The Mongoliad: Book Two

13

Signa Hodie Lumen Vultus Tui Super Me

Gregory is dead.

The three words staggered Rodrigo. From this simple statement spun a maelstrom of confusion. The Pope-dead. To whom would he deliver his message? Why had God sent him here when there was no way for him to be relieved of his burden? The Church would be consumed with discord as the factions vied for dominance, and he couldn’t wait until a new Pope was elected. Christendom was under attack. A vast threat was coming out of the East, and he had been sent to warn the Church.

Robert of Somercotes tried to continue their conversation-speaking of cardinals, their duty to the Church, and of the sede vacante-but Rodrigo could grasp nothing of what the other man was trying to tell him. The news of the Pope’s death was too overwhelming. Not even food and water could completely lift the burden of his exhaustion-the burden of his duty. The weight crushed him, and he lay back on the pallet. Sobbing gently, he collapsed into a dreamless stupor-not sleep but a complete senselessness of both mind and spirit. His body demanded rest. His journey was not done yet, and if he was going to survive, he needed strength, both in body and spirit.

When he woke, the three words still churned in his head-Gregory is dead-but somewhere in his senseless slumber, he had located a hidden reserve of strength. God would not abandon him, not as long as he continued to believe his burden was just. Not as long as he had faith.

By the warm tint of the light in the tiny, high-ceilinged room, he knew it was day-by the relative cool, still morning. Rodrigo felt his stomach rumble and almost chuckled at it, as if it were some sickly child that had finally grown healthy enough to complain.

Gingerly, sore all over and still feverish, the priest staggered to his feet and took a few uncertain steps toward the open door. He could walk, perhaps even for some distance. Praise God. He shuffled carefully down a stone hallway. Doors at irregular intervals opened on either side into other rooms like his, although several, at a glance, had more furnishings, or at least boasted places to hang clothing-cloaks and robes, the vestments of religious men.

As he approached the end of the corridor, he realized it was a ruinous mass of stone and masonry, the result of the upper floor having collapsed. Leaning against the wall, he cast his eyes back on the series of doors he had passed. One of the rooms must have another exit, a door that would let him out of this corridor. There must be another way.

Unless his recent visitor was a figment of his feverish imagination, much like the young man he knew to be part of his dream. Had he imagined the visit from the older version, along with the meager meal he had been given? Such thought troubled him, for it meant he was still in the grips of his nightmare. Even the sensation of food in his belly was part of his fever dream.

A dark corner of the collapsed hallway-which he had assumed to be nothing more than a niche of shadows- turned out to be a narrow opening. Keeping one hand on the wall, he lurched toward the gap, frantic for the possibility of finding a way out-a way of verifying that he was awake, that he no longer dreamed. He had to turn sideways to fit, putting both hands on the wall now, and he sidled past the fallen rock. He pressed close to the heavy stones, and he focused on his hands: on moving his right to touch his left; on moving his left away, drawing his recalcitrant body forward.

The walls on the other side of the collapse were a different color, the stone more pink than gray, and the general condition of the ceiling was much better-no gaps through which sunlight could peer. Nor were there any doors in this hall; it ran for several dozen paces and then terminated at a large hole in the floor. A wooden ladder- protruding up from the hole by several feet-was lashed to the wall by a combination of thick rope and iron spikes.

Puzzled, Rodrigo climbed down, descending past one other floor and then into the earth itself. At the bottom, a large chamber had been carved into the bedrock, with a single tunnel running-as near as he could tell-in the same direction as he had been traveling.

With no other route available to him, Rodrigo wandered into the tunnel. To turn back would be to give up hope. To admit he was not strong enough to carry God’s message.

“There you are. Praise God.”

The tunnel had not remained straight, and but for a decided lack of other obvious egresses, Rodrigo might have wandered forever. As it was, he discovered a source of light, and as he approached it, he was met by another man.

The newcomer was taller than Father Rodrigo, forced to stoop by the low ceiling of the tunnel. His face had been weathered by wind and sun-indicating he was no more a permanent resident of this subterranean place than Rodrigo-and his nose had been proud once, but it now canted to the side, and scar tissue knotted the bridge. His white beard was heavy enough that it nearly obscured the larger scar running down his left cheek. His smile, a mouth full of strong teeth, was as welcome as a fire might be to a freezing man.

“Robert said you were awake,” the man said.

“Yes,” Father Rodrigo replied. “Praise God,” he added, bringing his hands up into the traditional prayer position-not knowing what else to add.

“You play the part of a poor priest well.” The man wrapped his hands around Father Rodrigo’s. Rodrigo tried to extricate himself and supplicate himself in some way, but the taller man resisted his attempts. “But there is no need to continue your charade. You need not hide here.”

Part of Robert of Somercotes’s conversation came back to him. Cardinals-the cardinals were all imprisoned in this place, until they could elect a new Pope. An irrational terror, born of this memory, swept over him: they thought he was a cardinal too. What if, in the slaughter and apocalyptic insanity of the Mongols destroying what had once been Hungary, his beloved superior-and confessor-had fallen and Rodrigo had been appointed his successor? Had Chancellor Bancsa been secretly elevated to one of the cardinal bishoprics, and through some machinations that he, in his feverish state, had forgotten, had that title been accorded to him-not because he deserved it but because there had been nobody left? Or-no less likely-had some agent of the Devil disguised Rodrigo to appear to these good men here as the Provost of Vacz?

He forced himself to breathe calmly. “Of course,” he replied. Hiding his dismay, he extricated his fingers from the other man’s grip and more properly grasped the man’s hand. “I am Rodrigo,” he said, divesting himself of any title-real or imagined. “Rodrigo Bendrito.”

He should tell this man that he was nothing more than a simple parish priest, but he held his tongue. Deep in his mind, he felt the spark of the fever and it frightened him, but what frightened him more was the thought his message would go unheard. Would God forgive him if he pretended to be someone other than he was in order to save the Church? Was this deception part of the test put to him by God? Was he supposed to participate in the election of the new Pope in order to ensure that the man who received his message would be strong enough to take on the burden?

“Yes,” the other priest said. “And I am Giovanni Colonna.” He smiled again, and Rodrigo’s confusion was eased by the reassuring expression. “Come,” Colonna said, laying a hand on Rodrigo’s shoulder, “let me guide you.”

Rodrigo let himself be led. “Where are we?” he asked. “Robert-our mutual friend, evidently-said we were in the…Septizodium.”

Colonna chuckled. “In? No. It’s up there somewhere.” He reached up and tapped the low ceiling. “The Septizodium is near the base of the Palatine, and if it was ever a real temple, that building has vanished. All that remains is a facade, dedicated to ancient and forgotten gods. Behind that facade is a hollow shell-four walls that have managed to remain standing over the last few hundred years.”

He walked slowly, matching Rodrigo’s pace, and Rodrigo was thankful for the taller man’s patience. He seemed like the sort of man for whom a walk from Rome to Paris would not be a hardship-his stride long enough the miles would vanish effortlessly.

“We are being hidden, you see,” Colonna continued. “Even if the enemies of the Church discovered our location, they would not be able to reach us, because there is no way out of the Septizodium-out of that