serpent’s tongue and mistake it for the whispering voice of an angel.
He sent a silent prayer of gratitude to God. Q
uoniam fortiduo mea at refugium meum es tu. His purpose was clear; his path was like a ribbon of shining white stones, laid before him.
They called him the Bear, a nickname that Rodrigo assumed was nothing more than a childish play on the Senator’s name, but when he saw the man approaching the stables, he realized how true the appellation was.
Matteo Rosso Orsini wore his hair long, in a style reminiscent of the sculpted faces of Roman Emperors that peered down at the citizen of Rome from every building and temple. His hair had lost some of its youthful luster, but it was still a rich brown color that reminded Rodrigo of the dirt in freshly plowed fields. The Senator was tall and wide, though not so tall that he was a giant among his men, nor so wide that his detractors would call him fat. The wind toyed with his hair and flung his cape about his shoulders. The light of the sun inflamed a tracery of gold thread in his tunic, making his clothes appear to be made from a wealth of golden leaves, all stitched together in a seamless pattern. When he reached the stables, he stood silently at the doors, waiting for the Cardinals to acknowledge his arrival.
Eventually, their conversations trickled to an end, though Bonaventura seemed hesitant to let go of the audience he had been enjoying.
Rodrigo had been watching Cardinal Colonna. The feud between the Colonnas and the Orsinis had been so long-standing that it was a persistent part of his memories of growing up in Rome, like the Colosseum or the ruins of the Circus Maximus. Judging by the Cardinal’s expression, nothing had been settled between their families.
“Look what has dragged itself out of bed,” Colonna muttered, a little too loudly in the near silence.
“Good afternoon, your Eminences.” Orsini ignored the Cardinal’s comment, and his voice was naturally loud and commanding, rising from the barrel-like vault of his chest. “I deeply regret the occasion of our meeting. I have just come from the Septizodium, where Master Constable Alatrinus has informed me of the tragic death of Cardinal Somercotes.” He paused, his eyes on de Segni, who appeared to be on the verge of speaking. The Cardinal, who was nearly the tallest among the group (other than Cardinal Colonna, who was taller even than the Bear), squirmed under the Bear’s gaze and finally looked down at the ground.
“There will be opportunity later for discussion as to how this tragedy came about, and I will hear all of your recriminations and accusations in time. However, this tragedy does not alter the critical task which is your duty-”
“He would not be dead if you hadn’t imprisoned us!”
They were all surprised at the source of the voice. Mild-tempered Castiglione, who was prone to disappear in any given gathering of the Cardinals, was flushed and animated. Spurred on by the echo of his voice in the chamber, the Cardinal strode toward Orsini, one hand raised to point dramatically at the Senator. “You will bear the mark of the Cardinal’s death, Senator,” Castiglione continued. “When your soul is released, God will reject it. You will not be afforded a place in Heaven; your soul, weighed down by your actions, will be cast into endless perdition.”
“Is that so?” Orsini asked, raising one eyebrow. Rodrigo thought he was remarkably calm for a man who had just been condemned by a Cardinal of the Church. His own stomach was tied in a knot at the very idea of being subjugated to such an accusation, and the Bear seemed nonplussed by Castiglione’s accusatory finger. “I am wounded by your words, Your Eminence,” he said. “I fear your temper and exhaustion do you a disservice; your head is filled with words you do not mean to say. How, pray tell, do you find me responsible for Cardinal Somercotes’s untimely death? I was not in the Septizodium. I have been at my estate all afternoon. In fact, the Master Constable tells me that the halls beneath the Septizodium are still filled with fire and smoke. It would be a miracle if the Cardinal were still alive down there, but, alas, I must confess that I have no hope that such a thing is true.” He brought his hands together and bowed his head. “May God receive his soul with all alacrity.”
The Bear’s reaction threw Castiglione, and the Cardinal’s outrage faltered for a moment. “Our imprisonment is unjust, as is your insistence that we immediately vote on a successor to the late Pope. This is a matter of the Church. We do not elect a new Bishop of Rome at your command. You serve at our-”
“I serve Rome,” Orsini thundered. “Have you forgotten your late Pope’s concessions to the city when we allowed him to return from his inglorious exile? Have you forgotten the insults laid against the Church by that jackanape of an Emperor? Frederick wants-”
“Neither you nor Frederick have any authority over us,” Castiglione interrupted. He stepped closer to the Senator. “God sees the willful blasphemy of your pride. He has marked how your words and actions have injured those of His flock who are close to Him. Deus iudex iustus, fortis, et patiens; numquid irascitur per singulos dies. Have care, Senator Orsini, your soul is in peril.”
