The Mongoliad: Book Three Page 26

  Fieschi turned his attention away from this useless young cleric and seared the half dozen guards around them with his eyes. “Find Brother Lucio,” he ordered. “Bring him here at once.”

  The ten Cardinals stood in the antechamber to the bishop’s conference hall. Despite the relief of being free from months of deprivation and now surrounded by arguably the most sumptuous decorations in all of Christendom, the ten Cardinals were so beside themselves they took no notice of their surroundings at all. Sunlight streamed in at an angle from one set of open doors. It was magnificent, almost literally golden, and it cast their shadows artfully across a marble floor. Not even da Capua, the most artistic one among them, noticed the beauty.

  “This is a calamity,” Fieschi said angrily to the others. “The leader of the Church has gone missing.” He tried to remain calm, but a worm of doubt was gnawing in his belly. He glanced at Colonna and Capocci, wondering if they were responsible for this mishap.

  “Perhaps we need to get another leader, then,” de Segni said in a sharp, bitter tone. “One who is voted into power because people want him in the position.”

  “You are both overreacting,” said Annibaldi blandly. “The man is surely somewhere in the immediate area, and as soon as he is retrieved, we will explain the unusual circumstances. He is, after all, a man of God. He will surely do the right thing.”

  Fieschi chewed his lower lip, glaring at Capocci. He was trying to account for the movements of the two clowns since all the Cardinals had left the voting chamber. Had they spoken to anyone since? Had either of them wandered off for a little while?

  Rodrigo moved slowly through the crowded city, toward the main gateway to the Colosseum. It was perhaps a mile away, but his stroll took longer than it usually takes to walk such a distance—in part because of the crowds, but also because Father Rodrigo was in no particular hurry. He ambled more than strode, and with a small smile or even a sigh of nostalgia he imagined pointing out to young Ferenc places of historical or personal significance. He pretended for now that Ferenc was still with him. He wanted to thank Ferenc for bringing him home, and he wanted the boy to feel welcome in this city, welcome enough to call it home as well. He wondered where Ferenc was. He would have to find him, and make sure he was safe.

  Somehow, the boys always strayed...

  But there was something else he had to do first.

  “But he was absolutely unremarkable,” Brother Lucio insisted, from his knees. He had been impelled to this level by the collective glowering of Cardinals—glowering so intense it seemed to add to his earthly weight. “I had been told I’d be put in charge of a demented invalid, but the man who was handed off to me was as healthy and rational as any man in this room.” He dared to look up at them, cringing. “I am always obedient, but this was an imposition on my day, which was already a very full one. It is the beginning of the entry of the grape harvest into the compound, and it is my responsibility to oversee it. So when a perfectly lucid priest assured me that he did not want to be a source of trouble, I did not see the need to doubt him.”

  “Where did he go?” Fieschi said coldly.

  Brother Lucio shook his head. “He said he wanted to go into the city, because he was a native and had not been here for a long time. I managed to spare Timoteo, one of the lay boys who help us with organizing the harvest influx. The two of them left over the Ponte Sant’Angelo.”

  “When?”

  “About an hour ago, perhaps two.” Lucio looked extremely ill at ease, which Fieschi felt was entirely deserved.

  “And nobody knows where they went?” Fieschi demanded. “They are at large in Rome?”

  “They could not have gone far,” Lucio began in an apologetic voice, but was cut off by Fieschi’s hand slapping him hard across the face.

  “You negligent fool!” he snarled. “You’ve misplaced the Pope!”

  Despite themselves, Colonna and Capocci snickered at the sound of this. Fieschi whirled around, his scarlet cloak swirling like wine in a cup, and glared at them. They immediately repressed their grins, but this only made them look like naughty school boys. Muttering, Fieschi turned away from them and looked at the other Cardinals.

  “Perhaps he is headed for the Septizodium,” he suggested. “We should send guards there at once.”

  “Yes,” said Capocci in a meaningful voice, rubbing his bandaged hand gingerly. “I’ll wager he is looking for his friend Cardinal Somercotes.”

