The Mongoliad: Book Three tfs-3

by Neal Stephenson

  Behind her, he spotted Krasniy returning, a bloody sword in his hand. The woman sensed his attention shifting to behind her and she turned around, quickly backing a few steps away from the cage, trying to both he and Krasniy in her field of view.

  “We have to go,” the woman said. “Now. There is very little time.”

  Krasniy looked at Haakon, who could only shrug. He had no idea where the woman had come from, but the fact that she had helped him with the ropes on his cage suggested the three of them had the same plan in mind.

  “Okay,” Haakon said, ducking out of his cage. He stood upright, feeling his spine rattle and crack, and he filled his lungs with air. It felt good to stretch, even though time was of the essence. Off to his right, he noticed a lazy finger of smoke drifting into the air, and the sound of excited voices drifted toward them from that direction.

  A diversion? he wondered. His gaze was drawn to movement and he saw a tiny woman, her head swathed in a red scarf, watching them from the row of ger. She stood awkwardly, staring at the cages, and there was something about her bearing that struck Haakon as familiar.

  She looked in his direction as she reached up and removed the scarf from her head. Haakon stared, shocked to recognize her. “Cnan…?”

  The Chinese woman complicated the situation, especially when the other prisoners started to make noises about being freed as well. Cnan gestured at Haakon to follow her, and started walking briskly toward the tree line to the west of the camp. The young Northerner would either follow her or not, and she couldn’t really do anything about the others-the giant man covered in red hair or the Chinese woman who had helped Haakon escape. In her mind, she could already hear Feronantus admonishing her for the number of strays she had picked up, and she felt her face flushing with embarrassment as she strode out of the camp.

  She hadn’t thought through Haakon’s escape. She hadn’t really considered the complications that would arise with trying to free just one of the prisoners. She glanced over her shoulder-happy to see that Haakon was following her, not as happy to see the other two coming as well. As least, they’d moved away from the cages before other prisoners made too much noise.

  They had to move quickly.

  She picked up her pace when she reached the tree line, and behind her she heard Haakon hiss at her, trying to get her attention. She didn’t slow down, not wanting to stop until they were some distance into the woods.

  The red-haired one, she heard, was not very good at moving quietly through the woods.

  “Cnan!” Haakon grabbed her shoulder and pulled her to a stop.

  “We can’t stay here,” she said. “We have to keep moving.”

  “In a moment,” he said. He was slightly out of breath, his cheeks flushed with excitement. His beard had come in more fully and he seemed taller. Perhaps that was only her memory of him-thinking of him as a mere boy, even though he hadn’t been.

  “I wasn’t expecting your friends,” Cnan said.

  Haakon looked over his shoulder. “That one is Krasniy,” he said, nodding at the red-haired man who was clumsily making his way through the forest. “I do not know the other one.” He smiled. “I never expected to see you again.”

  She flushed at his attention, and gently removed herself from his grasp. “I couldn’t…” she started.

  “You aren’t here alone,” Haakon said. “One of the Mongols talked about the Shield-Brethren. Like he knew them.”

  Cnan started. “Alchiq?”

  “Aye,” Haakon nodded. “I think that is his name. Older man. Gray hair.”

  “That is the one,” Cnan said. She suppressed a shiver. If Alchiq was with the Khagan, the Shield-Brethren might be walking into a trap.

  “Excuse me,” the Chinese woman said in the Mongol tongue, having caught up. “We cannot stay here. We have to move farther into the woods.”

  Cnan glared at her. “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “I am Lian. Like your friends, I wish to escape the Khagan’s reach.”

  “You can’t come with us,” Cnan said. “I don’t know you.”

  “Nor I you,” the woman responded. She glanced at Haakon. “But I know him.”

  Cnan noted that Haakon appeared to be following their conversation. “But I don’t know you,” he said to the woman.

  “I like your new friends, Haakon,” Krasniy boomed as he joined them. “Very pretty.” He laughed at Cnan’s expression.

  Cnan shook her head. “Come on,” she said. “We need to far away by nightfall.”