Something flickered across the Bear’s eyes-a shadow of fear, perhaps-but it fled so quickly, Rodrigo had nothing more than a fleeting impression of the Senator’s reaction. The Bear’s face was otherwise impassive as he considered the Cardinal’s heated words.
“What would you have me do, Your Eminence?” the Bear finally asked.
“Release us,” Castiglione snapped.
“I cannot do that,” Orsini said, and Rodrigo heard a surprising weariness in his voice. “You have a sacred task to accomplish, and I cannot allow you to shirk that responsibility.”
Castiglione drew himself, puffing out his chest. “We shall never cast a vote,” he replied. “One by one, we shall all die of exposure or accidents, and God will condemn you again for each of us.”
An ugly sneer twisted Orsini’s mouth. “No,” he replied, rejecting Castiglione’s defiance. “You will vote, and you will vote tonight.” He stepped close to the Cardinal, towering over him. “By sunrise, you will have elected a new Pope.” The sneer spread across his face. “You have all had enough time to bicker amongst yourselves and select a candidate you can all live with. Let God strike me down-right now-if He thinks I am asking too much of Your Eminences.”
Rodrigo held his breath, as did everyone else in the room. Everyone except for the hawk-faced man, Cardinal Fieschi, who seemed to be watching all of this with barely concealed delight. Orsini did not waver; he stood his ground before Castiglione and met the Cardinal’s gaze without a shred of fear in his broad features.
A burning sensation started in Rodrigo’s belly, a bloom of fire that spread to his ribs and chest. It was the fever, assaulting him again. He clutched the jar tightly to his chest, and fell back against the wall of the stables. His teeth began to chatter. Bright lights began to spark in the corners of his vision. Was this the presence of God coming over him? Was a thunderbolt about to split the brick roof of the stables? Rodrigo shivered, unwilling to watch what came next, but unable to close his eyes or look away.
Castiglione took a step back, and he passed a hand in front of his face, making the sign of the Cross.
“Master Constable,” Orsini barked, his gaze unwavering.
“Sir!” The Master Constable stepped up behind the Senator.
“Prepare some transportation for these eminent persons. This location is hardly suitable for the task before them. They need food and shelter that more reflects their station.” He raised his shoulders slightly. “Perhaps your previous lodgings were ill-considered. I see no reason to repeat those conditions…”
Castiglione, realizing he was being addressed, shook his head. “No,” he said. “The Lateran Palace will be fine.”
The Master Constable bobbed his head in acknowledgment and made to leave, but the Senator stopped him with a word.
“They go to the Basilica of Saint Peter,” Orsini corrected. Castiglione thought to argue the point, but Orsini cut him off. “You will be under my guard until morning. Unless you prefer to allow my men complete access to the Papal residence…?”
“Saint Peter’s is fine,” Fieschi spoke up from the edge of the room. The hawk-faced man glan
ced at the other Cardinals. “It is one more night, my friends, and it will be more comfortable than the Septizodium. Let us not forget what it is that we are supposed to accomplish. And how little time we have left.”
Rodrigo did not recall the particulars of the wagon ride. The soldiers procured two rickety wagons and several equally aged and withered mules readily enough. It was hardly a suitable procession, but the events of the day had taken their toll, and the Cardinals submitted meekly enough to the ignominy of a bumpy wagon ride across Rome.
He lay against the front of the cart, still holding on to the jar given to him by Colonna, who was in the other cart with Capocci. When he turned his head to the side and peered through the uneven spaces in the slats, he could see the other wagon, but he could not tell which of the slumped shapes were either of the two men. He still felt isolated, and while such a feeling was not unusual, he felt it with newfound clarity. Some of the men he had met in the Septizodium had given him hope. Soon, he hoped, the new Pope would be elected, and then he could finally divest himself of his message.
The wagon jumped sharply, and several of the Cardinals voiced their annoyance at the bumpy ride. The jar popped out of Rodrigo’s grip and bounced on the wooden floor of the cart. He got his hands on it quickly enough, but as he checked it, he realized the stopper had come loose.
He sat up hurriedly, his eyes frantically scanning the wagon bed for the narrow plug. He caught sight of it on his left, near the wall of the wagon. As he reached for it, the wagon hit another bump, and the stopper jumped out of reach. It slid across the wooden floor, bounced against the lowest slat on the side, and then slipped through the gap. Rodrigo stared, and then whipped his head around to fixate on the jar.
The Mongoliad: Book Three tfs-3 Page 8