  “Perhaps he is seeking his childhood haunts,” Castiglione suggested. “Are there any records of his background? Do we know where he was ordained or who he studied under?”

  As much as Fieschi did not want to admit it, this was a sound idea. He looked around the room irritably for someone else to order around. There were now a dozen priests and two bishops standing with them, all equally unable to do anything about the situation.

  “You,” Fieschi said, randomly pointing to one of the older priests. “Discover where this Father Rodrigo studied, and where he served before he went to Hungary. There must be some particular church he has affiliations with in the city, and he may be headed in that direction.”

  The man bowed hurriedly and left. The other priests looked torn between relief at not being given the assignment, and forlornness at being stuck with the glowering Cardinals until further notice.

  The boy, Timoteo, ran up beside Rodrigo, panting and wide-eyed.

  “I thought I’d lost you!” the boy cried.

  “I am here, no harm. I have been walking and thinking.”

  “They will be looking for us. We have been gone too long!”

  “Then let them find us.”

  They passed by the dumping ground that a thousand years earlier had been the Forum, the center of Roman government and religion. There were many markets in the city of Rome, but one of the largest was in the open space between the Forum and the Colosseum. The cemented combination of debris and ruined buildings had raised the height of the ancient Forum so that it seemed to peer and hover awkwardly over the western edge of this market.

  He remembered climbing those rubbish-strewn ruins as a child, and he even remembered a section—if it were still intact—where part of a wall of the Temple of Vesta had fallen, without breaking, onto its side, creating a flat area not unlike a dais. The accidental acoustics of half-fallen columns around it had made it an effective place to shout from, if, as a child, one wanted to get the attention of several hundred market-goers and market-sellers at once. He had done that when he was younger than the lad who followed him—Timoteo. He even remembered how to get there.

  Rodrigo approached the awkward, angular bulge on the earth that was the ruins of the Forum. The boy stumbled up after him.

  “This way, my son,” Rodrigo said with a smile. “I am going to show you a secret way into the marketplace, and then you are going to witness something that people will talk about for generations to come.”

  He led the boy up a wobbly crest of boulders and broken walls that formed an uneven series of steps and stairs. They moved sideways across what had once been the upper portico of some great administrative building. The stone was warm and reflected the bright afternoon sunlight. It felt wonderful, so wonderful, to feel the sun shine upon him in his native city. Rodrigo watched the familiar pathways of years gone by unfold before him, unchanged but by the smallest degree. When they reached the edge of the portico, he gestured to the boy to look.

  Below them by some dozen feet spread the western edge of the enormous market. It was mostly a fruit and vegetable market, but to the north there were several horse traders, and farther east the mercers’ stalls began.

  Timoteo took in an awe-filled breath at this unusual perspective. “It’s beautiful,” he said. Then, pointing to a small crowd gathered together and facing a single point, he asked, “What is that?”

  Rodrigo looked and huffed dismissively. “Nothing has changed since my early days here. That, my son, is a false prophet, preaching some heresy to gullible innocents wh
ose souls he may well damn for all eternity. Such men as he are popular in gathering spots like this. Look, there is another one,” he said, and pointed to the south where a smaller band of women with market baskets stared slack-jawed at a man in a bright blue robe who stood on a cart, gesticulating madly. “And there too.” A bowshot to the east of him there was another man, this one dressed in sack cloth, shouting abusively into a growing crowd made up mostly of young men.

  “Where do they come from?” Timoteo asked, genuinely alarmed at seeing souls led astray. “Why does anybody listen to them?”

  “That,” said Rodrigo, “is an excellent question. Let us attempt to find the answer to it. Will you come with me?” He gestured forward. The portico ended but abutted the fallen temple wall that Rodrigo had anticipated. He had to take one unnerving jump across a gap the breadth of an arm; the gap was deep and he could see the jagged stubs of ruined columns below. For the boy’s sake, he acted as if it did not bother him.

  The boy, perhaps for Rodrigo’s sake, acted likewise, and jumped right after him.

