pulled her body up. She was getting perilously close to complete exhaustion; she wouldn’t be able to do much more running and climbing before her body gave out. As quietly as possible, she slipped over the railing and hid in the shadows along the side of the house.
Inside, a line of oil lamps hanging along the inner wall created dancing patterns of illumination-gloom and half-light. A wooden table sat in the center of the room, and there were two stools placed nearby. There were indeed two men: one standing, one sitting. The man she had followed was sitting, eating; the other man was the Bear.
The Bear-Matteo Rosso Orsini-watched his visitor eat. Orsini was a big man, prone to wearing big robes-even in this heat-and his smooth face was ruddy in the firelight. Ocyrhoe had seen him laugh once, and the sight had terrified her. He’d thrown his head back and opened his mouth wide, and she couldn’t help but think of a snake unhinging its jaws to swallow its prey. But what had really terrified her was all the teeth. His mouth seemed to be filled with more teeth than the human head should possibly hold. And his laugh. It came from deep in his belly-a roiling sound of thunder.
“All this way for a plate of meat.” Orsini shook his head, bemused by the way the other man attacked his plate. “Perhaps I should offer to provide more food for your friends.”
The man from the Septizodium paused, his tongue touching a blot of grease on his lower lip. “No,” he said. “I don’t want them to become comfortable.”
“What of you? Are you going to sneak out every night to feast at my table? That isn’t wise. Someone will see you eventually, someone we don’t control. They will talk to the wrong people, and-”
“The city isn’t yours?”
The Bear didn’t take the bait. “It’s not the city that concerns me. It’s the people in it.”
The man gestured at his companion with his knife for a second before returning to cutting his meat. “They’re simple. Like cattle. You spook a few of them, and the rest will follow. And the ones that wander away from the herd are lost, and they know it. They only want to return to the comfort of the herd.”
“Yes, dear Sinibaldo”-the Bear leaned on the table-“but what happens when someone else spooks the herd?”
The man called Sinibaldo shrugged and kept eating.
He looked familiar to Ocyrhoe, and she moved closer to the light, trying to get a better glimpse. This was the first chance she’d had to see his face. When she had first spotted him near the base of the Palatine Hill-near the old facade known as the Septizodium, the place where the rumors said the priest had been taken-he had been a hooded figure, ducking through the shadows.
She had been prowling cautiously, conscious of more than a usual number of guards guarding…nothing. This mysterious man had suddenly appeared in front of her, stepping out of a deep shadow in the wall that must have hidden some manner of secret doorway. His hood had been pulled close about his face, reducing his peripheral vision; otherwise, he would have spotted her. But she had held perfectly still, and he hadn’t noticed her.
In fact, the whole way here, he hadn’t seemed terribly concerned about someone following him. Ocyrhoe had found such inattention odd, but it made the job of shadowing him easier.
He was wearing a plain brown robe. Such a common vestment among the clergy told her nothing about his identity. She knew him, but she couldn’t place where. She bit her lip in frustration. She should be able to place him even without the trappings of his office. She’d been practicing recently, sitting at the edge of the Porta Appia market in the morning and picking out faces from the crowd. When she reached twenty, she would leave her spot and try to find them in the throng. She could find ten of them easily, and the other day she had made it to sixteen, but the rest of the faces faded too quickly, and she hadn’t been able to find all twenty yet. Varinia could do thirty, and the older girl impressed upon Ocyrhoe that a true kin-sister never forgot a face.
“So,” the Bear said, “if you aren’t here for the food, then why have you come?”
“We have a new visitor,” Sinibaldo said around a mouthful of food. That must be her priest; Ocyrhoe was pleased with herself for making a correct assessment of the mystery man’s involvement.
“Yes,” Orsini said. “So I have heard. There was quite a commotion near the Porta Tiburtina earlier today. One of my men was assaulted.”
Sinibaldo put aside his knife and poured himself more wine. “Tell me everything.”
The Bear poured wine into his own glass. “The priest and his companion came from the east, along the Via Tiburtina. On horses. Looking like they’ve been on the road for weeks. The priest was spouting nonsense-gibberish, most likely, though a few of them swore that it was biblical verse. The other one was speaking some tongue no one knew. They appeared to be lost-or rather, uncertain of how to get to their destination.”
“And that was?”
“The Papal Palace.”
Ocyrhoe sucked in a noisy breath as she finally recognized who “Sinibaldo” was; she ducked back into the shadows, hands flying up to cover her mouth. He was one of the Pope’s men, the ones who wore crimson.
She crouched in the dark, straining for any sign that the men were aware of her presence. Somewhere, out among the apple trees, an owl hooted, and a few moments later, there was a rustling in the branches as the bird took flight. Ocyrhoe turned her head and nearly leaped out of her skin.
The Bear was standing right there, just inside the room. Not more than two paces from her. He was looking out across the terraces, his wine goblet held loosely in his hand.
Ocyrhoe tried to quiet her heart, which was racing in her chest like a wild animal. It sounded so loud to her that she couldn’t believe he didn’t hear it. He was toying with her, pretending not to notice she was there, and in another instant, he was going to whirl on her, reaching out with his big hand. His left hand dropped to the hilt of the dagger stuck in his belt, and she nearly screamed. For a moment, she thought she had, but then the sound cut off abruptly, and she realized it was the death cry of a small animal caught by the owl.
The Bear grunted, belched, and then took a long pull from his goblet. His hand fell away from his dagger, and he turned away from the open door. “The companion tried to communicate with some of the city militia who were there. He offered them a ring. Like the kind-”
“The kind that a cardinal of the Church would wear?” Sinibaldo interrupted.
The Bear didn’t say anything, and Ocyrhoe, her courage returning, leaned forward slightly, peering up at the Bear’s large bulk. He was staring at the man at the table, a frown on his face. “I suppose it could have been,” he said.
“Why don’t you know?” Sinibaldo asked, his voice tightening.
The Bear shrugged and took a long pull from his cup. “I haven’t seen it,” he said.
Sinibaldo slammed his hand against the table, and the sound sent Ocyrhoe huddling against the wall. She wanted to turn into a mouse and scurry away into a crack in the walls.
“I don’t have time to play games,” Sinibaldo said, and when the Bear didn’t say anything, he continued. “Where is it?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” the Bear said. “It was taken from my man as he tried to bring it to the captain of the watch. The priest’s companion went wild and chased the soldier down. He had help, too. When the confusion all started, someone leaped out of the crowd and came to the foreigner’s aid. One of our own citizens. A young boy.”
He turned back toward the window. “Or a girl,” the Bear mused.
Ocyrhoe pressed herself closer to the wall, remembering the events Orsini was retelling. The boy had driven his horse into the man, knocking him down. She had slipped down, grabbed the man’s helm from where it had fallen in the dirt, and hit him hard on the head. He had been dazed, his hands slack and open. She had scooped up the ring, ran to the boy and his horse, and they had made their escape.
The room was quiet, a silence that stretched on for a long time. Ocyrhoe’s legs were starting to itch from the sweat running down them, and her heart wouldn’t stop fluttering in her chest. Finally, Cardinal Sinibaldo Fieschi-the most powerful man alive in the Catholic Church-cleared his throat. Ocyrhoe heard the distinct sound of wine pouring into a cup. “A
“I have,” the Bear countered, his jaw tight and locked.
Ocyrhoe screwed up her courage and raised herself closer to the open window. She had to hear this. She had to know what had happened to her kin-sisters.
“My men have scoured the city,” the Bear said, his tone becoming more like the growl of his namesake with