  “Where are we going?” Haakon asked.

  “Anywhere but here,” Cnan muttered.

  Haakon didn’t budge as she started to walk away, and she stopped too, looking back at him. “We have to go,” she reiterated.

  “Where are they?” Haakon asked.

  “Who?”

  “The Shield-Brethren. They’re in danger, aren’t they?”

  Cnan shook her head. “They’re always in danger,” she replied.

  “They’re trying to kill the Khagan.” Haakon didn’t phrase it as a question.

  Krasniy guffawed at Haakon’s pronouncement, but his laughter subsided when he glanced at Cnan’s face.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I want to help them,” Haakon insisted. “If Alchiq is with the Khagan, then it may be a trap.” He turned to Lian and spoke in the Mongol tongue. “How many warriors with the Khagan?”

  She shrugged. “Four, maybe five arban.”

  “Fifty men,” Haakon said to Cnan. “How many Shield-Brethren?”

  She shrugged, not wanting to tell Haakon the true number. “A dozen or more,” she lied.

  “Who leads them? Is it Feronantus?”

  Cnan felt herself growing impatient. “This isn’t important. We have to flee.”

  “It is important,” Haakon insisted. “Because we’re going to help them.”

  “You are out of your mind,” Cnan snapped. “We are deep within the Mongol Empire. We have very little in the way of supplies. We are-you are-clearly a stranger in this land. We only have one horse. We can’t afford to go riding into… into-” She struggled to find the right words.

  “Battle?” Haakon supplied. He smiled at her and glanced at Krasniy. “Where else would we go?”

  Cnan let loose a tiny cry of frustration. Completely stubborn, she thought. Just like Feronantus.

  “They are my friends,” Haakon said. “They are my family.”

  She glared at him. Was that not the same reason she had defied Feronantus to stay behind and rescue Haakon? Had she not-over the long journey from the West-come to think of the Shield-Brethren as family? She couldn’t find fault in Haakon using the same reasoning in his argument.

  “Fine,” she snapped. She pointed at Lian. “What about her?”

  Krasniy laid a large hand on the Chinese woman’s shoulder. “She can be with me,” he said, a broad grin on his face.

  Lian tossed her hair back from her shoulder and smiled up at the giant man. Cnan was unsure whether Lian had been able to follow their argument, but she could tell from the anger in the woman’s eyes that Lian understood the meaning of Krasniy’s hand on her shoulder.

  “Come on,” she said with a hint of resignation. She turned and started to weave her way through the woods.

  This whole rescue was turning out to be much different from what she had planned.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  An Imperial Breakfast

  Frederick squinted at the pair who had interrupted his breakfast. “You seem to have traded down,” he said to wide-eyed Ferenc. “We gave you a Cardinal and you have brought us back a mere priest. And where is the rest of your posse?”

  “Your Majesty, he doesn’t understand you,” the priest said in a grandfatherly voice.

  Frederick sighed. “I know. You were not present for the farce yesterday, a tedium exacerbated by the fact that even as I was being excommunicated-again-the Cardinals were electing a new Pope. I have heard there was white smoke sighted. A
re you here to inform me of the identity of the new Pope?”

  “I am, Your Majesty,” the priest said.

  Frederick waited for the priest to continue. “And that man is…”

  “I am he,” the priest said. “The new Pope.”

  Frederick started to smirk, but upon noticing the unblinking sternness of the priest’s expression, he delicately raised a hand to hide his amusement. “Of course you are,” he said. “Obviously.” He spread his hands in a welcoming gesture. “Splendid. Well, here you are, already coming to give me grief,” he said, a mocking tone creeping into his voice.

  The priest gave him a puzzled look. “You do me a disservice, Your Majesty, in thinking my intentions are malign.”

  “Ah, a benign papal visit then. And so early in your reign. To what do we owe this honor?” Frederick asked. He signaled a servant waiting by the tent flap, and made a gesture demanding wine. He leaned back in his carved wooden chair. “I do wish you spoke Italian or German,” he said in Ferenc’s direction. “It would be nice to get a second opinion as to whether I should believe this story or not.”