  Now they stood in clear view of hundreds of people. Rodrigo glanced down at the boy. “Et in semitis quas ignoraverunt ambulare eos faciam. Ponam tenebras coram eis in lucem, et prava in recta,” he said, and seeing the boy’s confusion, he offered him a genial smile. “It is my time,” he explained, “I have something to show them.” He reached into his satchel and pulled out the communion cup he had brought with him from the tomb of Saint Peter.

  Timoteo’s eyes grew very wide.

  A guard entered the antechamber where the Cardinals were clustered in their confusion, a squirming figure thrown over his shoulder. He dumped his cargo in the middle of the marble floor, and gesturing at it, he offered a terse explanation. “This one ran up to me like he was being pursued by the Devil,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye, Fieschi saw da Capua hastily make the sign of the Cross to ward off any truth to the man’s statement. “Name’s Timoteo, he says. He’s seen something. Maybe what you’re looking—”

  “Of course,” Fieschi said, waving the guard away from the boy sprawled on the floor. The boy was still half hysterical, and with little prompting from Fieschi, his story spilled out in frighteningly rapid rush of words. The Cardinals listened to his story, and their expressions changed from incredulity to disbelief to—for more than a few—horror. Especially when he reached the part about...

  Fieschi nearly pounced on him. “Magical priest?” he said, furiously gesturing the others to back away. “This man. Was his name Bendrito? Father Rodrigo Bendrito?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence,” Timoteo said, trembling even more now that he was being stared at by so many angry, well-dressed men. “I was assigned to go with him into the city.”

  Annibaldi glanced up and signaled to one of the several extraneous guards by the door. “Release Lucio,” he said, “but bring him back here.” Then his eyes, like all the others in the room, went back to the boy.

  “He took me to the marketplace at the Forum,” the boy said. “He was kind, he seemed normal, until we got there, and then... and then...”

  “And then what?” demanded Fieschi. “What happened? Where is he? Why did you leave him there? He could be anywhere now!”

  “Oh, no, Your Eminence,” Timoteo said, gaining courage. “He’ll be very easy to find. You’d have a hard time not finding him, I think.”

  “What does that mean, boy?” Fieschi demanded, as all the Cardinals exchanged confused looks.

  “He began preaching,” said the boy, and stood up, taking a deep breath as if to reassure himself his lungs could still do that. “Like all those crazy preachers in the marketplace. He began prophesying and talking about the Mongol invaders bringing an end to the world, and how to defeat them.”

  There was the slightest collective sigh as all the Cardinals exchanged knowing glances. “So he is still demented,” said Fieschi. “Despite reports to the contrary.”

  “He did not seem demented, Your Eminence,” Timoteo said. “He got a lot of attention right away. Well, not he himself so much, but...” his eyes widened. “Your Eminences, I know you won’t believe this, but he was carrying... he said it was... it did look—”

  “What?” Fieschi demanded.

  The boy seemed on the verge of tears, but his face was caught between despair and such a wild delight that Fieschi could not help but feel a sense of dread creeping over him.

  “It glowed,” the boy said, “When he held it up. It was so bright, and it blinded me. I put up my hand to shield my eyes, but he turned it and it only glowed more brightly. He smiled at me, and... and he said it was—”

  “Damnation, boy!” Fieschi could not contain his impatience. “What was he tossing around out there?”

  “The Cup,” the boy said, staring around at the group. “The Cup of Christ.”

  “What?” demanded most of the voices of the room, followed immediately by Colonna and Capocci breaking into quiet guffaws.

  “I saw it,” the boy insisted.

  Fieschi watched his face closely. At heart, Timoteo seemed a practical young fellow, and the reactions of the Cardinals had made him swallow hard. Perhaps he was wishing he’d never said a word, but Fieschi suspected the boy would defend his story vigorously, now that he had told it. He would elaborate now, adding more details to the story. It was quite wonderful, actually, he reflected, to see how God shaped the world with such subtlety.

  The priest was mad, clearly, and this boy’s testimony was only going to further the Cardinals’ impression of the priest’s insanity. The new Pope would need strict guidance, they would all see that, and it would be so much easier for him to insert himself...