  “Ferenc is a good boy,” the priest said as if protecting him. “He would not tell you anything unless I gave him permission. So you may as well just talk to me directly.”

  “Very well then,” Frederick replied. “This comedy continues. I have no other choice but to play my role in this, do I?” When the priest did not answer, Frederick continued. “Have you selected a name for yourself, or is there a Christian name your mother gave you that still suffices?”

  “Rodrigo,” the priest said with a tiny bow of his head. “Rodrigo Bendrito.”

  “Well met, Rodrigo Bendrito. Or would you prefer Your Holiness?”

  The priest demurred responding, offering a much more pious and humble nod of his head instead.

  “I shall split the difference then,” Frederick offered. “Tell me, Father, what brings you here.”

  “We are paying our respects.”

  Frederick laughed. “You don’t know my history with the Church, do you? It is amusing, admittedly, to have the Pope here, in my tent, offering respect when he is so newly anointed, but you must understand that I am more than a little reticent to believe such a statement.” He waved a hand at Ferenc. “Your companion can tell you. He was witness to my most recent excommunication.”

  Father Rodrigo’s face lost some of its serenity. “The Church has lost its way,” he said quietly. “I do not cling to what it was. I have seen…” He shook himself as if he was shrugging off a heavy blanket. “I do not believe in your prior transgressions,” he said.

  Frederick blinked. “Are you un-excommunicating me?” he asked. He glanced at Ferenc, who seemed both oblivious to their conversation and pleased that they were talking. “You’re no help,” Frederick noted.

  He sat forward in his chair, returning his attention to Father Rodrigo. “This is a most curious turn of events,” he said. “And suddenly, I find myself being drawn into your delirium. If you are indeed Pope, what a marvelous thing it would be to discover a friend in Rome. So, yes, tell me. Is there any reason other than a mutual exchange of respect that brings you into my camp?”

  The priest reached for his satchel as if to reassure himself of its contents. “I have been called to service by God. I must raise an army against the infidels. I seek to call a crusade.”

  “In person?” Frederick asked incredulously. “Usually one sends bishops and priests out to do that sort of ugly legwork.”

  “I believe my appearance is the only way to move people to action: show them I am doing, myself, what I think they should be doing. I moved a great many people in Rome yesterday, and I intend to move others as I travel.”

  “I see, I see,” Frederick said, nodding. He crossed his arms, then slumped back farther in the chair and crossed his legs. He stared intensely at Father Rodrigo, his mind a welter of thoughts. Was this man as barmy as he seemed, or was he truly the new Pope? There was an intensity to the priest’s gaze and he spoke his words with an equal fervor. But he had also met zealots like this before, and even though they believed-so very ardently-that they spoke God’s truth, so many of them had found only an ugly death. “And may I ask, since the boy cannot understand me, what has happened to the Cardinal I released yesterday?” he asked, mainly to give himself another few moments to think. Had Lena a hand in this?

  “Oh, yes, that sounds familiar.” Father Rodrigo said. He turned to Ferenc, and they had a brief exchange in Magyar. Then Father Rodrigo turned back to Frederick. “Cardinal Oddone de Monferrato, would it be?”

  “The very same,” said Frederick. “He was to be the tiebreaker in the papal vote.”

  “They voted before he arrived,” Father Rodrigo explained. “Apparently it was quite a surprise when I won.”

  “I’m sure it was,” Frederick laughed. The page boy reentered with a flagon of wine and three cups. The Emperor pointed to a camp table deeper inside the tent, and the boy crossed to it and began to pour the wine. “And how did you come to be a candidate?”

  “I have no idea,” Father Rodrigo said. “When Ferenc and I arrived in Rome, I was mistaken for a Cardinal and tossed into the Septizodium. I was sick and weak, and I cannot account for anything that happened there.”

  “But apparently somebody decided to put you forth as a candidate.”

  “I don’t know who, or why,” Father Rodrigo said. Frederick studied his face. Barmy or not, the priest radiated calm sincerity.

  “I realize the vote is in confidence, but have you a sense of who your allies were?”