  “I was standing right next to him,” Timoteo said. “It materialized from nowhere, and then suddenly he was holding it in his hands, and the sunlight hit it, and rays spread out from it in all directions—” here Timoteo excitedly and awkwardly tried to demonstrate emanating rays. “It was almost as if the light was reaching out to touch people, people in the crowd, and you could see it, you could see when they were touched, their faces changed, they lit up, they suddenly could not take their eyes away from him. It was the most miraculous thing I have ever seen in my life!”

  The boy had gone quite far enough. Such a story could be dangerous, after all, if it got around. “That’s blasphemy,” said Fieschi sharply. “There is nothing miraculous about it, it was just a trick of the light. Why did you leave him there unattended when you were ordered not to?”

  “But he wasn’t unattended, Your Eminence,” the boy said. “Hundreds and hundreds of people were hanging on his every word—”

  “The child exaggerates,” Fieschi said with contempt, and turned away from him. He gestured to one of the bishops. “Send guards to the Forum to find Father Rodrigo before he disappears again. Tell them to look for the crazy preacher.”

  “There are a lot of crazy preachers in that marketplace,” Capocci pointed out with a smile.

  “He... you will find him, surely,” Timoteo said hurriedly, trying to be helpful. “He is the one that hundreds of people are flocking to. He could have jumped off the ledge where we were standing and been caught and carried away by them, they were so packed together, jostling to come closer, to see this miracle—and more were moving toward him every moment. I was sure we would be separated by the crowd, for there were people climbing up the ruins to get near to him. I thought it was my duty to come back here and inform Your Eminences of what was happening. Of... what I saw.” He blinked at Fieschi, wide-eyed innocence. “Have I done wrong?”

  For a moment, Fieschi was too flabbergasted to speak.

  “It seems our new Pope already has both a calling, and a following,” Colonna announced philosophically. “We really must give him more credit.”

  Ferenc, Ocyrhoe, and the rest of the party from the Emperor’s camp entered the city without incident from the Porta Labicana, and took the left of the broad roads. This led a mile west to the Colosseum, where a turn to the left would
lead south to the Septizodium.

  The day was hot and dry, and the streets too noisy for comfortable conversation. Ocyrhoe led the way with Ferenc beside her, the adults abreast behind them. Occasionally Ocyrhoe would glance over her shoulder to make sure they were still close on her heels. Each time, she saw them making assorted faces of displeasure. She took it as a personal insult that they did not like her city.

  When at last they reached the ruined Colosseum—and she exacted some satisfaction from the amazed expression on surly Helmuth’s face—she was surprised to notice that all the foot traffic was suddenly heading only in one direction: westward. People were moving into the market area between the Colosseum and the Forum, but nobody seemed to be leaving.

  Ocyrhoe knew her city well, knew how to read its pulses as if it were a living organism. Beside her, Ferenc was equally distracted, picking up on other clues from his own training: something strange was afoot.

  The two of them stopped at the same moment. Ocyrhoe did not even bother to sign. She simply glanced ahead toward the marketplace, just out of view around the bend of the Colosseum, and then looked back at Ferenc, raising her eyebrows. He raised his too, and nodded.

  From the market, echoing from the walls, boomed a great voice, and around that voice, the murmurs of entranced listeners... like the lowing of contented cows in a field.

  “Father Rodrigo,” Ferenc said.

  Ocyrhoe nodded.

  Without explaining, they turned together toward the market, ignoring the protests from their companions, who held back for a moment, then ran to keep up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  He Never Faltered

  Rutger leaped to his feet as the spear sailed through the air. The collective voices of the audience turned from raucous cheers to screams of panic. The Shield-Brethren in attendance at the arena wore maille and carried weapons under their cloaks and plain robes in preparation for the culmination of Andreas’s plan. But everything had gone horrifically wrong the moment one of Dietrich’s men had walked into the arena instead of one of the Khan’s fighters. The Shield-Brethren had all been waiting for the fight to end, hoping that their brother would be triumphant, but fearing they would be forced to watch him fall. Forced to watch one of theirs die, unable to do anything to prevent it. And their plan would have come to naught, undone by the Livonian Grandmaster’s desire for revenge. Everything undone.