  “Oh, yes. The kindest man of all was killed in the fire-”

  “What?” Frederick demanded.

  “There was a fire in the Septizodium, an unexpected blaze that released us from our prison. Sadly it also released Robert of Somercotes from this mortal coil entirely.”

  Frederick uncrossed his arms and legs and sat up very straight. “What the fuck has been happening in that godforsaken city?” he demanded.

  The priest remained calm. “I believe the fire may have been set deliberately as a way to force the issue of the election, perhaps, or for more nefarious reasons. Once rescued, we were all moved to a horse stable, and from there to Saint Peter’s, where the Cardinals elected me to be the next Bishop of Rome. But they wanted to keep me locked up. They would not let me speak to my flock, and so I had to run away.”

  Frederick stared at him, wide-eyed. “This is the most goddamned improbable story I believe I have heard in my life,” he declared. “And that is saying a lot, my friend.”

  Father Rodrigo nodded amicably. “Yes, it does have the sense of a dream, doesn’t it? I have wondered myself, but having recently been infected with dreams, I know now that I am awake. So very wide awake. And my health has been restored, allowing me to carry out my mission.”

  Frederick pursed his lips together, struggling to find a rational explanation for the priest’s presence and story. It beggared comprehension, but… he couldn’t ignore what Lena had told him prior to her departure from his camp. Opportunities will present themselves. Take care that you recognize them.

  He signaled to the boy for his wine cup. “I will ask you about your mission in a moment,” he said, “But first let us return to my first question: tell me about your supporters. Besides the English Cardinal, who befriended you?”

  Father Rodrigo smiled as if nostalgic. “Most of the Cardinals were very pleasant to me. Two fellows named Colonna and Capocci especially took me under their wings, so to speak-”

  “Indeed?” So we have the same friends, Frederick thought. Or at least, your friends are not my enemies.

  “Yes, and there is Cardinal Fieschi. He is most attentive,” Father Rodrigo concluded carefully.

  That made no sense at all. Fieschi and Colonna would never be on the same side of any issue. Frederick frowned, and dismissed the boy offering wine.

  “Fieschi? Sinibaldo Fieschi? You are sure of that?” Frederick said. “If both Fiesc
hi and Colonna are your allies, I’m pretty damn sure that one of them is not actually your ally, but wants you to think he is.”

  “Which do you think is not my ally?” Father Rodrigo asked, a curious cunning in his eyes.

  What am I supposed to read in his face? Frederick found himself wondering. The priest continued to surprise him with these alternating moods. He appeared harmless, a simple priest struck daft by some beatific vision he thought he had had; but at other moments, there were these flashes of a deep intelligence and passion.

  “The fire in the Septizodium,” he said carefully. “You said it was unexpected. Unexpected for you, perhaps, but not for everyone.”

  “Ignis succensus est in furore meo,” Father Rodrigo said.

  Frederick couldn’t help himself and rolled his eyes. “God, you priests and your Scripture. Yes, I get it. The fire was born out of someone’s anger, but whose?” He stared at the priest. “Somercotes died in the Septizodium,” he mused. “Who benefited from that accident? Orsini, for one. Somercotes was English, hardly an advocate for a Roman Pope. Did he have men set that fire to cover up some other nefarious deed? Or did he have a man inside?”

  “Et ardebit usque ad inferni novissima,” Father Rodrigo said quietly.

  The fire that burns in the lowest pit of Hell, Frederick thought, still considering whether to believe what the priest was suggesting. He held his hand out. “I’ll take the wine now, boy.” The page immediately held out the chalice. Frederick drank it off in one gulp and handed back the cup. “Have some wine,” he said, gesturing to the other two cups. He looked directly at Ferenc and repeated the gesture.

  As the two visitors rose and crossed to the table, Frederick carefully considered what the priest was suggesting. The fire in the Septizodium had been set on purpose, mostly likely to hide the suspicious death of Cardinal Somercotes. Did he know who committed the heinous crime? he wondered, and of what use was that knowledge-to the priest, to him?